#extravagantliar

[fearindulgence]

✎ + varric feat his big naturals

@extravagantliar you know how I sad you were gonna kill me? i drew your irl portrait- i mean. i drew varric

happy early birthday, big naturals!! BLAME @martyrmarked

[hoboblaidd]

Hey Chuckles. Hope I’m not interrupting.

Solas stands on the crumbling stone of his prison. Varric’s voice, or the vestige of it at least, echoes into the cavernous nothing. Sometimes, it was just this: a constant repeat of their last argument. Others, he and Varric engaged in stilted, unending conversation. The most honest they'd ever had. Fitting, since it was only ever Solas' mind folding in on itself.

Last time they'd talked about the book, Solas thinks. Or perhaps shared a drink in the rotunda. Though…that may’ve been the same thing. He can’t remember. But they’d talked about the book before these memories or echoes. Before the ritual. Both of them roasting under the sun of the Western Approach. Solas for once not laughing at Varric and Sidri’s complaining about the outdoors. Even he’d had to agree in the Approach. The sun was relentless. Only Cole had been happy on that walk, and Solas suspected that was due in no small part to the wide rim of his hat.

And then he's standing in the Approach, but the golden sand is nothing but charcoal. The crystal clear blue sky is an endless expanse of black. The once brilliant sun is a shock of blinding white. 

Sidri passes him, but her movements are stilted, twitching and spasming as she checks her map. She turns to look at him, but her face is...gone, and when she speaks her words are swallowed by the air until they are naught more than muted sounds. He sees Compassion - not Cole; a wisp of an achingly familiar shape that flits under the sun without being burnt into something monstrous.

Solas leaves the path this memory ought to follow, walking to the very edge of the Approach, and stopping at the sudden drop-off into the Abyssal Reach. The pitch black of the blight twists and swirls, choking the stagnant air, and in its shudders he hears the cries of the Titans.

"That's a long way down," Varric whistles, suddenly at his side.

"Hm," Solas gives a noncommittal sound. He doesn’t look over at him. He can’t bear it.

"Can't say the view's improved since the last time we were here." In the corner of his vision, Solas sees Varric’s silhouette lean over the chasm to get a better look. His arm jerks to grab Varric’s arm before he leans too far, but Solas finds himself paralyzed, rooted to the spot. “One thing I don’t miss about those days is all the walking we did,” Varric continues, undeterred by Solas’ silence. “Andraste’s ass, we did so much walking. Even at the end with Corypheus, there were all those damn stairs.”

"That hadn't happened yet in this memory,” Solas reminds him, determined to keep his thoughts in some semblance of chronological order. Structure reinforced sanity, and sanity felt like it was slipping from his grasp.

"Sure," Varric says. "But time's weird in a dream."

Side-by-side, they stare down into the abyss. It is silent now, despite the relentless wind that stings his bare face.

“Don’t start that shit again."

Solas can't recall when was the last time they spoke. They'd shared a drink in the rotunda. Or they'd continued their unending, stilted conversation across an abyss as impassible as the one below their feet.

“I am reasonably certain I said nothing.” Reasonably. It grew increasingly difficult to tell where his thoughts ended and his words began. 

“You’re brooding.”

“There’s little else to do in here. I designed it this way.”

“Oh, so you invented dreaming now. Anything else? Did you place the sun into the sky, too? Carry the moon on your back until it found its home among the stars?”

“You are not dreaming, Varric,” Solas says, and though the words are harsh, his tone is anything but. “Dwarves do not dream.”

“Do dwarves hallucinate?”

“Presumably. Although in my experience, dwarves tend more towards self-delusion.”

Varric laughs. “Takes one to know one, pal.”

“Yes,” Solas grins, despite himself. “I suppose it does.”

But the Abyssal Reach swells, rising like a torrent until the inky black rushes over their feet. His feet. He at last dares to look to his right, and Varric is gone. The memory collapses, and the black ooze plummets into a limitless void. 

He stands back on the crumbling stone of his prison. He’s only been in here…weeks? Or is it months? Is he already going mad?

Hey Chuckles. Hope I’m not interrupting.

Their argument at the ritual site echoes around him, an overlapping cacophony of call and response until the words are so muddied as to be unintelligible. Solas knows the words by heart anyway, just as he knows the sound of the dagger piercing Varric’s chest, his stuttering inhale through a pierced lung, and the sound of his body falling to the ground.

