#elvhen king of everything

[apostatively]

My beautiful, beautiful boy who I've thought about every single day since 2014~

[omen-of-ice]

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The North has been all that you’ve known your whole life— residing within its icy landscape as part of House Eirlys; Wardens of the North. You’ve never thought you’d one day leave to head south to Vela’thian— the kingdom of the elvhen— much less that you’d head there due to your betrothal with the king himself.

What will await you once you arrive? Is everything as it seems? Or is there something more brewing beneath the surface of the seemingly pristine nation?

Will you find your way back home? Or will you find something, or someone, worth staying for?

Let’s see how your story unfolds…

❄️ Play as the youngest heir to House Eirlys that’s been arranged to be married to the Elven King. Explore the wondrous world of Arlatha and the great elven nation of Vela’thian and its capital Ilyransari! You’ll meet a variety of characters, uncover plots (varying levels of angst), and potentially find love along the way! This game is rated 18+ for depictions of explicit language, alcohol consumption, potential sexual content, violence/blood, and death.

❄️ Customizable MC: name, gender, appearance, sexuality, hobbies, and some skills. (You can choose to not be attracted to men and tell Daeron, the king, this, don’t worry.)

❄️ Bond with your Lycana— a winged wolf that’ll stay with you until death. Customizable: name, gender, and fur color.

❄️ Explore Ilyransari and learn more about the fantastical world of Arlatha!

❄️ Meet a variety of characters— from reclusive dwarves to hotheaded goblins— that’ll bring unique experiences throughout your story.

❄️ Learn more about your own shrouded past and how you came to be where you are now. Will the truth finally set you free?

❄️ Keep in contact with your older brother— Kaladin. He’ll want to know how you’re doing.

❄️ Romance one of characters from your potential betrothed himself— the Elven King— to an orc commander that takes everything a bit too literally or a creature from the depths of the Vesperion Sea. Or maybe someone else will catch your eye.

❄️ Remember, above all else, to have fun!

Daeron [M] — The King — High Elf

The Elven King himself, a man known far and wide for his prowess in battle and resilience in the face of almost insurmountable odds. You’re not sure why he chose you to be his betrothed— after all he must have received hundreds of requests over the years— but you were instructed to not look a gift horse in the mouth; not when an ally like him would help your family and people immeasurably. With a hardened exterior, from years of battle and sacrifice, Daeron isn’t someone that’s easily accessible in the emotional sense, but you can’t help but notice how his eyes begin to soften every time you enter the room. Will something real begin to grow between you?

Daeron stands at around 6’3” (190.5 cm) with a warm beige complexion. Raven black hair falls across his forehead in gentle curls, a delicately crafted crown always situated atop them. His golden eyes, that seem to rival the sun in brilliance, are filled with a cunning intelligence; he has a toned physique, still holding a lithe quality that all elvhen seem to possess.

Larak [M] — The Commander — Orc

Seeing an Orc within Vela’thian is like seeing a starless night; it happens, but it doesn’t make it any less of an odd occurrence. Not after centuries of war between the Elven Nation and the Infernal Plains. Larak, however, seems to have taken his position in stride, ignoring all the looks he receives without a backward glance. After all, what is an orc to do without his clan? Especially one that was well on his way to becoming a chieftain of his own? Will you give him a reason to stay?

Larak stands at around 7’2” (218.44 cm) with a green complexion. Dark auburn locks are shaved on either side of his head, while the rest is kept in a long ponytail that falls down his back. He’s a hulking mass of muscle and brute strength— his most prominent feature, barring his sharp canines, being the twin scars running down his chest that pairs well with the one through his left eyebrow.

Calypso [F] — The Wanderer — Siren

The Vesperion Sea is an anomaly to most within Arlatha; for a creature from its watery depths to appear means one of two things. 1.) Something bad is about to happen. or 2.) It’s a pilgrimage of sorts that a few depth-striders take up every other decade. Meeting Calypso it’s easy to tell which one she is; her general amazement at the world around her being something that’d warm even the most hardened of hearts. With a desire to learn, and an aptitude to do so, she tries to take everything in stride, observing Vela’thian, and it’s inhabitants, with an ardent fervor that would be quite off putting in any other circumstance. Will you uncover things together?

Calypso stands at around 5’1” (154.94 cm) with a dark brown complexion— iridescent blue scales intercepting the expanse of it across her forearms, collarbone, and sparsely across her legs. The sea green of her gaze complements the deep royal blue of her hair beautifully— the voluminous curls falling down to just beneath her shoulders. She has an hourglass figure.

Shanaera [F] — The Spymaster — Dark Fae

The Royal Spymaster within Vela’thian, Shanaera is the longtime friend, and closest advisor, to Daeron. There isn’t much information about the early life of Shanaera— something she’s gone to great lengths to keep that way— and she’s rarely seen enough by the general populace to get a concrete opinion on. Keeping to the shadows, only appearing in court once in a blue moon, and with walls of ice surrounding her, it’s unsurprising why she has the reputation she does. A woman that’s just as deadly with her words as she is with any blade or poison— getting on her bad side isn’t a smart idea… But is it even possible to get on her good one?

Shanaera stands at around 5’11” (180.34 cm) with a sun-kissed complexion. Locks reminiscent of woven sunlight falls down to her hips in a cascade of gentle waves and soft curls— the strands bringing out the luminescent quality of her amethyst colored gaze. Grand wings of iridescent black are situated on her back, giving her elegantly slender body a broader appearance.

Fáelán [M/F] — The Best Friend — Wildling

You met Fáelán when you were ten years old during a winter ride with your family— something you had done dozens of times before— coming across their slight form underneath a snow drift, after your horse almost trampled them, wasn’t something you had been anticipating, but they haven’t left your side ever since. Not even when they had been offered an escort back to the village deep within The Thaeg; an ancient forest that covers over half of The North. You were best friends from that day onward— one never seen without the other. After all of that, should you truly be all that surprised when your self-appointed guard decides to come along to Vela’thian?

Fáelán stands at around 5’8” (172.72 cm) with a light gray complexion. Strands of hair, the color of which reminds you of freshly fallen snow, fall down to just beneath their shoulders in messy waves— usually kept in a intricate braid— pairs well with the deep crimson of their gaze. Their toned body is a far-cry from the scrawny individual they had been when you first met them— an intricate tattoo making a home on their right arm.

Valerian [M/F] — The Exiled Heir — Draconian

Tales of the land across the Vesperion Sea tell of the grand opulence of Edras— home of the draconian; dragon-kin. Valerian isn’t exactly who you’re expecting when imagining the royal family of Edras, but at the same time they seem to fit right in. With a smile that never reaches their eyes fully, a voice that never has to raise to be heard, and a presence that could command a legion, they bring a slew of questions and very little answers. Why were they cast out? Why are they in Vela’thian? And why do they seem to always find themself in your company? Will you be able to uncover any of these answers?

Valerian stands at around 6’6” (198.12 cm) with a fair complexion. Crystalline blue eyes seemingly burn with a fiery intensity— despite their icy coldness— which brings out the argent quality of their silver locks; M!Valerian keeping them down to his shoulders and F!Valerian keeping hers to her mid-back.

[postcardsfromheapside]

The funny thing about this post, which is good, and I have seen people jokingly refer to the exact issues it mentions, is that:

When VG critics are complaining about how no one cares about Rook, and ignoring this fact about their MCs in other games, it's because they hate VG specifically for a variety of reasons and love the angsty nature of being the lonely main character in prior DA games. I've literally seen posts extolling the nature of how their MC is cut off from everything they've known, either to make themselves feel more heroic, or to deepen the sense of relationship between their MC and their LI.

My favorite version of this was someone writing up how isolated a female Lavellan is, and how Solas is her only comfort (of course), which was HYSTERICAL to me because once the title rolls and you can wander around Haven and have conversations with everyone, there ARE people asking how you are. How are you feeling. How are you handling the whole "Herald" thing. Notably first on my list is Varric, who asks outright, and worries about you being a hero (because he's seen how THAT goes). Cullen doesn't outright ask, but some of his dialogue trees are very bolstering - I forget the exact wording but, "I'm just glad I can help"/"It is enough that you would try." Josephine outright greets you in Elvhen and makes sure you aren't being made uncomfortable due to the rumors and shit talk, and asks your help in creating your own propaganda. When you recruit Blackwall he almost immediately decides "well I like this woman, if she has no fans then I am dead." And so on.

Anyway, romancing Alistair was a barrel of laughs, and also very sweet and sad, and I took everything in Origins with a grain of salt for what I thought were pretty obvious reasons. VG haters cannot claim that no one cares about Rook without being completely disingenous, because throughout the entire game there are sidequests where the companions take Rook out to touch grass, and potentially dialogue describing off-screen care-time (ex: Harding planning a private camping trip with Rook). It's this utter adherence to lying about the game that's forming this disconnect in the linked post.

And I'd love to see more art and fic about how flawed Alistair actually is. How when he's left a warden, he seems to grow more mature, but also so, so tired. Does Anora do all his ruling when he's a king? There's so much potential for *great* art and fanfiction here, regardless of who he romanced, and it's boundless because of the infinite options VG gave us in world-state.

[bloedewir]

Don't want to get my hopes up because there's almost zero chance to know the truth but...

I really REALLY would like to know everything about elvhen rebellion.

