#ferelden frost

[lizardsquisher]

Chapter One: A Lesson in Humility

Nevarra City in winter had a festive yet martial air. The cheerful light of painted lanterns sparked in the armor of the heavily armed soldiers who stomped down the snowy streets. Stone castles wore dark-leafed garlands of red and white flowers like crotchety old men in floral bonnets. In much the way the snow and frost softened the rugged landscape, so, too, had the Nevarrans gentled their sharp-edged practicality with their love of beauty.

“I hear they wear armor during their winter balls,” Ava commented as she and Viktor waited in the market, watching the passersby.

“Do you suppose the nobles hang those garlands on the dragon heads in their entry halls?”

“Maybe they dress them up with bows.” Ava stomped her booted feet to fight the numbness in her toes, huddling into her fur-lined jacket.

Viktor studied her with canny grey eyes. Being from Ferelden, he was unbothered by the cold. But he knew she’d started life as a Tevinter galley slave before she joined the Lords of Fortune. It had been all beaches and jungles since then. Cold climes had never been her friend.

“You’d be warmer if you weren’t wearing a corset and a skimpy blouse under that jacket,” he remarked.

“And do you suppose I’ve got a clothing chest of long underwear back in Rivain?”

He tapped her reddened nose. “Be more prepared, you redheaded devil. You knew about this expedition in time to buy suitable gear.”

“I am prepared. I’ve got plenty of weapons and rope. Besides, I’m a Lord of Fortune. Aren’t I supposed to charge recklessly into the fray?”

“Please,” Viktor scoffed. “You’re too clever to do anything without a strategy. You just like to flaunt yourself.”

“That’s a strategy in and of itself.” She winked.

“Direct that nonsense at someone else. You don’t have what it takes to impress me.”

“A love sword?”

Viktor shook his head. “You must stop reading those trashy Varric Tethras novels.”

“You’re the one who is always insisting that I further my education.”

“I don’t think your education needs furthering on the subject of ‘love swords.’”

Ava guffawed. “Well, you’re not wrong about that.”

As he watched her rub her hands together, his eyes softened. “You don’t need to stand here with me. It’s my contact. I can handle this bit. Why don’t you go warm up with a drink?”

“I don’t dislike the sound of that,” Ava admitted. “It’s the idleness that gets to me. Once I’m on the hunt, I wouldn’t notice a blizzard. But with all this standing around, I’ve got nothing to do but fantasize about Rivaini beaches while my knickers freeze to my ass.”

“I’ve got just the place.” Viktor linked arms with her and led her to a small stone shop with a dark green awning. “Nice and cozy. You’ll like it.”

“This,” Ava said icily, “is a tea shop.”

“Tea is a drink. Or so I’ve heard.”

"I prefer mead.”

“It’s probably not a good idea to get in your cups. If the Nevarrans find out we’re Lords of Fortune, they might suspect we’re after the dragon’s hoard.”

Well. He wasn’t wrong about that. Word had it that a Pentaghast dragon slayer had managed to kill a frost dragon. But the canny reptile had done too good a job of hiding its lair. Search as they might, the Nevarrans couldn’t find it. So the Lords had decided to give it a try. The Pentaghast in question would likely take umbrage if he knew. He believed slaying the dragon gave him the right to claim its treasure. But the Lords were firm believers in “finders keepers.”

Ava sighed. “All right, get back to the meeting place. I’ll drink the damned tea.”

“There’s a girl.” He patted her on the back and retreated across the square.

Ava stared at the shop skeptically. Through the window, she could see a fire blazing in the fireplace. It cast a golden glow over the small, round tables with their white linen tablecloths. The delicate wooden chairs were Orlesian. So, too, were the porcelain teapots in pale blues and greens.

A skeleton had been painted on the window, holding an armful of purple flowers. Elegant golden letters beneath it read “Death’s Fond Embrace.”

“Ah, tea served with a reminder of my own mortality. That’s neat.” Ava snorted and pulled open the door. The warmth wrapped around her like a hug from a dear friend. Every inch of her sun-browned skin sighed in relief. She slumped into a chair. She hadn’t wanted to come, but now she might never leave.

The proprietor--a tidy man with meticulously parted hair and an apron over his perfectly tailored clothes--bustled over to attend her. "What would you like, miss?"