Solas hears the dagger again, this time piercing Mythal’s chest. Hears the last, stuttering inhale of Felassan. Hears the sound of Sidri falling to her knees before his eluvian as his anchor tore her apart.

“Maybe we’re both delusional.” Varric’s voice cuts through the din. But the chasm is between them once more, and Varric a mere shadow on the other side. Continuing their unending, stilted conversation as if no time had passed.

“Yes,” says Solas. “I believe we are.” He’d never spoken a truer word in his life.

“Gotta be a way to change that.”

“Not a way that either of us would enjoy, I think.”

“Yeah,” says Varric. “You’re probably right.”

It’s so difficult to tell when Varric leaves, even though he’s never really here. Even though he’s never really gone. Sometimes a moment of silence will pass, while at other times, his words overlap with that last argument at the ritual site.

Solas digs his palms into his eyes, tired despite being neither truly awake nor asleep. Tired of the oppressive silence and the constant noise. Tired of the circular memories and unending conversations.

He removes his hands from his face and he’s at the Winter Palace. Not during the Exalted Council, as he first suspects, but when they were embroiled in the Orlesian civil war. Stiff wool chafes his wrists, and he looks down at the Inquisition parade dress he’s wearing. The deep red of the coat is grey, the royal blue sash is grey. The elaborate drapery, expensive runners, pristine marble, dwindling candles - all grey, muted, and lifeless.

“Forgot how ugly these uniforms were,” says Varric.

Despite himself, and despite his own self-pity, Solas snorts a laugh. “On that, we can agree.”

“Why’d Ruffles spend all that money on tailoring just to pick the ugliest damn colors?”

“Some mysteries are unknowable.”

Takes one to know one, pal.

Solas frowns. That…is not responsive to what he’d said. It isn’t responsive at all.

Don’t start that shit again.

As quickly as Solas’ laugh had come, it evaporates, and his shoulders slump as far as the rigid wool allows. 

You’re brooding.

Repetition, following no logic of conversation save one: confirmation that all of this is a wholly one-sided exchange on Solas’ part.

“Hey. Chuckles.”

“I know,” Solas finally snaps. “You ‘hope you’re not interrupting.’ But you did, and now we are here.”

“I’ve been doing my damndest to interrupt, actually,” says Varric, “while you’re staring off into space. Brooding. Do you know how boring it is to have a one-sided conversation with an elven god? Almost as boring as a regular conversation with an elven god. Why are you this insufferable even when I’m dreaming you up?”

“You are not dreaming, Varric,” Solas says in exasperation. “Dwarves do not dream.”

“Yeah, you said that last time. Would it kill you to be a little more interesting right now?”

“‘Last time?’” Solas repeats (repetition). He looks around at the Palace, the details of it growing hazy as the monochrome colors bleed into each other like water on an unprotected coat of paint. “You’ve never acknowledged that our conversations have beginnings or endings,” he says, ignoring Varric’s likely rhetorical question (unresponsive). “You only ever talk.”

“You’ve lost me, Chuckles.” 

“Varric,” he says hurriedly, entirely unprompted (following no logic of conversation). If Varric acknolwedged that time had passed between their talks, then perhaps this wasn’t just memory or torment from his prison. Perhaps this could be something more. Something real. Solas desperately needed it to be.” “Tell me something about yourself,” Solas pleaded, “something that I could not possibly know.”

“That would fill an encyclopedia. I hope.”

“Please, Varric.”

“Hell, I don’t know. What about the time me and Hawke - ”

He stands on the crumbling stone of his prison. Their argument at the ritual site picks up right where it left off. 

Solas sits on the cold ground and laughs. It’s a pitiable, hollow sound that is utterly devoid of humor. It’s swallowed by the thick air and left to hang over his head. Because of course it is. He built this prison too well. All it took was weeks or months to break him. A blink of an eye to an immortal. He wonders how long Elgar’nan could’ve held out, and hates that he knows it would’ve been longer than this.

He’s still sitting when the rotating columns converge into the Great Hall of Skyhold, still shaking his head with a resigned grin as the stone fortress settles colorless around him. The flicker of the fireplace to his right is silent and offers no heat. Sidri sits in judgment, and she has no face. 

“I’m not joining you on the floor,” says Varric. “My knees can’t take that shit, dream or not.”

“You’re not dreaming, Varric,” Solas says softly. Repetition. That’s the nature of regret, isn’t it? An endless, stilted cycle with no true end or beginning. Just a constant, unrelenting middle. “You can’t.”

“Will you at least let me help you up?”