How did Fen'Harel manage to succeed? I mean, there's 8 evanuris, Mythal is out, so it's 7. Seven most powerful mages called gods. How did he trapped them? How did he trick all of them? Someone must've helped to achieve it. And it wasn't the slaves he freed. Who? Forgotten Ones? And then what.. he tricked and trapped them too but not in the Fade but in the Abyss? So it wasn't just one great plan but two in one? Double strike??

And why does it remind me of a chess move called castling? (I'll mention it in the end).

Not trying to be rude here but we already had: Corypheus and the orb (confirmed fail), Vows & Vengeance (fail under question) and Veilguard prologue ritual (either fail or cunning plan). No offence, Fen'Harel, buddy, but it's messy anyway, not in the slightest impeccable. And defeating 7 godlike evanuris is something different. Something like that requires to be perfectly planned.

Not to mention creating the Veil. The idea itself is a novel concept. How did he end up with this? Just woke up one day and: "Hm, why wouldn't I create a thing that will separate Fade from the reality? Seems like a good idea. Ambitious". How much power did he possess to change the whole world? Where did he take it from? How did he create a prison no one of seven could escape or break? How did he trapped Forgotten Ones? Why did he end up as the most powerful of them all? All alone?? HOW???

It's either Deus ex machina and we'll never know or bad news for Rook because Fen'Harel isn't trapped at all and it's just a part of a bigger plan that remains to be seen.

And here I go back to start and mention the castling. The only move in chess that allows somebody to move two pieces simultaneously - King and Rook. (It keeps King safe and quickly develops Rook).

22 days left

[yes-these-obsessions-are-healthy]

tbh i dont know how you could dislike Solas because even if I didn’t like him, I’d sympathize with the fucked up history he had and the impossible choices he was given. Either allow the elves to be wiped out or neutralize the titans. Either sit by and allow Elgar’nan to become a tyrant or lend your council in the hopes of maybe changing his mind. Either rebel to free the enslaved Elvhen or sit by and permit it. Either banish the Evanuris or allow the war and bloodshed to claim countless more spirits and elves forever.

In Trespasser, Solas intimates that the Veil was purposeful, but in Veilguard it’s said that the Veil was meant to be restricted to the “holding cell” of the Evanuris but it leaked out and spread across the world. The Veil was never meant to be a global phenomenon, which further justifies his desire to take it down in his mind. It was a slip-up caused during the (very grueling, dangerous, difficult, complex) ritual to seal away the Evanuris. If anything the Evanuris are the reason why the Veil is a huge blanket over reality instead of a small concentrated barrier in one pocket of the Fade.

The Fade should come down, I think, but Solas’s way is far too wholesale fatalist. There has to be a way to take it down in a way that causes the least amount of discord and chaos. Instead of ripping it off like a shroud, could it perhaps be “thinned” over time, like how fabric is worn with friction? Gradual leakage over time like climate change, except it’s not going to spell the end of civilization. I don’t know, I’m spitballing. If the change is gradual, then wouldn’t the heat be off the elves, too? So long as you keep the truth a secret. I don’t know. What I do know is that at the very least, all of Thedas needs to install leaders who are sympathetic and progressive about elves. The Divines are huge keystones, as is the king of Fereldan, whomever is in charge of Orlais and Tevinter. That is imperative regardless and again, I feel like there was a huge missed opportunity to use the Agents of Fen’Harel to do some covert politicking during Veilguard to secure those liberties and rights for elves. Davrin’s concern that the elves would be blamed for everything is as pressing as it is because the gamea don’t seem that interested in granting us avenues to secure protections for elves. They’re just the permanently marginalized group. Even in the European and Middle Eastern medieval period, there were kings and such who secured protections for marginalized groups (of course they were lifted, reinstituted in a never ending cycle, but it happened). We are allowed to advocate for elves as HoF and then a tiny bit with Briala as Inquisitor, but despite having all of this supposed political sway we can’t fulfill the fantasy of making lives easier for elves? Lameeeeee

[afshinxeldar]

open starter location: lysara note: this gif is funny to me

After everything that had happened in that prison they had been held in, Afshin had wanted to simply crawl into a hole and stay there until Iskaldrik was up and running again. That was highly unlike him though. As much as he hated to admit it, his fear would never prevent him from getting back up. He could just put on a mask to get people to think he was perfectly fine when he wasn’t. The easy solution would have been to just let Eldar be that mask. That was the easy solution though and he didn’t want to take the easy way out. Not if he had the blood of kings running through his veins. What king crumbled at the first sign of conflict? No, that wouldn’t be him. It could never be him.

Not sure how long he had been staring into nothing, he noticed what he was looking at. That damn fountain. Eldar had tried to drown himself in it and Afshin couldn’t do anything to help. He wasn’t sure if the elvhen part of him was still having those thoughts, but he really hoped that wasn’t the case. Nevertheless, he sat down next to someone and looked down at his hands. “Hope you don’t mind the company.” Not that he would move if they did.

[blarrghe]

haven't promoted this story in a minute because idk I got tired of tumblr and took a sort of break. Tomorrow I will be posting ch. 14, which is halfway through the story, so it's a great time to pick up...

The Hunter The Snake and the Fox

Rating: M | Category: M/M | Words: 27 081 | Chapters 13/28

Summary:

When Magister Dorian Pavus' expedition meets unexpectedly with a clan of unhappy Dalish elves, First Taren Lavellan may be the unhappiest among them. Unhappier still to be put to the task of helping to see his quest through. This is the tale of how a fortnight in the forests of the Free Marches can change everything.

And here's a long snippet from Ch. 3 for some Drama:

A sliver of light shone briefly in from a crack in the tent, and a leather-clad elf stomped through it. The elf barked something out towards the tent flap, and before Dorian could muster more than a groan, he stomped out again. Dorian blinked a few times after the fading blur of light.

Minutes went by. Possibly hours. Dorian’s head hurt. He tugged on the binds at his wrists, bending them uncomfortably this way and that. It only seemed to tighten them, so he stopped. His head began to clear. More time passed. He attempted to count the minutes. When the elf returned again, Dorian managed a few inquiring calls for attention. Things like, “Where are the others?”, and, “damnit, I’m talking to you!” His calls went ignored.

The elf poked his head back out into the bright daylight beyond the dark tent, and shouted something in grumpy Elvhen. Another elf soon pushed through the flap, they stomped grimly forward together, and then one on either side hoisted Dorian up by the elbows. 

Dorian’s legs were half asleep and still bound, painfully tingling with each jostling step as the two elves dragged him forward. He groaned. The elf on his right barked back something he was sure was an insult. His unwilling legs were dragged on.

Dorian did his best to make his case for answers and mercy as they went. “We have no qualms with you," he pleaded, " I know Tevinter hasn’t historically been kind to your people, but really, this expedition wants nothing to do with you, so if you’d simply let us go on our way…” 

Sharp grunt. 

“You’re making a huge mistake. Kill me, and you’d be inviting a war, do you have any idea who I am?” 

Angry Elvish epithet. 

“Dorian of house Pavus,” he said proudly, “ Magister Pavus as of recently, I have a fortune, you could be handsomely rewarded and —”

Big knife.

“— and a wife! And children! Please!” 

The big knife pressed closer to his throat. There was a bandage there already. 

“Alright! So I don’t have children, or a wife, but I am engaged, and —”

Dorian was shoved through a tent flap by the elf holding the knife, who wound up at his back as his second captor pushed his unstable and bound legs down into a kneel.

“Relax, shemlin,” said a low voice. 

Thank the Maker, Dorian thought, blinking now at the woven mat he’d been forced upon, its zigzagged pattern slowly coming into view in his still foggy vision. Finally, here was someone who spoke the Trade speech. King's Tongue, they called it in the south. Crude. In Tevinter, the nobility still had its own.  

Dorian’s eyes rose from the ground to take in warmly lit canvas walls draped in soft pelts and colourful woven blankets. He knelt near a smouldering fire pit. Smoke was rising up through a narrow hole in the tent’s roof. Through its haze, in a grand and intricately carved wooden seat, sat a man. The man stood, and Dorian watched leather-wrapped feet pace forward, around, circling him. There were more seats, less grand but still intricately carved, all around the fire pit. None sat in them except for one old woman. She sat still and proud, squinting at him through the smoke. 

Dorian lifted his gaze all the way up to the face of the man who was just now finishing his pacing examination of him. An elvhen mage stood before Dorian with his staff planted firmly on the ground between them. He was not tall, but stood in towering regalness over Dorian all the same. His posture was straight, his shoulders strongly set and covered with a heavy green cloak woven through with threads of blue and gold. He wore his deep auburn hair in a long, thick braid hung over one shoulder, and he held his carved, spiralling wooden staff in both hands, emanating power. 

“You are Master Pavus ,” said the standing elf, speaking down to him. 

“Master Pavus was my father,” Dorian replied, flashing the man a winning smile, “as I am evidently your prisoner, it seems only fitting that you simply call me Dorian.” 

DAFF tags list: @warpedlegacy @rakshadow @rosella-writes @effelants @bluewren @breninarthur @ar-lath-ma-cully @dreadfutures @ir0n-angel @inquisimer @crackinglamb @theluckywizard @nirikeehan @oxygenforthewicked @exalted-dawn-drabbles @melisusthewee @agentkatie @delicatefade @leggywillow @about2dance @plisuu

[wukodork]

Tagless OC Tag Game

Hehe. I don't have a TON of screenshots but I do have a couple. I still have another one of these to do for Adelaide, but damn this took so long to type we only doing Kieran right now.