"I'm not much of a tea drinker. What do you recommend?"

"Our spiced apple tea. That should put the color back in your cheeks."

"Sounds lovely." She slipped a coin across the table.

"Coming right up." He pocketed her coin and hurried away to put the kettle on.

Ava scoped out the room. It occurred to her that there were other ways to keep warm. Their expedition wasn't leaving until first light tomorrow. And it had been ages since she'd taken a lover. Finding them among the Lords made her life too complicated. And her nomadic existence made anything long-term ill-advised. So when she was abroad on the hunt for gold, she sometimes sought out a little temporary company.

There were only two other people in the shop. A young woman with a mouth like a crevasse sat in one corner, scowling at her honey cake as if it had insulted her. In a wing-backed green armchair by the fire, a genteel older man sifted through the books and papers on the table in front of him, occasionally taking a sip of his tea. He was probably twenty years her senior. Still, he had a lean, elegant frame, and his hair and clothing were impeccable. She had half a mind to sleep with him just to steal his coat afterwards--a long, purple affair with dramatic shoulders that nearly reached his ears. Rings flashed from his fingers as he turned pages, the gold bangles on his arms jingling. She liked a man who appreciated accessories. And the gleam of jewels did things to her pirate heart.

The proprietor returned with her tea. She nodded her thanks. One sip almost erased her regret about the mead. The sweetness of apple and richness of the spices were a mouthful of autumn in the depth of winter. The cup warmed her hands as each sip warmed her insides. She picked up her tea cup and the pot, walking towards the gentleman by the fire.

He looked up as her shadow fell across his book. She favored him with a smile. "I hope you don't mind if I sit here. I'm hoping the fire will toast some of the frost from my boots."

He smiled back. "Oh, please." He gestured to the armchair across from him. "I have no intention of hoarding the fireplace to myself."

"So kind of you." She settled into the chair, setting down her drink. "Sorry to interrupt your studies."

"Oh, it's nothing crucial. I'm in town to give a lecture. I've spent my life immersed in this research, so I hardly need to revisit it. But I'd rather be over-prepared than underprepared. No sense in doing anything if you aren't going to do it well."

"Now there's a philosophy I can approve of." Ava wriggled out of her jacket. She aimed what she knew to be a perky set of breasts in his direction, displayed to their full advantage by a low-cut white blouse and a tight corset.

Depressingly, he persisted in making eye contact. He offered her one ringed hand. "I'm Professor Emmrich Volkarin."

"Lovely to meet you. I'm Ava Laidir." She shook his hand, refraining from pulling it closer to inspect the ruby on his ring finger. It was reflex to wonder how much it would fetch on the black market.

"What do you do, Ms. Laidir?"

"Ava," she corrected. Carefully omitting any mention of piracy, she added, "I'm a sailor."

"Ah. What brings you to Nevarra City? We haven't any coastline to speak of."

"Suits me." She grinned. "I don't mind a break from the ocean, seeing as I can't swim."

He chuckled. "A sailor who can't swim. That must be fraught."

"Well, see, the goal of a good sailor is to keep the ship afloat. If I have to swim, I've failed."

It was hard to say which warmth was more enjoyable--the warmth of the fire or the warmth in his dark eyes. "That's true. But one does want a backup plan."

"My backup plan is driftwood. I hear it floats. Or at least better than I do."

The lines around his eyes crinkled pleasantly. "You have the air of the Fade about you. You're a mage, are you not?"

"That I am. Learned a bit of battle magic from a Crow. That's sort of become my specialty." She tilted her head, nodding towards his staff. It was an impressively ornate piece topped by a skull with glowing green eyes. "You, too, I assume. Unless that’s just a fancy walking stick."

Emmrich chuckled. "Indeed I am. Necromancy is my area of expertise."

"Mm." She leaned forward, her chin in her hand. "I hear that requires a study of anatomy."

"Oh, yes. Quite a detailed study. It comes in handy when one is reconstructing a corpse."

"I'd imagine it comes in handy in other respects, too."

"Certainly." He missed the suggestive arch of her eyebrow as he shuffled his papers. "I'm of the opinion that everyone should study the subject. Why wouldn't one want to understand one's own body?"

"Oh, I know mine very well. And I don't mind sharing that knowledge with interested parties."