Solas’ chuckle is hollow, as empty as the prison. “I think we both know the answer to that.”

“Yeah,” Varric sighs. “I guess we do.”

Solas doesn’t turn to look at him. He can’t bear it. 

But the silence of the memory is broken by the shuffle of thick boots and groaning knees, and the cold of the dream is stopped by a feeling almost like warmth pressing against his side. Varric sits next to him. They stay there, together, until this shattered regret completes its circuit.

And then Solas is back, alone, on the crumbling stone of his prison, and the cycle begins anew.

[extravagantrook]

(extravagantliar)

Part of him sees himself twenty some odd years ago, somehow that is a fright and a comfort all in the same breath. Somehow he's outside of Kirkwall, even though it is days away and he is pretty sure he hasn't been Viscount in ages. There is the need to roll his eyes - yet he doesn't not yet, he's saving that flourish for something greater, something that he must write home over, something he must write all of them over. "Kid." It's firm in a way that reminds him of Aveline from ages ago, of himself, of Bartand, of Anders, and he shakes it all aside, as the excitement overshadows anything he musters. Then there is that groan, the implicit one, met with a hand running down his face, "How - Where did you find a Ferelden Forder..." A Kirkwall variant, meaning it was out of his select circle, meaning it was even more dubious - at best. "No." The answer is and will always be, "No."

"But what if--" They know its a losing battle before the battle has even begun. Hell, there wasn't even a fight, so could it be called a battle? Did he wear white underthings today? He may have to use them to wave their flag of defeat. Well, if they don't soil them from the potentially disapproving groan their favorite dwarf is giving them. Doesn't stop them from flashing a brilliant grin and patting the lovely, most definitely stolen, horse at their side.

"Okay, so I know you have this thing with horses." It's more than a thing, they know. They've seen what happens between Varric and horses. It's worse than Hard in Hightown Three -- typos and crapshitbull characterization aside. Still, when innocents cry for help (or in this case knicker at them all cute like when they unhitch them from a Venatori sympathizers wagon and nudge said wagon down a steep hill) how can they turn a blind eye? Well -- there needs to be a better turn of phrase. "But I think we should keep her. Where would she go? She's--" There's a pause, the patting stops as Asha suddenly stoops to look under their new steed's barrel. "yeah, she -- She's a peach!"

[mercysought]

person's got to make a living. for maxima

Maxima clicks her tongue, hearing it crack against the ceiling of her mouth as she turns to look at Varric. It hurt her to see him so fragile, it felt so deeply wrong that truthfully if she didn't have to force herself to do it she wouldn't have. The fight against the fear for her own mortality was becoming harder and harder to keep at bay, especially as those around her kept wanting to be heroes.

   "You are going to get yourself killed." she says flatly, slowly getting up from the small couch and looking around the room that had become his, for lack of a better expression, gilded cage. Given the outcome of the last attack that the Dread Wolf had inflicted upon Minrathous, this was likely a good thing, at least more people to prevent him from attempting something stupid again.

Maxima could be asked: 'what could they have done instead?'. And she would not have a good answer. She hadn't heard the details of what had happened, she had been unfortunately too busy to track down the other people and she wouldn't want to pry, the details weren't important. Not if it came at a cost to Varric.

   "You've been making a few more serious attempts as of recent." she adds, narrowing her eyes and glancing once more to him, slowly pulling a cigarette from her golden box and placing it over her lips "If you wanted to sell your portion of our endeavors so desperately, you could have just offered them to me for one gold piece."

She hums, snapping her fingers in front of the edge that hang from her mouth. The flame flickers in and out, holding it between her fingers, it doesn't take long before she has a halo of cherry-scented tobacco around her head "I'd question your mental soundness, but you wouldn't need to twist my arm."

She grants him one half cruel, half amused grin as she turns towards where he rested.

Maxima wondered, pondered, as the silence hang momentarily: why; why all this? And why go through such a dangerous task himself. She knew of the general outlines of the work that he and the Inquisitor were doing. For her own sake, she didn't ask for more details than those that could be useful to keep herself and her nation safe - the Dread Wolf and how that tied to elvhen legend was enough to instill the namesake feeling given everything else that was going on. And yet, he had been there to face him - and from what Maxima had understood - only with three other people.

The fact that no one had truly died was a thing of wonder.

   "What does the Sidria think about what happened?" she asks, though she can likely make an educated assumption. Pausing, she watches as he opens his mouth, her right hand is raised as her brow crooks. It was not often that the magister joined their small meetings, it was often far lighter, more fun, the discussion of contracts, legal arrangements, shifting in priorities - implications of politics and the following steps.