General

Name: Kieran Tabris

Alias(es): Thorne or Rook depding on the timeline

Gender: Male Age: 25, with a few years added between Origns and Awakening

Place of Birth: Ferelden

Spoken Languages: Trade and Antivan. Knows about as much Elvhen as I do German, which is to say he can pronounce the words very well but only knows what a smattering actually mean because his family used them all the time.

Sexual Orientation: Gay

Occupation: The Second Person to Get Kicked Out of the Grey Wardens Ever.

Favorites

Color: Does enjoy jewel tones although he wouldn't wear any.

Entertainment: Did you know you can learn a ton of very interesting things by just listening to people around you?

Past Time: Hey, wanna fight? No really, do you know any fight clubs around? Is SO EXCITED by the Hall of Valor. Honestly gambling in general. It makes everything so much more interesting.

Food: Literally anything Lucanis makes (sorry Bellara). Everything tastes so good and smells amazing and he's used to shit like hardtack and mulligan stew.

Drink: See above.

Books: Non fiction mostly. Stories are fine and enjoyable, but knowing more things is always good.

Have they...

Passed University: Didn't have access to a formal education past his early teens, has approximate knowledge of many things. Probably could if he wanted to, but would have a hard time.

Had sex: Yeah, lots of casual sex in the wardens.

Had sex, in public: Also yes, not a lot of privacy in the wardens.

Gotten tattoos: Yup! Most notably wings on his arms. It's more of a reference to two of his four parents than a griffin thing tho.

Gotten piercings: Not the fun kind! (He has been stabbed.) He's very concerned about a piercing getting torn out during a fight. Like, unreasonably so.

Gotten scarred: Yup. Has a terrible habit of running headfirst into danger because he's certain he's the most likely to survive it. So far he's right. So far.

Had a broken heart: Yes. Frenquently. :3

Been in love: Not for a long while, but he absolutely fell hard for everyone he was interested as a teenager. Y'know, pre-game. Absolutely head over heels for Lucanis.

Are they…

A cuddler: Yes. Makes him feel safe and loved. So he doesn't do it often.

Scared easily: Nope! His meter for what's actually frightening is a little skewed by being raised by the Hero of Ferelden and an ex-Crow.

Jealous easily: Not exactly? He's got a lot of self-loathing so he's more likely to go that route. Will keep it to himself though.

Trustworthy: It's Complicated (tm). He is, but he's also capable of being ruthless, he just prefers not to be.

Family

Siblings: One! Adelaide de Riva, they haven't seen each other for about a decade though. They're the same age and she has Urthemiel's soul instead of him.

Parents: Biological parents are King Alistair Therin and Morrigan. Morrigan didn't think she could handle raising a baby by herself so she gave him to Warden Tabris and Zevran. Kieran actively dislikes Alsitair and is fine with everyone else (although still awkward with Morrigan sometimes)

Children: Would love kids if he wasn't a warden. He had to watch his mom deal with the Calling and he wouldn't wish that on any kid.

Pets: When he was a kid the Tabris family still had a mabari. He hasn't had one since though.

[marshmallow-age]

Gonna start putting my Rooks headhanons in one place because I have the memory of a goldfish.

Ezra (Asra) De Riva

Lived in Kirkwall alienage with his mother who used to be Dalish hence his knowledge of language and lore. He was too young to ask this sort of questions so he never found out what made his mother fall out with her clan or what its name was.

His Dalish name was Asra (Asalras) but it transformed into Ezra after years of being mispronounced and misspelled. (thanks Elvhen Names of Thedas by Morsmordre)

Little Asra was thieving shiny things from ships in Kirkwall's docks with other urchins, getting onto them by mooring ropes and chains, which was the start of his acrobatic training that came in handy with the Crows later.

At the age of 8 he sneaked onto a wrong ship, got caught while helping other kids escape and taken as a slave as "payment" for the stolen items.

He spent a few months as a slave. His memory mercifully hasn't kept most of that, but he has a few deep scars on his back to remember those times he tried to escape.

Was purchased by one of the minor Crows houses because being a pretty elf kid alone made him potential fledgling material. Over the next couple of years not only survived (mostly by sheer dumb luck) the basics of Crow training, houses rivalry, merging and elimination but also showed enough promise to be noticed by Viago's predecessor/mentor.

Despite nearly a decade of age difference Ezra and Viago weren't very far off in training because the King's bastard started late by Crows standards.

Viago singled Ezra out as a talented duelist. Despite Viago's best efforts the elf only ever got decent enough with poisons not to embarrass House De Riva. But Ezra is undeniably better with blades. So his skillset complements Viago's rather than mirrors it.

The scars on his arms and shoulders are from Crows training. The one on his face is from falling off a zipline and breaking his nose. He was told if it made him ugly he would be useless to the Crows. Shows what they knew.

Ezra got his face tattoos at 17. He always thought vallaslin looked neat but was far too removed from Dalish culture at that point to care about elven gods. So he opted for feathers. It makes him look outsider to Dalish, and Dalish to anyone who can't tell the difference. Viago disapproved - it made Ezra too recognizable.

He got the wings tattoos on his arms when he became a full Crow (Viago didn't like those either). Becoming a De Riva was a huge personal victory for Ezra, that justified everything he'd survived and endured to get there. He wanted to mark it.

Which made the Antaan incident and the exile a personal apocalypse. Viago knew that and that's why he never disowned Ezra despite most other Talons pushing him for that. It would have destroyed Ezra.

He has a lot in common with Teia: both treat the Crows as a found family (as mentioned in Eight Little Talons) and both seek to connect with other elves among them. Ezra may be no Talon but he and Teia find kinship in each other.

Varric was Ezra's first friend outside the Crows. First outside perspective on life and first mentor figure after Viago had been the measure of all things for him for many years. Ezra got attached to Varric very quickly.

to be continued...

[thekingofwinterblog]

Dragon Age Imperium - Chapter 1.

Summary:

All the Origins PC's join the quest at once. 3 survive the blight. and it all spirals from there...

An alternate timeline set in a world where Hawke becomes Viscount directly after Act 2, amongst other different turns of fate.

A new Arlathan is founded in the bracilian forest after the blight, The Dwarven Empire is on the rebound, both the young Hawke siblings lived, Hawke Killed Talis for the list of Qunari Spies, and so on.

The Dragon Age is an era of blood and chaos, of Empires falling and rising. Waning Orlais, Rising Ferelden, Resurgent Orzammar, a new Arlathan, and at the southern end of the Free Marches, the City of Kirkwall, gets a new Monarch, who is forced to play the game of internation politics, to lead her nation to glory... Or fall into the dustbins of history.

The year was 37 Dragon.

It was a bloody year, as 3 different wars burst into life across southern and middle Thedas.

Kirkwall, and all its neighboring enemies in the Free Marches, Orlais, and the Triple Alliance between Ferelden, Orzammar, and new Arlathan, and the war between Mages and Templars.

All 3 would have enormous consequences, up there with Andraste's march on the Tevinter Imperium, the Qunari invasions, or the destruction of the Dales.

All 3 had also been bubbling under the surface for a good while by the time the monstrous apostle Anders lit the fuse in Kirkwall.

The Templars and the mages had been a boiling pot for centuries only waiting for something to rip the lid off it and expose everything to the world.

The more recent developments outside of the Circles and Templar conflict, could however be traced back to the end of the Fifth Blight, and the Developments created by the four Grey Wardens of Ferelden who survived the Blight.

A number of Grey Wardens survived the battle for Ostagar. 3 Humans, one which was the second in Line to Highever, one a King's bastard, and the third a Mage of the circle Tower.

2 Dwarves, one a casteless Thug, and the other a Princess.

3 Elves there were, one Dalish from the wilds, one elf from Denerim's Alienage, and the third a boy forced at a young age into the Circle Tower.

All of these had been recruited by the Grey Warfen Duncan, in the time period leading up to the Fifth Blight.

Of these lot, only 4 survived the decisive battle for Denerim.

King Alistair of Ferelden. His Queen, Daemona Cousland more commonly known as the Hero of Ferelden, Galenhad Surana, the first Elvhen monarch in centuries, and Princess and Paragon Moria Aeducan of Orzammar, also the new Teyrn of Gwaren.

Of the three nations who emerged from the Blight, bloodied and bruised, Ferelden was the lynchpin for what would come afterwards.

The kingdom had suffered a catastrophic loss of people in the war, with a tenth of it's entire population lost, either to death at the Darkspawn Horde, starvation from the ensuing Famine, and having fled abroad to escape the Blight.

Still, stubborn and fierce as a mabari, Ferelden bounced back, in large part due to it's new monarchs.

Alistair Theirin, first of his name was a charming man, who despite his ability with the sword, and strange form of humor had a remarkable ability to make men like him... But it is acknowledged by most that the true driving force of his government was his wife, the Lady Daemona of house Cousland, known far and wide as the Hero of Ferelden.

It was Daemona who was the leading driving force behind Ferelden's recovery and reformation period after the Blight, both militarily, politically, and economically.