"Sharing knowledge is my passion, as well." He brought forth a diagram. "Look at this. Did you know there are 206 bones in the human body? There are 26 in the foot alone."

She stared at the diagram in mild dismay. This conversation was getting away from her. "I didn't know that."

He smiled. "I hope I’m not boring you. I can't seem to help teaching when a young person bestows their attention on me."

Young person. This was becoming less and less promising. She made an effort to save the situation. Leaning towards him again, she practically offered her tits on a plate. "Oh, you've definitely kept my attention. I don't suppose you have any dirty charts in there, do you?"

"Oh, no, I keep my documents very tidy, I can assure you."

Ava slumped back into her chair. "Ah." She had never worked this hard to bed someone in her life. Usually, the combination of pouty lips, fluttering eyelashes, and tanned skin was enough to manage it even if she didn't say a word. It made her want to glance down to make sure that her cleavage was out. Maybe he wasn't interested in women? Or maybe he preferred them older. Either way, her ego was bruised.

The bells on the door jingled. Viktor stepped inside, waving to her.

"Well. There's my compatriot." Ava slid her teapot towards Emmrich. "Have the rest, will you? I'd hate for it to go to waste." And someone should get something steamy out of this conversation, she added silently.

He smiled that mild-mannered smile of his. "So kind of you, really."

"Nice talking to you, professor." She strutted away with her jacket in her arms, determined to at least give him a view to inspire regret.

"Put on your jacket, you silly creature," Viktor scolded. "You'll freeze to death."

Ava mumbled and slid her arms into the sleeves.

Viktor glanced back towards the professor. "What's all this? I leave you for a few minutes and you're seducing the elderly?"

"We have a schedule to keep." She ushered him out of the door, almost as relieved to go back into the cold as she'd been to get out of it.

[danaduchy]

Snow continued to fall in heavy flakes, blanketing the village in a thick, icy cover. The storm had made travel impossible, stranding Aedan Cousland and Daylen Amell in a tiny, forgotten village without an inn to shelter them. They had been lucky to find an abandoned house to call home for the night. The roof didn’t leak, and with a bit of effort, they had managed to make it livable for a few days, though it was far from luxurious.

Daylen lay on the makeshift bed of furs and straw, looking relaxed and content, his grey eyes half-lidded like a lazy cat basking in the warmth of the fire. Aedan sat beside the fire, a book open in his lap. It was his turn to read, part of the little routine they’d developed to pass the time during their travels. Books were one of the few luxuries they allowed themselves, something to keep them entertained when long days on the road turned into quiet evenings. And now, with the snowstorm trapping them in the village, there was little else to do.

Aedan’s voice echoed softly in the room as he read aloud, though his mind occasionally wandered. It had been Daylen’s idea to seek a cure for the Calling, a quest that had driven them from village to village, through ancient ruins and forgotten libraries, in search of an answer that remained frustratingly elusive. When Daylen had first suggested it, Aedan hadn’t hesitated to agree. Alistair had settled into his role as king, his rule steady enough that he no longer needed Aedan’s guidance as often. With no family waiting for him back in Denerim, no commitments, Aedan had found the idea of adventure appealing again.

But more than the quest itself, it was Daylen that had made the journey worthwhile.

Aedan glanced up from the book, his eyes drawn to the mage lounging on the bed. Daylen had his arms behind his head, his usual smirk tugging at the corners of his lips as he watched Aedan with amusement. They had grown close over the course of their travels—closer than Aedan had anticipated. At first, it had been the familiar bond of friendship, the kind that had formed with his other companions during the Blight. But this… this had become something deeper, something that had quietly slipped into Aedan’s heart without him fully realizing it.

Daylen, for his part, had always been different. He wasn’t afraid to speak his mind, teasing Aedan just the same as he always had, refusing to treat him as “the Hero of Ferelden” like everyone else did. Around Daylen, Aedan was simply Aedan, not the legend people whispered about. That had been a relief, a breath of fresh air that had drawn him to the mage’s side more and more. And now, after countless nights spent in each other’s company, it was impossible to deny the connection they shared.

Aedan set the book down and stretched, his muscles stiff from sitting by the fire for so long. He looked over at Daylen, who gave him a lazy smile in return.

“Tired of reading, are we?” Daylen teased, his voice light.