But she had dealt with more bolder venatori since their last meeting, and she also knew enough to tell when a conversation was about to derail. So her hand was raised, golden rings glimmering against the little light in the room "No. Whatever you were about to say, reconsider—"

The smoke of her waving hand follows lazily, warming up softly as it hovered over the dim, soft lights around them. Give it another thought, take a moment and then you can start.

Is what her hands tell him as she makes her way back to the battered dwarf. Only when she sits back down on the comfortable couch just opposite to him does she finally allow herself to look at him properly since she first arrived on that day.

She had hoped he would look better this time and yet not much seemed to have changed. He still looked terribly bruised and the bandages that peeked just beyond the shirt made her feel nervous despite only imagining that he was receiving the best care. She wondered when the line would be drawn and he would need to be rushed to a good physician. If it wouldn't be too late.

   "We both know it's not about making a living." she finally says, waving her hand as one of the bottles of wine that she had brought to float in their direction "So I need an explanation: why does my business partner seem so intent at throwing everything away? I've cleared my afternoon for this, so spin me a story worthy enough."

the banner saga part 1 & midnight cowboy // @extravagantliar (and @martyrmarked) // accepting

[martyrmarked]

𝐒𝐈𝐃𝐑𝐈 𝐓𝐑𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐋𝐘𝐀𝐍-𝐓𝐄𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐀𝐒 𝐈𝐌𝐀𝐆𝐄𝐑𝐘: 𝐏𝐑𝐄-𝐕𝐄𝐈𝐋𝐆𝐔𝐀𝐑𝐃 (w/ @extravagantliar)

[orxna]

HC + aspirations

Send HC + a word for a headcanon || Accepting || @extravagantliar

Orana!! Wants!! To Make!! Her School!!!!!

I’ve said this several times before but I don’t know how much I’ve really gone into detail but Orana wants to make a school for liberati and otherwise liberated slaves from the Tevinter Empire. She was incredibly unprepared for the world when she first got her freedom and now as an adult she doesn’t want others to feel that way! She wants to give people a safe environment to learn to be people the way Hawke did for her.

Politically, this is a very hard task and I think that it’s possible that through like, Varric’s position as Viscount she probably does get something going on a small scale. I like to think maybe she manages to turn the Hawke Estate, should Hawke have no interest in coming back to live full time, into a sort of halfway house for slaves like her. Varric would probably take care of anyone being Too Concerned about all the ‘vints and elves’ hanging around Hightown whether through bribes or threats.

The only verse where she might be able to start something in a larger context would probably be her Herald verse where politically she herself would have enough sway to not immediately get shut down by those concerned about her amassing a number of freed people at that scale. However, she is also incredibly emotionally damaged in the verse and while she might facilitate the creation of such a school she very much is not in the right state of mind to run it as she might have wanted to.

[idolbound]

slides in and sits here. Lexie, I’ve lost count on how long we’ve known one another but when I think of Meredith - it’s you who comes up. You make her come to life, with her words I can feel breath, I can feel the way she feels about her city, about her family, about the conflict she faces each day and the way SHE can’t put her story down. Youve done the impossible and given a villain so much breath she’s yours more than the papers, I don’t truly think this covers how I feel about your writing but it’s a start. Then there is you, the incredible talented, smart, driven soul you are. You have had to listen to me on Twitter for the last three years yell about what they would do to Varric - you get a gold metal for this. You’re an amazing write and an even better person. I am thankful that all of the points in my life have woven us back here.

positivity meme. | @extravagantliar

Elisa!!! You are making me emotional for how long we've crossed paths and interacted after all this time! Thank you for this; I am so glad that I do Meredith's portrayal justice while still loving and enjoying her character, and keeping all things fair and balanced. Thank you, truly ♥

[endawn]

unlocal man who has fought a god and godlike beings keeps getting adopted. more at 11.

[fearindulgence]

Callout, @extravagantliar is crying because I’m finally going back to the land of Tea and Rain and they waved me off at the TSA check like a little old lady waving their husband off to war.

[hoboblaidd]

@extravagantliar

"Ten gold says he's sent to the Wardens."

Solas groaned. They both sat in their usual place by Varric's fireplace as the Inquisitor sat in judgment of the notorious Livius Erimond, who stood before her in chains. Nobles from Orlais and Ferelden crowded the great hall of Skyhold, hungry for a bloody spectacle. Solas passed their reserved bottle of brandy back to Varric.