She reformed the military, by remaking the common footsoldier into the famed Ferelden Longbowman, which would in time be remade into the Ferelden Bolter, but for it's era would become known one of the most feared soldiers in the known world. She also defeated the minor invasion of Darkapawn of Amaranthine, and founded the city of Vigil's Keep.

She also reformed the political structure of the Kingdom, by turning the Landsmeet into a permanently sitting body, rather than just something called when the King needed something, or the years taxes would be called. This made taxation of the lands, despite their devastated state at the time, much, much more efficient.

And finally, she drastically overhauled the economy at the time by introducing what for the era was modern technology in as many ways as she could, encouraging the widespread implementation of things such as water mills, repairing the Imperial Highway, and making plenty of newer mills and roads, as well as rebuilding the capital. The only thing she failed in in this regard was the woefull failure of Ferelden naval technology to catch up with the rest of the world.

Alistair was a well liked figurehead and symbol to rally around, while his wife was the true power behind the throne, an arrangement both seemed perfectly content with.

The second part of the triumvirate was also the youngest.

New Arlathan was the newest state in Thedas by quite the wide margin, it's lands having been granted as a boon to Galenhad Surana, former Elf Mage of Ferelden's Circle. It's population at it's inception was comprised of the Dalish Clans of Ferelden, along with the Kingdom's city elves, and the majority of the Elven tower Mages who fought in the Blight, and jumped at the chance to escape having to go back to the tower once the war was over.

Needless to say, this state was highly, highly controversial from it's very inception. A state for Elves, harboring Mages, led by a Mage king? In the long term, there was no way this was going to stand withoth some massive opposition, and fallout.

Orlais had been a staunch opposition to the formation of the new Elvhen state in the Brecilian forest following the Fifth Blight but had not been in a position for a military invasion until the Chantry officially opposed Ferelden's relationship with this new state, and called for its destruction, as well as giving them an excuse, as well as Chantry approved blessing to invade Ferelden once again.

The third part was, by contrast, far and away the oldest one.

Orzammar had no quarrels with Orlais, or the Chantry… But was dragged into the war as a result of the Triple Alliance between the resurging Dwarven Empire, Ferelden, and New Arlathan, which had been so instrumental in their quest to retake the Deep Roads and Thaigs under Ferelden.

The Alliance had been formed behind the scenes in the aftermath of the Fifth Blight, thanks to the Work between King Galenhad, King Alistair, his Queen Daemona, and Teyrna Aeducan(Former princess of Orzammar) of Gwaren, who served as go between between surface Kingdoms and her brother Bhelen.

It started as better trade deals between Orzammar and it's neighbors. Then became military support to fight Darkspawn underground. And finally, as Bhelen became more and more controversial amongst his own nobility, it became a full-blown military alliance on which effectiveness he banked his entire offensives against the Darkspawns, and by extention his political career.

Hence why the continued wellbeing of Ferelden and New Arlathan was extremely important to Bhelen and his dreams of one day restoring the Dwarven Empire to it's old glory.

And so, the official signing of the Triple Alliance came about.

Both of these conflicts were in many ways, inevitable. The only question was when and how the spark for war for war would be lit.

The great battle that would lead to the unification of the Free Marches from a loosely connected confederacy of city-states, into a unified political entity was not.

It was a conflict that had only taken root a few years earlier, after the death of the previous Viscount during the Qunari invasion, and the rise of the next one.

The year was 34 Dragon…

---

34 Dragon.

Knight Commander Meredith was annoyed.

That part wasn't unusual. Meredith had never been famous for her ability to remain calm and level-headed under pressure.

Her mood as she stomped through the Gallows on the way back to her room however, was blacker than it had been in a long, long while.

The Qunari was finally gone... But it their place had come other worries that had replaced them.

Dumar was dead, and so the throne of the Country was now empty.

Not a problem, if she could Trust the nobility to elect a new Viscount who understood the duties of his office, and the devotion it required to the Maker and his Servants.

She could not. Kirkwall's nobility was a decadent flock of sheep that could barely know where they were supposed to go withouth falling off a cliff. And that was on a good day.

This was not a good day. In fact, she doubted it would be a good year.

There was no way she could trust Kirkwall's future to these lot.

All it would take was a wrong choice for the Throne, and they would be right back to the old days, when the Viscount got it into their head of acting above their station.

The first election was to be held in a few days. Those might take a day or months, depending on how unified the nobility was regarding their choices.

Not that there would be a question of how long.

Meredith would shut down the election before it could begin. There was sinply no way she could allow it, as the city was now. Mayhaps later, when the situation had calmed down...

But the Throne and the Question of who would sit in it was but one of her problems.

The other problem was the newly chosen Champion of Kirkwall.

Daemona Hawke, scion of the Amel family was anything but what a proper Champion should have been. Openly supportive of the Mages, having the audacity to have sheltered an apostate since she came to the city. Her very first action as Champion had been to add to that, as she put both a heathen Elvhen Blood Mage, AND a Grey Warden ABOMINATION under her official protection putting them above the law of God and Men!

The woman, thinking her new title made her above any sense of decency, had even had the audacity to request her sister be transferred out of the Circle and into her care!

There Meredith had put her foot down. Bethany Hawke would not leave the Gallows so long as she lived.

Unfortunately, that was where her ability to do anything about the damned Rogue ended.

The title DID put her above the Law unfortunately. So long as Kirkwall adored her, Daemona Hawke was untouchable.

There wasn't much she could do about it right now, but someday... Someday there would be a straw that broke the back.

As Meredith finally reached the door to her office, she entered, the klanking of angry steel clad feet loud and obvious as she opened, then shortly after, closed the door behind her.

She glanced over to the side of the wall, where on a rack, her new weapon was lying. A massive red sword, looking like someone had taken a giant red ruby and chiseled it down to a triangular sword.

In the brief moment after she closed the door behind her, Meredith's thoughts went to the beauty of the Blade, so wonderous it was almost like it sang to her...

Then a sharp, excruciating pang of pain bloomed in her neck.

Her eyes immediatly widened, and she tried to react, but her mody wouldn't move, whatsoever.

Nothing except her eyes, which went down to where a long, narrow blade puked out from her mouth, like a blood coated, grey tongue.

"Should have let Bethany out of the circle Beredith~"

The low voice in her ear made a tsk, tsk sound.

Then the blade was wrenched back, and existence ended.

The figure was clad in black and dark blue from toes to head, with the only exception beong the white symbol of the Qun on the chest and Back .

Just as precationtion in case she was seen after all.

No one in Kirkwall would doubt the Qun ordered her death.

As it happened, she wasn't.

She came in just as easily through the tunnel system form Kirkwall through the Gallows, as she had coming in, getting rid of the clothing in the darkness of the sewers, as she made her way through the tunnels, beneath the River, and then up into her own mansion in Hightown, where a warm bath awaited her.

---

Hawke laid back in her bath, taking deep breaths, smelling the incense of roses.

After a while, she began scrubbing the sweat and other odors and fluids off her skin.

Ah… How wonderful it was to be filthy, filthy rich.

You could do a lot of things as rich folk.

More as a Free Marches Champion.

Champion of Kirkwall… It had a nice ring to it. Power too.

Her companions got to walk freely around, and display their talents and abilities as they saw fit… Even Anders and his crazy spirit friend.

What it had not done, however, was free Bethany from the Gallows.

That had infuriated her… But Lord Commander Meredith had been hard on the subject.

Champions had a lot of freedom in the world… But she was not willing to bend far enough to have a mage released from her precious Gallows.

Meredith was a real, bloody hardliner. The worst kind of Templar. The ones who believed they were truly, completely in the right.

She would never let Bethany be released into her care…

Which was why earlier that night, Meredith had gotten a knife across the throat.

It had taken a while to set up and create an alibi for herself, but when Meredith was found in the morning, no one would be able to trace the murder back to her.

Hawke suspected the next Knight Commander would be less obstinate on the matter.

---

Though she did not know it then, by killing Meredith when she did, Hawke had unintentionally drastically changed the political trajectory of Kirkwall forever.

Had she lived just two days longer, Meredith in her quest to turn Kirkwall into a templar-ruled police state, would have shut down the Kirkwall nobility's election for the next Viscount.

It was their custom, that if the royal dynasty died out(As it just had) there would be an election amongst the rich lords of the White City of chains, to choose the next monarch, and by extension the next dynasty from amongst their own ranks.

Meredith would have rather rudely interrupted this custom, and denied the election of a new leader, and as she saw it, a political rival for power in the city-state.

But with her gone… Well, even if she had left written orders(which she had not) there were none amongst the temporary leadership that followed her, who had the guts to so blatantly challenge the nobility of the city.

And so, as the Templars were scrambling in the wake of the Knight Commander's assassination, the election for the next Viscount was held 2 days after Meredith's death.

As for the choice of the next monarch, a various number of lesser nobles stepped forth to cast their names as candidates.

None gained traction though. No one had the support, the abilities, charisma or the clout to get the rest to follow.

It was very much the same as the last time a Viscount had been elected.

Then one name was tossed forth... More to ask why she hadn't been named before that as a candidate, rather than to suggest she was the obvious choice.

That was all it took.

Several nobles enthusiastically vouched for her her, having had personal dealings with her, where she had left quite an impression.

Those who did not know her personally, also vouched for her. She had quite the reputation... But truthfully, killing the Arishock and saving them all had left far, far more of an impression than any rumors and tales.