Aedan chuckled, shaking his head. “Just giving you a break from the story. Besides, I think we’ve read this one three times already.”

Daylen hummed, stretching languidly on the bed, his robes slipping slightly off his shoulder. “If you’re that bored, I could always entertain you in other ways.”

Aedan raised an eyebrow, his lips quirking into a grin. “I’m sure you could. What do you have in mind this time? More magic tricks?”

Daylen’s eyes sparkled mischievously. He raised his hand, and with a flick of his wrist, tiny, translucent butterflies of light and frost began to dance in the air around him. They shimmered in the glow of the firelight, delicate and ethereal as they flitted about the room.

Aedan had seen this before, but it never failed to captivate him. He leaned closer, watching as the butterflies glowed softly, their wings casting faint shadows on the walls. Tentatively, he reached out, his fingers brushing the cold, tingling magic that surrounded them. It was strange, how comfortable he had become with magic in Daylen’s presence. He had always been curious about it, but there had also been a quiet fear that lingered beneath the surface—an unease that most non-mages carried with them.

But not with Daylen. With him, magic felt… safe. It was an extension of who he was, something as natural as breathing.

“You’re mesmerized again,” Daylen murmured, his voice teasing but soft. “It’s like you’ve never seen a spell before.”

Aedan smiled, letting the butterfly dance on his fingertips for a moment longer before turning his gaze to Daylen. “I don’t think I’ll ever get used to it. You make it look so… effortless.”

Daylen’s smirk softened into something more genuine, and he rolled over on the bed to face Aedan, propping his head up on his hand. “It’s not all effortless, but thank you. You don’t seem afraid of it, though. Most people are.”

Aedan shrugged, leaning back against the wooden wall. “I trust you.”

Those three words seemed to carry more weight than either of them had expected. Daylen’s expression shifted, something unspoken passing between them. The fire crackled softly in the silence that followed, the only sound in the small room.

Daylen broke the quiet first, his voice low, almost thoughtful. “You’re different, you know that? Most people flinch when they hear the word ���magic,’ but you… you’re curious. You ask questions, and you don’t treat me like a ticking bomb.”

Aedan smiled, his gaze warm as he met Daylen’s eyes. “That’s because I know you. You’re more than just a mage.”

Daylen’s grey eyes held his for a long moment, and then he chuckled, the tension breaking as his usual smirk returned. “Well, that’s good to hear. I’d hate to be just another walking fireball.”

Aedan laughed, the sound filling the small space. He reached out, his fingers brushing against Daylen’s arm, where the scent of frost and ozone clung to him—a smell that reminded him of thunderstorms and winter winds.

“You smell like a storm,” Aedan said softly, the words slipping out before he could stop them.

Daylen raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. “I suppose that’s a compliment?”

Aedan smiled, his thumb tracing a small circle on Daylen’s skin. “It is. I like it.”

Daylen’s gaze softened again, and for a brief moment, the two of them sat there, the firelight flickering over their faces, casting warm shadows on the walls. The storm raged on outside, but in here, it was calm—safe.

And in that moment, Aedan knew that no matter how long this quest lasted, no matter how many more villages and ruins they would visit in their search for a cure, he was exactly where he needed to be.

[quillscales]

"Vishante Kaffas!" Dorian cursed under his breath as he felt more snow seep into his boots.

The Emprise du Lion was at the top of his list of least favourite places in the South, nearly edging out the Fallow Mire, which only surpassed it due to its horrendous stench.

The deep freezing temperatures were perhaps the most foreign thing to Dorian in the South, and he would take most things, including the lingering scent of wet dog everywhere in Ferelden, over them.

Trudging through the deep snow was frustrating enough; he was lingering a little too far back because of it, but the worst of it all was the concerned glances The Iron Bull kept throwing back his way. It was as if he thought Dorian was a child who needed minding so they didn't get lost.

He was shivering, but he had too much pride to wrap his arms around himself to huddle for more warmth, nor did he blow on his fingers the way the Inquisitor kept doing. Normally, he would have no trouble voicing his complaints loudly, but the way Iron Bull kept looking at him made him defiant.

"You doin' alright back there?" The Iron Bull called back to him, his head tipping to look at Dorian. He could see the curve of his lips, and it made Dorian tempted to set him on fire. "I think I can see a little frost on your mustache there." Alright, very tempted.