"You don't think that's some kind of justice?"

"It does have the sort of poetic irony you would enjoy."

Varric chuckled. "You got me there. But let me guess," he said, taking a drink before passing it back to Solas. "You'd execute him."

"Of course," Solas shrugged. "Be done with it, instead of letting it linger for years while he succumbs to the blight."

"Sounds like pity, Chuckles."

"Hardly," Solas scoffed. "If one is to render justice, it ought to be swift and decisive, not middling."

"Thought you'd love sending a message," Varric insisted. "The Inquisition makes a decision but considers its allies. Isn't that the sort of practicality you enjoy?"

Solas gave a noncommittal hum around the lip of the bottle. Varric had a point, so Solas did not respond. His silence was acquiescence enough.

"Besides," Varric continued. "It's not like the Wardens are going to take it easy on him. Twenty gold says he's in the Deep Roads before the week ends. That's justice, Chuckles. It's not always the easy answer. It's got to be the right answer."

-

The brightly colored ornamentation of the Orlesians flickered into something grey. Solas ignored it.

-

They both sat in their usual place by Varric's fireplace as the Inquisitor sat in judgment of the deposed Gereon Alexius, who stood before her in chains.

"She'll keep him on," said Varric, a seamless shift in the conversation of a judgment that hadn't happened yet at this point in the Inquisition. Erimond was months away, but Varric passed the bottle back to Solas as if they hadn't been wrenched back in time.

"It would be an unfortunate waste of his knowledge if she did not," Solas allowed, taking a drink. The feeling did not reach his fingers, as it usually did. "But it will signal weakness. It is her first such act. She should be decisive."

"He invented time travel, Chuckles. You said it yourself - you can't waste that kind of knowledge just to send a message."

"You would advise mercy."

"I'd advise justice. Your definition of it's just too linear."

-

Grief set over Alexius in a black fog that stole the warmth from the fire.

-

They both sat in their usual place by Varric's fireplace as the Inquisitor sat in judgment of the Duchess Florianne, who stood before her in chains.

"Yeah this one?" said Varric, reaching for the bottle in Solas' hands. "Chopping block."

Solas barked a laugh, and passed him the bottle.

-

The chill mountain wind burst silently through the doors, dousing the warm light of the torches lining the hall.

-

They both sat in their usual place by Varric's fireplace as the Inquisitor sat in judgment of Thom Rainier, who stood before her in chains. There was no casual bickering, no snide comments as the proceedings unfolded, and no bottle passed between them. The nobles had been escorted from the hall and the great doors closed to the freezing winds and prying eyes.

"This one hit a little too close to home, didn't it, Chuckles?"

"Yes," Solas said softly.

Rainier's resignation and Sidri's inquiries were a muted, wordless echo.

"What would your judgment have been, Varric?" Solas dared to ask, his voice no more than a hushed breath.

"I think you know the answer to that." 

Varric looked at him, and Solas closed his eyes.

-

The Inquisitor sat in judgment of Fen'harel, the Great Betrayer, destroyer of the world twice over, who stood before her in chains. Sidri sat immovable on her throne, her left arm a blinding white light. She had no face, and the light streaming in through the stained glass windows of Skyhold had no color. 

"Everyone deserves the chance to atone," said Varric. His breath was ragged where the dagger had pierced his lungs. He stood beside Solas, the bottle of brandy in his bloody hands. He took a drink, and his lips were deathly pale. 

"I held the knife," said Solas, and it rang as a confession in the empty, silent halls of the Inquisition. "And your blood is only the most recent on my hands." The ghosts of those he sacrificed for his goal hovered around them in the shape of the Titans, Felassan, Mythal, Sidri. And Varric.

"Get over yourself," said Varric, dismissing it with a wave of a hand whose fingernails had already started to turn black. His eyes were bruised, and blood seeped from the gaping wound in his chest. "We both held the knife. My blood's on my hands, too, and I'm alright with it. Hurt like hell, but I made a choice. It turned out shitty, but it was mine."

"Justice should be rendered regardless," said Solas, the cold steel of the executioner's blade stinging the back of his neck. He would almost have welcomed it, were it not for his pride. He was not finished, and no matter how just it might be, he would not stop until he'd seen it through.

"'Justice' doesn't mean death, Chuckles. Sometimes that's the easy way out. But that's what you want, isn't it?"