And so it was decided.

Lady Hawke would be the next Viscount of Kirkwall.

---

Varric Tethras in his early years had never expected to live through interesting times. Oh sure, the usual backstabbing feuds and developments that came with being part of a merchant city-state and a Dwarven Merchant guild, was to be expected.

But actual, real, lasting changes in the world at large?

That was generally something he'd not thought he'd see in his lifetime.

The Dragon Age might be full of… Well, Dragons, but the world he'd be born into would still be the same as the one he'd been born into.

The words on the page beneath him told a different story.

The pages told of how the Triple Alliance had retaken Bownammar, as the latest Thaig under Ferelden to be reclaimed from the Darkspawn.

It was the latest in a series of spectacular victories beneath Ferelden's soil.

Cadash, Kal'Hirol, Aeducan, and more, all had been retaken from the Darkspawn in less than 10 years.

The victories would have been surprising enough on their own, but it was the source of those victories that was the bigger surprise.

Orzammar, the beacon for dwarven pride, and nobility with a collective stick up its collective backside about everything, was starting to change.

A lot. The new King Bhelen might be the same kind of bastard all power-hungry Dwarven nobles were, but the man had vision, ability, and a love for practicallity that genuinely surprised Varric.

Casteless being armed, surface dwarves being allowed to resettle underground in the retaken Thaigs to bolster their numbers, and actual coordination with their surface allies becoming the new norm.

Hey, it only took nearly a 1000 years... Give them another one, maybe they'd remove the distinction between surface Dwarf and "Regular" ones entirely.

The changes were simple really. So simple Orzammar could probably have used the tactics they were currently using, to do this ages ago.

The Deep Roads, once the Dwarves' biggest marvel, had become their greatest weakness after the appearance of the Darkspawn. They had swarmed through the tunnels, cutting each Thaig off from all the rest, killing and slaughtering as they went until only 2 kingdoms were left, both surviving by cutting themselves off from the network as a whole.

The Dwarves had been utterly dependent on the Deep Roads to thrive. Take that away, and they had no way to help one another, as each thaig fell one by one.

And of course, because of the countless labyrinthian network of tunnels, it had been a nightmare to try and retake lost Thaigs.

You would have to fight your way through every single road, all the way to your destination, and if at any point the way back got cut off, you were dead.

That was the way it had been for centuries and centuries… But things changed.

Now they were using the cramp, narrow corridors and tunnels in an offensive manner, to deny the Darkspawn the ability to use their greater numbers to full use.

The strategy was simple.

Cut off and fortify every single path you found, except for one, then kill everything single thing you found through that pathway until you found other paths through the roads.

Then cut off all the roads except one, and go through that one, and kill everything you found until you found another entrance. Rinse and repeat.

Only once you found no other paths on your way, did you go back to open one of the other pathways, and begin the process there.

It was a stupidly simple tactic, but it wasn't the only innovation they had now.

They'd also invented some new tactic called Halberds and Bolts.

He wasn't entirely sure how it worked, but there was a pike wall, and crossbows involved.

And of course, the most logical innovation was coordination with the surface.

This tactic worked a lot better when Ferelden and New Arlathan would simply supply them from above through reconquered Thaigs, rather than have to rely on some stupidly long supply train all the way back to Orzammar.

Even if the Darkspawn broke through the fortified doors at some point in the Deep Roads, this wouldn't be the automatic death sentence it had once been.

It would take a long, long while, but unless something changed, this strategy might actually see the Dwarven Empire triumph over the Darkspawn at long last.

And hey, if they were really lucky, maybe it would happen before the next Blights.

The new King Bhelen had taken a bad, bad situation, and turned it around.

As he was reading, he heard through the wall a familiar whistling, grinned, and sat up, quickly jumping out of bed and getting dressed, before opening his door for one of the more lovely women in Kirkwall… And by far the deadliest.

"Morning Varric."

"Hello, Hawke. Come on in."

They quickly seated themselves in their usual chairs, with a familiarity that spoke of total casualness.

"So Hawke what brings you here today?"

"Can't I just want to see my favorite dwarf?"

"Oh, you can… But the four last times you came by you wanted to hear about news from home, and not much else."

Hawke grinned sheepishly.

"Alright. Guilty as charged. Though I must say Varric, you're not in a position to judge… I know how much you read up on Bhelen's side of the Triple Alliance."

"Bhelen's side? I'm not Bartrand Hawke, why would I be interested in stuffy old Dwarven crap, like Orzammar's campaigns?"

Hawke narrowed her eyes, and without a word went over all the various Dwarven crap that Varric had chosen to decorate his home away from home with.

"I could not begin to tell you where I got that notion… But whatever, any news from the south?"

He shrugged.

"Not much… Or at least not much I think you'd be interested in… More mines opening, new trade routes… Oh, wait, there was one thing."

From his stack of papers, he fished out about 9, before handing them to Hawke.

"Newest Ferelden fashion developments… Or what you guys call fashion anyway."

"Oh!"

Hawke quickly snapped them up and began looking them over.

"Hmmm… So Redcliffe is moving back towards traditional clothing… Interesting. I guess Teagan wants to distance himself from Orleasian fashion as much as possible."

"Is… That a bad thing? Don't you guys hate Orlais?"

"Oh, we do! But going back to the past for fashion isn't exactly… Well, you've seen Ostwick fashion right?"

"The ones that have men running around in those checkered skirts?"

"Kilts, yeah. Those guys still think it's Calenhad's time…"

She shook her head and began flipping through the pages.

"Oh, but here! Here is real fashion! Highever and Denerim are switching over from casual plate armor to Brigandine coats!"

Varric looked down as she put them on the table. Neither of the two examples was a particularly stylish example of Brigandine armor… Well except for different helmets at least.

"You know, sometimes I forget that and Aveline are both from the same stock."

"Heh… Maybe I should show this to Aveline! I'm sure she'd appreciate-"

From downstairs, someone called out her name in a very loud, and frantic manner.

"Ah, Carver… Wonder what my little brother wants now."

"Maybe the little Hawke finally wants to make a move on Daisy, and wants your advice."

As they heard Carver make his way up the steps of the Hanged man, Hawke chuckled.

"The Maker will return before that happens."

Sure enough, Carver burst into the now unlocked room, panting, and looking absolutely frantic.

"Sister!"

"What is it little Hawke? Do you need some help wooing Daisy?"

"What? Wait-NO!"

"History would suggest otherwise brother, or have you already gotten some Advice from Isabella?"

"Can you two PLEASE not talk about this right now!? This is serious!"

"...Fine, Carver… What is it then… An-Damn, you are drenched… Did you run all the way here?"

"Yes! An hour after you left we got a message from the Viscount's palace!"

"What do they want now?"

"They elected you Viscount!"

"What." Two voices said in unison.

"They held a vote earlier today over who would be the next Viscount after Dumar… And you won. In a landslide they said. You're the next Viscount of Kirkwall!"

"Well… Shit."

Hawke, for once in her life, looked absolutely stunned… Then a missive grin appeared on her face.

"But that means… That means I can just appoint Bethany as my Court Mage. Rulers have the right that that right? I remember old Willhelm got to live free as one right!"

"Wh-THAT'S what you're focusing on?"

"Eh, it's the most obvious benefit. Oh, and I get a shiny crown too… Varric is that crown the Viscount had the official regalia, or can get something personalized made?"

Varric smiled.

Still the same old Hawke.

"Eh, I think you can. What did you have in mind? A band with a ferocious Hawk at the front?"

"Oh, that's good! But I was thinking more that old design in Gold, or Silver… I mean did you see that crown? Great design, but in dark Iron? Who makes a crown in Iron?"

"I don't know, it's better than a Throne of the stuff, I mean imagine how uncomfortable that would be."

"Can you two PLEASE take this seriously? This is big news."

"Oh we are, we're just having some fun along the way Carver. Well, let's get the band together and have a pint before I head back to Hightown. This is gonna be great. All the problems the city had with the Qunari are gone now! Which I get to swoop in, and not only take all the credit and glory for fixing it, but I get to come in and rule without any huge issues breathing down my neck."

She grinned. Then suddenly had an epiphany.

"Oh and Varric? Congrats."

"On what?"

"On becoming the new Viscount's right-hand man of course! Is there a title for that? Or just… Royal advisor?"

Carver rolled his eyes.

"If you want to give him a fancy title, you should just marry him… Then you could call him the Count Regnant."

It took a moment before both of them realized it was a joke.

"Well look at that, the Little Hawke finally started to grow a sense of humor."

The younger sibling, and new heir to the throne of Kirkwall, groaned.

Chapter 2

[thequeendomhq]

NAME. Afshin Gökhan / Eldar AGE & BIRTH DATE. 29 & November 8th, 2995 GENDER & PRONOUNS. Male & He/Him NATIONALITY. Iskaran SPECIES. Changeling FACTION. N/A OCCUPATION. Prince & Heir of Iskaldrik FACE CLAIM. Oktay Çubuk / Serkan Çayoğlu

biography

( tw: child abuse, violence, death )

High King Orhan Gökhan was truly the ruler of Iskaldrik. His lineage extended far back to that of Efe Gökhan. A kingdom where magic was outlawed saw the birth of the second born child of the High King. Afshin came into the world screaming, but all his mother could feel was relief. The first born of Orhan had been a daughter. When people spoke of heirs for the throne, women were not to be seated upon it. Passed over, Aytaç was just the older sister that Afshin would come to look up to one day. They were only a year apart, but they might as well have been twins. Their cribs sat next to each other and they both looked upon the eyes of their mother with wonder. Their father was a different story. Even as a small baby, not able to say a single word, it was clear to them that their father did not see children when he looked at them. They were simply people that would continue the legacy of the Gökhan family. At least, that was how it would feel to Afshin as he grew.