-

They stand on the crumbling stone of his prison, Varric unreachable at the bottom of the stairs at the ritual site. 

"You want so badly to be the villain so you don't have to face the shit you've done."

"And you want so badly for this life to follow your fanciful tales," Solas snapped. It echoed in the vast, cavernous nothing of the prison. "Justice, atonement, the narrative cleaner than the world will allow."

"You've read my books," Varric chuckled. "All my stories end in tragedy. But tragedy is the fiction, Chuckles. Real life's more complicated than that, and for the better. Everyone gets more chances."

"Even when they do not deserve it."

"Oh come on," said Varric, sitting down on the stone effigy of his body. "You going all maudlin is more boring than my romance books."

A small, fond smile pulled at Solas' face. "They were not boring."

"I'll put that glowing endorsement on the front flap next time: the Dread Wolf, elven god of trickery, bullshitting, and terrible decisions says this is 'not boring.'"

Solas huffed a laugh, the Inquisition's chains evaporating from his hands. They were not needed here. This prison was chain enough. 

"Varric..." He stalled on the apology. Not because he didn't want to, but because...Solas had built this prison. He knew its mechanisms intimately. He knew what it would take to loosen its hold. Confronting it, confronting Varric, meant the resolution of at least one regret. To apologize might mean the end of his ghost in this prison. The end of their constant, echoing arguments. The end of their fragmented dreams together. The end of these stolen moments of companionship. Death was final. Regret, at least, let the dead linger.

And Solas could not let him go.

"You should wake up, Varric."

"Thought I wasn't dreaming."

"Perhaps we both are."

"You really going to stay in there and do this self-pity spiral forever?"

At last, Solas felt a spark of life in himself. "No," he said. He looked out over the gaping chasm of his prison, and saw the silhouette of Rook begin to take shape in the stone. "I have a plan."

"Don't you always," Varric shook his head, but the shape of him was already dissipating, and their argument at the ritual site began again like the tolling of a bell.

Hope I'm not interrupting.

Solas almost welcomed it.

[extravagantrook]

ky i swear

[mercysought]

[ APPROVAL ] + Varric & Maxima's continued business over the years I just need it a lot Skells :)

approval + (prompt) // accepting // @extravagantliar

   "This small piece of scorched earth you call home truly is coming together."

Closing the door behind her with the back of her heel, Maxima Aurum turns on her heels pulling one white glove from her right hand. She had never been to this particular part of the Vicount office - truth was to be told, the least amount of time she spent this far south the better for her and her mood. Varric out of all people would know how much she hated the weather and the overall mood of the city. A true wonder, how such a place could earn such love from a man such as him - but who was she to question such matters.

Minrathous this time of year was under constant raining; some parts one could hardly walk as the drained struggled to keep up with the water. Minrathous was a hard city to love, and while Maxima would not claim to love it, she could claim it was the first place that felt like it fit her. A place to call home and perhaps love did not have to come in the equation.

Dark eyes circle the room before finally landing on the small glass container which held an amber like substance. Not a fan of wine, she could always bet he would have some other nice tasty treats lying around. If nothing else for his guests, and that she was.

   "Surprise." she starts walking to it, taking off the other glove she throws them both into her robes' pockets. White heels, immaculate despite Kirkwall's streets, click on the stone floor until she reaches the glass "Do not be concerned Bran - Bran was it?"

Glancing up, she picks up two small cups, placing them side by side. She hadn't had the chance to meet Bran in person, not until that moment. The question was flair, she knew who he was for a while, she also knew most of the nates of the personnel Varric employed. As she was sure that he also knew, from piecing small pieces of information together since their last chat about Maxima's new fascination with a group that had started operating more actively in Minrathous. Where the Shadow Dragons lacked in name originally they made it up in flair - she would give them that.

She doesn't wait until he answers before pouring the liquid into the two cups generously.

   "Bran let me in." grabbing both cups with one hand she finally makes her way to the desk, circling it "He wasn't particularly pleased for my dropping in without an appointment, however" placing the cup next to him, she takes a sip of it. Not her favourite but she would drink it. Looking down at it for a second, she quirks her brow. Making a mental note of sending him a better bottle of whisky she puts the cup down with a grin, leaning against the desk "He does look rather fetching when he's flustered."

Smiling broader, she leans down to kiss his cheek. He looked older and she would prefer to not think that she looked any different. Time made a fool of them all.

   "Dearest."

magister aurum greatly approves

[martyrmarked]

��𝐓 𝐈𝐒 𝐇𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐋𝐘 𝐀𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐓𝐎 𝐇𝐄𝐑, the fact that she must sneak around like a trespasser within her own camp. the usual process has already taken place, the announcement that she's retiring for the evening followed by blowing out what candles flicker within her tent, and waiting for a vaguely acceptable amount of time before slipping from the back of it towards the tent that always seems to be placed near her own. once certain that the inquisition's scouts and the few guards lingering on watch have turned their attention elsewhere, sidri swiftly glides between loosened tarps and laces them tightly shut behind her.

❝ do you think it's that i've become stealthier or that the inquisition's guards are just worse? ❞ despite the aches that run bone deep, the exhaustion knit into the fibre of her muscles, a bright smile appears as flicks back her hood. a few steps forward and a lingering kiss is pressed to his cheek. ❝ i can see why it's easy for you, varric, but i hardly have the decades of practice you possess. ❞

somehow, miraculously, any space he inhibits has the wondrous effect of relaxing her. it is hardly his room within the skyhold, lacks the roaring hearth and piles of parchment, but this tent is still his space and she can smell the sandalwood along his jaw and, for that, the tension melts from her shoulders and a quiet sigh of contentment falls from her lips. moving to shrug off her cloak and set it aside, sidri looks over her shoulder smugly. ❝ i caught you lying today. did you think i wouldn't notice? i'd expect it from you towards cassandra, but dorian? somewhat surprising.❞ @extravagantliar

[orxna]

approval + Varric paying for any music school that she would like to attend.

Approval Meme || Accepting || @extravagantliar

It's Bodahn who brings the school to her attention in the first place, when he asks Orana where she learned and she shyly explains she taught herself. He crows in delight and awe, exclaiming how some folks over in orlais pay heaps of gold to learn to play half as well as she taught herself to be. At the time it only makes Orana blush, demure that she isn't that skilled. She can play prettily and she can read music but surely that isn't anything impressive--At the time she can't even read trade tongue.

But then time passes, and Orana thinks about it, a school just for people who want to play music. It seems frivolous at first, because surely schools are for more important things like magic or some sort of other arcane study. That's what such things are for in tevinter, at least the ones she heard while serving Danarius. The more she thinks the more she is so very curious.

It isn't Hawke whom she asks, she doesn't think the woman would know much about it, though maybe Lady Leandra might. She doesn't think Fenris, Anders, or Merrill would know either and while Aveline is fairly supportive of most of her endeavors this feels a bit frivolous--at least compared to her current task of learning to read. That leaves her with limited options, Sebastien, Varric, or Isabela--and well, she knows that Varric is always happy to answer her questions.

The tale he regales her with is filled with pomp and valor of the bardic colleges of Orlais. Some of them small and humble, yet known for producing some of the finest writers of the age--the gifted storyteller before her excluded of course since they don't teach his wits from a podium. Schools for actors, writers, painters, and knowing his audience, of course he saves the musical arts for last.

Orana will admit later, years later, that she's a bit smitten with the concept as soon as the words leave his mouth. Even without Varric's silver tongue she knows that the allure of real knowledge, of true practice because of love and not a desperate attempt to make herself more useful sounds so lovely.

But she is also young and Kirkwall under occupation and while perhaps Marian would pay for it, the word bounces in her mind again. Frivolous, yes Hawke pays her but it isn't for the evenings she spends playing the harp or lute. It's for her work in the kitchens, keeping the estate freshly laundered and clean, fetching things and keeping order with Bodahn. Things are too busy to consider such things--

And they stay very busy but it is much less the Hawke estate that is busy, because it is nearly empty, but instead maintaining Kirkwall. She works with Aveline, a personal assistant of sorts who can be trusted, a high commodity in the wake of the chantry and the circle. Varric is snatched from the Hanged Man and Orana nearly has a heart attack over it, fade rifts open up within and without the city and Orana plays gopher between Aveline and Bran as the staunch the city's bleeding.

Bran is nicer than she had expected, given all she's heard about him. She likes Bran and he seems to enjoy her presence as much as he enjoys anyone's--

And then Varric is Viscount, which is strange and baffling and she assumes that she will remain working with him and Aveline. However, one day Varric, out of the blue, asks if she still thinks about those music schools. Orana blinks owlishly, her stack of papers nearly fluttering out of her hands in such a breathless way that Varric takes it as a yes.