A young boy barely a few years old was sat upon a throne and told that this was his birthright. Iskaldrik was where he would rule and Iskaldrik was where he would live and die by the throne. Afshin understood that even at his young age. He was just a boy though. He could not pick up a sword and charge into battle. His sister could do that far better. Stoic would probably be the word that could best describe Afshin as a child. He was quiet where his sister spoke with purpose. When his sister spoke, others would brush her aside, but he would listen. She knew everything even as a little girl. Afshin however? Well, his quietness stemmed from a secret that only he could know about. If others had found out, he was sure that his rightful place as heir would be jeopardized. Stoic. Maybe that part of him came from Eldar.

Bold could be the only word used to describe the elvhen that had chosen the crib of the High King’s one and only heir to the throne to place their own child within. Pixies snuck into Iskaldrik in the dead of night to find the child sleeping. There had been two options when they got to the room. Two children both born to Orhan Gökhan, but as the pixie looked upon the cribs, they knew which option would lead that elvhen to the best life possible. What could come of a woman in a kingdom ruled by men? So they placed that blighted elvhen child within Afshin’s crib and flitted away back to where they had come from. The deed had been done. Ttwo babies, one mortal and one elvhen, lay within the same crib and a blood ritual had been started. Afshin and Eldar. Eldar and Afshin. They looked into each other’s eyes, only babies, and were forced to accept that they would only come to depend on each other.

Stoic. That would probably be the word that could best describe Eldar as a child. Whatever part of the elvhen that had merged within Afshin had the two bleeding into each other whether they wanted to or not. However, as Afshin had a clear vision of who he would become, Eldar had no idea. The elvhen part of the changeling had been thrust upon this life, blighted, destined for nothing more than what the human part of him wanted. He was not the prince. He was not royalty at all. Maybe, if he had known where he came from, he would have some sort of vision himself. Instead, all that ever came of him was exactly that one word. Stoicism. As that one ideal bled into him, it left Afshin entirely. The human part of the changeling had grown and he had accepted that the life his father had made for him would be his and his alone. He was not just the prince. He was so much more than that and he was superior to those that he deemed beneath him. For a time, that included Eldar.

Where Afshin went, Eldar followed. However, where Eldar went, Afshin either didn’t care to know or never bothered to find out. Either way, the two were complete opposites of each other. The child that Afshin became was the kind of person that let royalty go to his head. He was judgmental of those that were less than he was. And he was the prince. Those that were beneath him were, well, the entirety of Iskaldrik. Excluding a choice few of course. His sister would always be someone he respected. There had been one friend he had made with silver hair that had been lost to where all the children went when they were found with magic. Perhaps that should have been a sign to him. Perhaps it was. Afshin was well aware of who he was, but what he was always seemed to slip his mind. So, when that friend had been sentenced to possibly become a Witcher, Afshin turned the other way. As if what he was could somehow be forgotten. However, if there was one person that would never let him forget, it would be Eldar.

Eldar never preferred the royal life that his elvhen parents had subjected him to. Not that he had ever truly known anything else before the changeling had entered into teenagedom. While Afshin was busy with material things and looking at everyone with those judgmental eyes, the elvhen boy was sneaking out of that home he had become so familiar with and heading as far as he could go outside of it until he always came upon the less fortunate villages in Iskaldrik. Hrafntun was the furthest he could go. It was easy to travel. In theory, he was royalty. He shared a soul with the Iskaran prince. Eldar could go wherever he wanted whenever he wanted and people would only ever question where the poor prince disappeared to this time. Only when Afshin walked back into his chambers a week later would people question anything at all. It had become a pattern for the two of them. Afshin reveled in his riches and Eldar reveled in the small comfort that came from knowing that there were others that had no idea who they would become because of a life thrust upon them that they had no choice but to live.

Eventually, the two of them had formed some sort of friendship. Afshin hated the fact that Eldar ever even bothered to travel anywhere outside of Yggrasdildal. There seemed to never be a purpose. However, he had come to understand why his elvhen half wanted to be literally anywhere else. Eldar was not beneath Afshin and Afshin was not beneath Eldar. They were one in the same and they always would be. Yet there was always that one thought in the back of both of their minds. It crept into Eldar’s thoughts more often while they rested their heads at night. When they spoke in dreams, they were just children. They spoke to each other as if they were the only people each of them could depend on. That was where Afshin confided in the other half of himself. He was terrified. It had been a long time since he was born and that meant that it had been a long time since he had fully comprehended just the life he had been born into.

Magic was criminalized and that meant that the two of them would always be on borrowed time. Afshin had certainly let it get to him now. Where he had once had not a care in the world, he was now riddled with worry. Eldar had always chosen to ignore the politics of Iskaldrik because he felt it did not concern him. However, he was tethered to the prince. With the prince’s worry came his own. Eldar was different though. The human side of the changeling had been at a loss, but the elvhen side? Well, he knew exactly what needed to be done. He knew because he had been outside of those walls that felt more like a prison than a home. Eyes would always be watching them even when they weren’t. Eldar knew how to whisper in the ears of those that didn’t even realize they were listening. Afshin would be no different than the rest of them. Manipulating people would come with a price. Manipulating his other half? Well, it was a good thing that Afshin could always tell when he was being manipulated and Eldar was always more than happy to test that theory.

With that thought in the back of his mind, he took to catching Afshin’s eye in the mirror or speaking to the other half of him in dreams. It started with one simple thought, one simple idea. The one person that could take the throne from Afshin was the High King himself. Orhan Gökhan would turn on his son faster than it would take for either of them to blink. Eldar could not let that happen to the closest friend he had so that one idea that he had fell right from his lips and into Afshin’s ear. It wouldn’t be enough to kill the High King. Even thinking it sounded absolutely preposterous. No, they would need to be smart about it. Eldar knew the way to get Orhan out of the picture. From his time outside of Yggrasdildal, he had come to know that most would consider the man a mad king. Eldar figured they might as well make the man truly mad. It would not be easy, but it would get the one man in their way out of the picture.

So Afshin listened. As his father sat upon that throne, he thought of how he would turn those whispers from Eldar into a reality. Whispers in the night between both of the changeling’s halves would fall on deaf ears. Or so they had thought. The first to hear those whispers had been Afshin’s sister. He had thought she would run to their father. He had thought that she would give him up to be made an example of in front of the entirety of Iskaldrik. What if he were to be sent to the mines? What if they wouldn’t stop there? Afshin didn’t think he would make it in the mines. Eldar could, but he simply didn’t want to go there. He had heard what became of people that went there. None of them ever came back. He would not be one of those people. Eldar would have done whatever was necessary if Afshin’s sister had even thought to give them up to Orhan. Yet she hadn’t. She was her brother’s protector. Just like Eldar.

The three of them all formed that plan. If there were the three of them there, then it seemed like things would go off without a hitch. Afshin would never have to worry about being found out. Eldar could live his life the way he wanted to. And so could Aytaç. Nothing could ever be so simple though. Just when they had formed a plan and wanted to bring it to fruition, the Huscarl had figured them out. The man had looked Afshin in the eyes. It was a look that both Afshin and Eldar both understood more than anything. Stoicism. It was the kind of look that could never be understood, but it didn’t need to be understood for them to realize that the Huscarl was on their side. Words had not been exchanged as the poison was slipped into the High King’s drink. The reaction seemed almost instant as the entirety of their company watched Orhan Gökhan slowly lose his mind. He had fallen ill faster than either of them could blink. How funny that was. Things actually could be that simple.

Afshin had looked on with smugness as his father had become merely a shell of the man he had once been. Eldar looked on with nothing but expectation. The future seemed a little more set in stone for the both of them and it felt like they had not a thing to worry about. Yet Eldar was always watching people. He always wished to stay one step ahead. He had once whispered in Afshin’s ear that Orhan Gökhan needed to be out of the picture. They had succeeded. Now he would whisper in his other half’s ear that Afshin was so close to having that throne that it felt damn near cosmic. Eldar would always make sure that things went their way lest those standing in it would face one bloody death. Again, or so the elvhen half thought. It seemed things actually could not be as simple as he had anticipated. Instead of one day ruling Iskaldrik, Iskaldrik was taken from them. All of it felt like one bad dream, but neither of them were ever waking up from it.

Soon, Iskaldrik was falling and they were nothing but refugees. Afshin had barely ever lifted a sword. If he did, it was because his father had placed it within his hand. Eldar had fought with those people he had visited every time he left Yggrasdildal. They had placed a sword in his hand several times until he learned to pick it up on his own. And, with that sword, came a shield. That shield was what Eldar would need to protect not only him, but Afshin, too. It didn’t matter what he needed to do to protect their lives. If he needed to, he would kill. There was a minimal amount of blood on Eldar’s hands, none of it from something like death being dealt. But he never feared the blood that could drench his hands in the name of making sure his other half was able to place that crown atop his head. Orhan Gökhan be damned.

Because who was Eldar if not Afshin’s protector?

personality

Afshin

+ opinionated, charming, charismatic - judgmental, materialistic, pessimistic

Eldar

+ loyal, observant, adaptable - stoic, manipulative, introverted

played by kenyer. est. she/her.

[shouldaspunastory]

The Muses: Eshalineva "Neva" Lavellan

A rather impulsive, and headstrong child from birth, Eshalineva never quite recovered from the perceived slight of not being chosen as the clan's First. Though, quite happy at first to get away for a while to spy on the goings on at the Conclave, she could never have expected that doing so would forever change her life.

Game decisions/deviations

Prologue: Rejects the idea of being the Herald of Andraste, outspoken about atheism amongst companions. Dislikes but accepts the necessity of the title for the Inquisition's political gain/manuevering. Declares an Elf will stand for Thedas.

In Hushed Whispers: Went to Redcliffe, allied with the mages

Wicked Eyes and Wicked Hearts: Celene dies, Brialla rules through Gaspard

Here Lies the Abyss: Wardens exhiled, left Stroud in the Fade

What Pride Had Wrought: Neva drinks from the Well of Sorrows.

Divine: Leliana (Hardened)

Companions & Advisors

Blackwall: (neutral) Blackwall freed & committed to Wardens

Cassandra:(mild rivalry) Found book of secrets, convinced Varric to write new chapter

Cole:(friends) Cole remained a spirit

Cullen: (neutral) Convinced him to stop taking Lyrium

Varric: (neutral) Found source of Red Lyrium, convinced him to write next Swords & Shields for Cassandra

Dorian: (neutral) Stayed with Inquisition, met but didn't reconcile with father

The Iron Bull: (friends) Saved the Chargers, Tal-Vashoth

Josephine: (neutral) Had Leliana use assasins to deal with the Du Paraquettes

Leliana: (friends) Hardened

Sera: (mild rivalry) Harmond alive & working for Inquisition

Solas: (lovers) Freed friend, Cole remained a spirit

Vivienne (neutral) Found lost Circle books, Gave her snowy wyvern heart

Basic Information

Full name: Eshalineva 'Neva' Lavellan Pronouns: She/Her Nicknames: Neva (because she doesn't trust the Shems to pronounce her name properly), Vhenan (Solas), Flurry (Varric) Title: Herald of Andraste, Inquisitor Occupation: Inquisitor Date of Birth: 16th of Firstfall, 22 at the start of DA:I Orientation: Bisexual Libido: High Religion: Atheist Threat level: 10/10. Not to be fucked with, and all too happy to tell you so. An incredibly strong mage to begin with, Neva is very emotionally-driven and will therefore throw everything she has into a fight if it is somehow made personal. With enough rage and when afforded the opportunity she may even make sure her oponent's deaths are particularly slow and/or painful.

Physical Information

Face claim: Katheryn Winnick Height: 5 ft, 6 in Eye color: Lilac Hair color + style: White, most often kept short, or in an asymetrical bob Dominant hand: left Distinguishing features: Mythal vallaslin, freckled bridge of nose & forehead Accent + intensity: Dalish/Free Marcher, heavy Tattoos: Mythal vallaslin across her cheekbokes Scar(s): A lattice of smaller scratches up both arms Piercing(s): No Glasses: No

Background Information

Hometown: Free Marches (wherever Clan Lavellan made camp) Current residence: Skyhold Language(s): Elvhen (Dalish), King's Tongue Social class: lower, honorary member of upper-class mostly because of her title as Herald of Andraste/Inquisitor Education: Keeper Deshanna Istimaethoriel Lavellan was largely in charge of her education, teaching her magic and her people's history while training her to be her successor. Her decision to make her other protege her first, lead to resentment and a rift between her and Neva, however. Parents: Unknown, Neva was given to Clan Lavellan when she first showed signs of magic. She cannot remember her parents. Siblings: None (that she knows of, she was given to Clan Lavellan as a child) Adopted?: By Keeper Deshanna Istimaethoriel Lavellan

Personality Information

Jung type: "The Entrepeur/Dynamo" Archetype: The Doppelgänger Enneatype: Romantic Moral alignment: Chaotic neutral Temperment: Brash/impulsive Angered by: Airs of superiority, religious fanatics, racism Intelligence type: Existential Neurodivergence(s): N/A At risk: Prone to following emotional impulses before fully considering the consequences

Vices & Habits

Smokes? No Drinks? Yes Drugs? Has tried some, doesn't use any regularly though Violent? Very Addicition(s)? Self-Destructive? Often Hobbies: Hiking, ice dancing, singing Likes: Exploring, traditionally feared predators (wolves, dracolisks, etc), music, learning new things, the cats of Skyhold Dislikes: Being corrected/told what to do Tic(s): Builds up small static electrical charge beneath fingers when irritated/angry

Miscellaneous Information

Zodiac: Servani Vice: Prideful Virtue: Passionate Element: Ice Mythological creature: Siren Animal: Wolves Mutation: Anchor on left hand

[ikarosx]

Ikaros had listened to everything the dragon had said, every bit of information offered, every joke, every little hint about what Gwaern had been up to – it soothed the prince in a way that his manipulated soul needed. He drank it in, all of it, his hands steady on pink scales that were perhaps the biggest source of comfort the Elvhen needed. The return to Avalon had been loud – so much at once – it had been overwhelming. His rescuer, the dragon, hadn't been far off, and Ikaros found himself craving the steady presence. But as the world had quieted, after he'd done what he needed to – false smiles and the posture of a future king – he'd taken to the bench in the garden of Arvandoril that his grandmother had planted for her pegasus.

It was quiet, closed off on Ikaros' request, and saved for the dragon and prince who sat upon it now. Ikaros wasn't sure how long they sat, but Ikaros looked down at his hands, mismatched eyes fixed on the ground in front of him as he thought of all he saw. "There were moments I could remember. That I wasn't meant to be what they wanted me to. I saw so much, over and over again." Forced to speak it, say it so it could come to pass. Until he'd become himself again. "I'm not sure who or what answered, what broke me from it. Thank you for taking care of Gwaern. For talking with Saleba. I always have so much to lose, and so little power to protect it all."

Solon hadn't been sure that Ikaros had actually known that word - please - so they were a touch surprised, nodding solemnly after a moment. "As you wish," there was always time to talk about it, though Ikaros was not often known for much talking, and he'd let the Prince have his secrets, his traumas, to keep for himself; the dragon would not force him to talk of anything for he was certain it would not unlock even the mildest truth about the Kossith who were still such a mystery to the world. Fyren stepped several paces back, and where once the handsome elvhen was, there a pink dragon erupted in his place, grand wings and iridescent pink scales coming forth. Solon spoke, though the pink dragon loved to talk, he was with little words now - though Ikaros' ears may bleed on the journey to Avalon for there was no stopping the dragon from yapping once they took flight.

[corseque]

Solas’ involvement in any story means the story Will Have Shenanigans. What I really treasure about him is that he’s such a doofus. I think that’s maybe the single greatest “subverting expectations” detail to his character kit, besides the big reveal. They usually try to take a character trope and then surprise you in some way with it. So with Solas, they introduce this immortal Elf King Thrandruil character, this reserved, superior, artistic and otherworldy intelligent being who looks down on others for not being as good as him, and you think you know what to expect with that kind of character.

But with Solas, they didn’t really tell you that was the character type at first, and then they added contrasting unexpected details -- like making the elf king dress up like a hobo. Like letting the age of this immortal elf mean he is genuinely mature and very experienced in a lot of ways, including his logic process, his actual patience, and ability to admit he’s wrong. They made the “cold immortal elf king” feel things deeply and passionately. They make him the butt of jokes, and make jokes of his own, and accidentally light his own coattails on fire when casting spells in battle (and not want to mention it after it happened because it embarrassed him). They made the Immortal Elf King Who Fights For Elves into a very round character who is humanized and lovable. It’s wild that he doesn’t distance himself. He’s in the thick of it, deeply concerned about everything going on. After thousands of years, how much he cares hasn’t changed. He hasn’t gotten too tired. He’s so old but he burns so bright. I really love old characters who somehow still care and haven’t given up, even after so much heartache.

“It can be argued that an immortal would have to be distant, or eventually all it would know is loss. What would our world look like to such a creature? What actions would they be capable of when everything except themselves is fleeting and therefore of little relevance to eternity? If we as elvhen discover a path back to what we were, we must be sure that the path is wide enough for all. For the individual who stumbles into that journey, who endures when all else is dust, can only be alone.” -Keeper Ilan'ta

[spainkitty]

Solas After the Temple of Mythal

Lanil's Pieces Masterlist

"What did you do? Why did you do it?" Solas demanded as soon as she entered the room.

Lanil stopped dead and looked behind her. Nope. He was talking to her.

"What are you talking about?"

"You drank from the Well! You gave yourself into the service of an ancient elven god," Solas shouted. He shouted.

Lanil crossed her arms over her chest. "You don’t even believe in them, so why does it bother you?"

"You are Mythal’s creature now. Everything you do, whether you know it or not, will be for her. You have given up a part of yourself."

"I did that years ago when I chose these!" Lanil exclaimed, pointing at the golden vallaslin on her face. "When have I not given up parts of myself!? When have I ever been free?"