"You know, Melody, I've worked up some favors in Orlais," His grin is contagious and it blooms like a flower starting in Orana's chest and growing, "Your background wouldn't matter, just keep your grades up and I'll take care of things."

Orana arrives in Orlais a few months later with two trunks and her heart so full it could burst.

[high-as-hope]

starter for @extravagantliar

It would be just Elsa’s luck that she had the chance to meet the Varric Tethras, and it was when she was cut off from her small, albeit well-read, collection of his books. The only book she actually had on hand was a battered copy of her favorite volume of Swords and Shields, which she had tucked away preemptively in her supplies bag in anticipation of a future expedition away from the comforts of the keep. Little did she realize that she’d be grabbing this very bag to flee from her fellow Wardens.

Elsa looked down at her book, cringing at the state it was in. The cover was cracked and frayed in several places, and some pages had even been carefully mended back together after they’d been torn. The pages of her favorite scenes had been dog-eared, which had earned her a disapproving look from more than one book-lover. She’d tried to unfold them and smooth them back out, but the creases had been set long ago.

It was embarrassing for her to present the book to its author in such a state, but when else was she going to get a chance like this? The two of them were both here, at Skyhold, at the same time.

Tucking the volume under her arm, Elsa approached the dwarf, doing her best to hide her excitement. The last thing she wanted was to come across as some kind of crazed fan.

“Varric Tethras?” she asked, as if she hadn’t seen his picture smirking up at her hundreds of times from the back of her books. “I’m Elsa Surana. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

[fearindulgence]

It’s one thing to venture into the Fade, physically. Another entirely to push the consciousness there unless you’re a Dreamer - which, Deimos is, and Varric is very much not - and the best way for the mage to describe it is like leaning on a closed, handleless door waiting for the latch to unhook itself. The moment he feels the slightest bit of give, he forces his way in—

A literal door. He closes it behind him, softly, and the latch clicks shut behind him as he leans against it. “I’m impressed. You’ve made some improvements,” He whistles as he looks around at the cozy space, before his eyes fall on the quilt and he makes… Well. It’s an interesting face. To match the quilt. He opts to walk along the walls filled with books and various other curios the dwarf picked up on his travels.

He picked up a book, began flicking through the pages idly; memories flicker throughout like animated stills like the ‘cinematics’, glints of the past that he hadn’t been present for playing in reverse.Varric’s last ten years traversing the world and all it had to offer.

Not everything is present in this particular book. Miscellaneous memories. Not as important as what he’s looking for.

“Love the books.Hate the lack of organisation. Could you not have made this simpler for us both?” He tsked, placing the book back on the pile of fiction it was found atop. Several copies of ‘Hard in Hightown’, creating somewhat of a solid base for the others to stack on. Hand glances over the hardback ‘journals’ scattered around, picking another up. “No no, this one is too far back.” It speaks volumes of a brother long lost.

“What happened after I left the Inquisition? … That is where I wish to start my search.”

He knows about his type in passing, and it pulls a deep sigh out of the dwarf. A chuckle and half a wag of a finger, half a reminder that this conversation will come up again as his memory may be the one thing that cannot slip through his fingers like smoke, like mist, like all of the things that have passed by him in his life and all the things that he did manage to grab by the coattails.

There is a pause, and the answer he anticipates comes; rather, he nods. There are warmer thoughts that he dares to swell as he remembers how this went the last time - not to think about the end, but rather the beginning and what calm would keep sick at bay as long as need be. With a fond memory and a warm place in mind, he quickly pulls his hair back and ties it tight before agreeing. "Right, everything is subjective."

So he laughs at the man one last time as he is pushed ( Deimos could have just asked - it would have been just as easy ), and he finds that memory once again, summoning that softer and warmer place. The swell of magic finds him, and there is that sinking dread, that falling sensation, that sickening pull that nearly makes him retch - but he breathes and summons that memory and pushes that urge to move down, as he must open his heart - this he knows. So, the discomfort is pushed aside, and he finds that old apartment in Lowtown, that cottage lost in the middle of nowhere, and something like his lodgings in Skyhold. Something warm and full of books and parchment, things that Deimos can rifle through, other things locked in chests.

It is something wholly him, warm and familiar with a chair near a fire and what possibly could contend as the ugliest quilt in all of Thedas strewn across the back of it. Books, too, and more parchment.

So he settles, not sick, not just yet. But he settles in that chair.

It is not a palace; it is something better. So he pulls the quilt down and crosses his legs, one hand finding the arm of the chair.

"Welcome, Dei - do make yourself at home."