Solas actually startled, eyes widening minutely, before he quickly pulled back on his expression of disappointed anger. Which had her blood boiling. She hated disappointing him and she didn't even understand why this time.

"I was a Circle Mage for so long I don't remember before it! And then I ran off and became a Dalish savage. And then I became the Herald, and I got this." She shoved the anchor at him, palm up and fingers spread wide. "I lost any chance of ever being free. And I did all that willingly. So how, how is binding myself to an ancient Elvhen god I believe in any different from binding myself to the Inquisition? You know, you heard at the Temple how much of me I've been cutting off, how much I've been carving myself into what the Inquisition needs! And you stand there and judge me, scold me like a child, because you think I don't understand!?"

"You don't understand! You think this is the same? You're all children, lost and wild, thinking you're honoring an ancient past that never existed!" Solas stopped, dragged in a breath. "Whatever those beings, gods or not, they were powerful and dangerous. You made yourself one of theirs, you made yourself their slave, lethallan."

She curled her hands into fists as desperate rage squeezed her throat. She lifted her fists, her bared wrists, and a jagged laugh not at all amused left her mouth.

"At least these shackles are Dalish. At least I'm a slave to my People and everything I've been trying so hard to protect instead of people who spit the word savage at my back. I asked for the power, and I paid the price."

His hands, pale and elegant, wrapped around her wrists. She felt heat pricking at her eyes. No. No, it wasn't going to happen again. Not in front of him.

"Lethallan--"

"No!" Lanil shook his hands off. She had to go, had to run, couldn’t dare look at his face and see pity, or loathing, or whatever was there. She half-turned away, head down so her hair could shadow her face. "I don't want to hear it. I'm done. This means something to me, my People mean something to me. You don't get to call me ignorant when all I've done is scrape and claw and beg for the smallest scraps of my heritage instead of denying what I am. I won't let you despise me or my People."

His hand gripped her chin, pulled her around with a strength she thought he only had in the Fade. He forced her to meet his eyes and she couldn't describe the look there. Like that memory of a dwarven king he'd told her about: a memory of an emotion that no longer had a word.

"You think I despise you? Despise our People? I walk beside you because I see the same fierce love for the People in you that I have," he said, hoarse and low. A shiver ran down her spine. "You think you are the only one that sacrifices and carries the burden of all their mistakes?"

"I don't get to hide mine! I don’t get to lounge in the shadows and laugh at the machinations of all us feeble mortals who haven't travelled the Fade like you have," Lanil snarled, refusing to budge an inch, as if he wasn't pinning her in place with a single hand.

"There is nothing feeble about you, Inquisitor," Solas replied as hotly. "You throw yourself into chains because you think you won't break. You wear them like your vallaslin, proud that you're stronger than everyone else around you."

"I won't break. I won't let myself break. You're damn right I'm proud of my chains. I chose them myself and I won't let you take them away," Lanil snapped. That didn't make sense. It was the only thing that made sense.

"You are impossible," Solas exclaimed. He released her chin only to grab her arms, drag her in closer, nose to nose, chests colliding as they heaved each furious breath. "You are so much more than you think are. You toil and fight and scream at the wind, you would beat mountains into rubble, and yet you chain yourself and are proud of it."

"I promised I would make the world better, I would change it! I'll keep trying, I'll never stop trying, no matter what that makes me. Slave, or monster, or a fucking hero. It's all the same damn thing."

Their ragged gasping breaths were the only sound in the room. His eyes flickered over her face, searching, dark roiling storm clouds within that forced her heart to pound like a war drum.

"You would risk everything you have in the hope that the future is better? What if you wake up to find that the future you shaped is worse than what was?" he demanded, not so harsh, but just as fervent.

"I already told you. I'll keep trying. I'll pound that mountain into rubble with my bare hands." She scowled fiercely and grabbed fistfuls of his shirt, hauled him to her eye level to make sure he heard every word she seethed at him, "I'll drag you along with me to prove it can be done, too."

His grip tugged her forward, trapped her fists between their chests, and she felt the pounding of his heart. There was something wild in her blood clawing at the inside of her skin. Like the lightning in her was striking and sparking against the blizzard in him.

"Mir suledin nadas," he breathed against her lips. A curse or a promise. Or both.

She stared at him, speechless.

Abruptly, his hands yanked away, as if her silence burned him, and he stalked out of the room.

"What..." Lanil slowly backed up, hit the scaffold, and slid down. Her leather armor scraped horribly against the wood until her bum met the ground. Legs numb, mouth numb, she stared where Solas had stood. "What?"

[witchertorsten]

Heavy came the responsibility of the days ahead, this was a weight that Torsten did not envy, nor was it one that the witcher could hope to bear. He wore the vestments of an uncertain future as he did everything else, with stalwart focus and unwavering dedication. Out of the fire and into the viper's nest, in the days ahead Torsten would keep his wits as sharp as his sword, if not for his sake, then for the King as well. He'd vowed already to stand before them and never stray, to fight for him, and to shield him. That would not change once they put Iskaldrik behind them.

Afshin placed himself across the Iskaran's lap and Torsten could feel how his own body grew warm in response. They'd traded words once about how the Kingsguard treated his bed companions - and this was a far cry from what he'd described. There was never much feeling associated with the act itself, it came from necessity, often attraction, but affection was a lesser game that Torsten played little mind toward. Through the narrow slat that passed as a window, the sun shone through the fog, its light broken by the streaming gray, only to be captured by the crown of Afshin's head. Wreathed in a quiet halo of silvery and gold, Torsten couldn't help the way his gaze watched every moment that the King made.

"It is."

The easy slip and pull of his vestments and the stretch of taut musculature clung to Afshin's chest before it disappeared beneath his waistline below his naval. A sharp jaw and sympathetic eyes hidden away behind mischievous features. It was only in this that Torsten thought he might have caught sight of something elvhen, a spark of arcana blended with the natural stubbornness of an Iskaran King.

Something to the Iskaran tradition rested over the King's chest and there was a part of the witcher that envied a mark that could be written indelibly across so near Afshin's heart. Torsten had caught sight of it before, but now, with the Heir splayed across his lap, he could study it without fear of judgment or repercussion. The linework, the shape, and the spacing - its meaning.

"As I thought."

Torsten's head was turned slightly toward the side, dark eyes studying as he committed every detail to memory. The small, fine, hair that speckled Afshin's chest, the curve and divets of his frame, and the way his breath rose and fell. That slight flush of skin that surfaced in the places that Torsten had dragged his glove across was revised by the witcher's lips, that hand he'd shifted the King's shirt with now found its home across the small of Afshin's back. He breathed against him, "Perfect."

Taking to the other's pulse like fire, Torsten could all but taste how it thrummed beneath his lips, just as keenly as he felt his own throbbing between his thighs. What did he wish to ask of Afshin? His body. The world. To Torsten, in the moment, he hardly saw or felt a difference between the two.

He stood, his arm strong enough to carry Afshin with him before the other was pressed into the mattress. His lips took hold of the King's, Torsten's knee parted Afshin's thighs. This was better.

What more did Torsten ask of the King?

"Everything."

To Afshin, he was owed a lot of things. For example, right now he felt like Torsten owed him so many apologies for just leaving him the way that he did. Maybe, if the witcher hadn't kissed him, he wouldn't have been so upset about it. However, that was exactly what had happened. What was happening right now was more than enough of an apology, he thought. Outside of the ring that was being gifted to him now. His father's ring. Horrible timing for that, but he also did appreciate it.

Vilya. Afshin had seen the ring on his father's hand plenty of times, but he had never truly thought he would have it. The changeling still had quite a lot to prove and it felt like there was not a lot of time to prove it. He could defend himself, but was that going to be enough? He could converse, but would that help when they made it through that barrier to Lysara? Back and forth his thoughts always went on the matter until he was in his own head enough for him to lose his mind about it. This time he didn't though.

Looking down at the ring as Torsten slipped it upon his finger, he admired it for a moment before that same hand was being placed on the other's cheek. A few other rings were donned on his person, but none seemed more important than this one. For two reasons. One, because it meant that his time was coming. Two, because Torsten was the one to have given it to him. The throne would be his. He'd have to make sure of that. Which meant proving himself to every single Iskaran. It would take some time, but it would be worth it. High King Afshin Gökhan did have a nice ring to it.

Pressing his lips to the witcher's own, he only pulled away to speak with as little distance between them as possible. "You can be my throne for now, my Kingsguard." Just as the words left his mouth, he was being re-situated enough for Torsten's lips to meet his collarbone. And then everything else felt like a blur. Afshin didn't find himself to be a needy person, but he so desperately wanted the witcher right now. Every movement was slow and precise from the other's hand meeting his throat to every button that was undone soon after. Why did he feel like if he took a breath, he would wake up and it would all just be some sort of dream? But he did take a breath and it wasn't a dream. This was all real.

But then Torsten was demanding something of him. As if he was the boss of him. Afshin didn't want to say it out loud, but he would have probably done whatever the other asked of him if he said it like that again. Still, a brow rose as his hand gripped the witcher's jaw again. "Is that an order?" He paused briefly. "It sounded like an order." The part of his shirt that had already been pulled open revealed a circle of tattooed runes that had been inscribed upon his chest some time ago. Without second thought, he pulled the rest of the shirt off and tossed it to the floor. "What else would you ask of me?"