Dorian's eyes narrowed. "Better frost than the icicles I see forming under your nose." He retorted.

Bull threw his head back and let out a loud laugh. "Ha!"

[gwah--ren]

i am the forest — i am ancient. i treasure the stag, i treasure the deer. i shelter you from storm, i shelter you from snow. i resist the frost, i keep the source. i nurse the earth — i am always there.

#GWAHREN, private & selective blog for elethea cousland ii, hero of ferelden, teyrna of gwaren, champion of redcliffe, lady of highever.

[omniblades-and-stars]

No happy endings? 👀

Well, I recently replayed Origins and it reignited my obsession with Grey Wardens (tragic heroes of my heart) and ignited a new one for side character tourney-addict of my heart, Teagan Guerrin. So I'm playing in the mud with that. Here's the opening to what is already turning into a LONG one.

The frost settled on the tight packed earth of the training grounds. Despite the wise women and mage’s predictions to the otherwise, winter was making a brave attempt at settling in nice and early in northern Ferelden. The weather had its own ideas about how things were meant to go, especially where unforgiving cold was involved. The sharp winds from the coast wreaked their own special kind of havoc, biting at uncovered cheeks and noses for the audacity not to come properly prepared to face it.

Overcast skies and the low, early morning light lent themselves to a gloomy air, but that didn’t put a damper on the excited current running through Castle Cousland that morning. Visiting nobles and their retainers bustled about, laughing, packing and making loud and increasingly unlikely wagers. Servants scurried from corridors to the main courtyard carrying supplies for saddlebags. It was time for the annual Highever grand hunt.

Even in the smaller rear courtyard, the space set out for training guards and levied militia should such times call for it, the atmosphere was practically buzzing. The small archery range was full to bursting with hungover nobles getting in one last round of what one might charitably call “practice” before they left to go traipsing through unfamiliar forests on the slim hope they would be the one to bag an impressive deer or slay a wild hog, and earn an ounce of glory they could brag about over sloshing cups of wine until the next hunt.

Fat chance of that, Mór thought. Ser Tapley’s son was more likely to tear the ligaments in his shoulder, and Lady Conrad gripped her shortbow so tightly, her knuckles had gone from white to a very concerning shade of grey.

They should have been embarrassed of themselves, but no one in that courtyard right just then cared much for the opinion of Teyrn Bryce Cousland’s youngest brat on such matters. Mór licked her lips before adjusting her stance as she raised her longbow. The young woman tucked a loose strand of chestnut hair, slipped from beneath her knitted cap, behind her ear before plucking a blunt-tipped arrow from the quiver hanging from her hip. She would show this sorry lot how a Cousland did things, and then she would go and scare up some breakfast. All of these visitors were getting in the way of her training routine, anyhow. 

Mór knocked the arrow, pulling her bowstring taught with a smooth, practiced motion. Inhale, rel-

Something struck the bottom tip of her bow from between her legs, knocking her shot wide and sending the arrow careening uselessly past the packed hay target she had been aiming at.

“Son of a bitch. Roderick! What did I tell you the last time you did that?” Mór shouted and rounded on the man, who was decidedly not Ser Roderick Gilmore.

A man with auburn hair and eyes as blue as a deep storm-tossed sea looked back at her with a crooked grin. Bann Teagan Guerrin stood with his sword drawn but tilted down toward the ground. He sheathed his blade and said, “I would wager that it was an ambitious threat against his manhood. Really, Mór, we’re all just trying to keep your ego in check, no need for violence.”

A warm smile split across Mór’s face. She leaned her bow, a well-loved but simple thing made of yew, gently against her side and adjusted the fur lined collar of her coat. “Threats of violence go double for you, Teagan. Nothing motivates you quite so well. In fact, I think you rather enjoy them,” she teased.

“Well, now you're just being slanderous.” 

“Worry not, I'll keep your shameful little secret.”

“Less shameful than being sent as your father's errand boy,” Teagan shook his head, though his complaint had no teeth. He motioned for her to follow him. “Teyrn Cousland humbly requests your presence.”

Mór unstrung her bow, wrapping the string around the head and securing it around the notch. “Perhaps it was you whose ego was in need of a check if my father sent you after me. Ser Gilmore usually gets stuck with such ignoble tasks.”

[deathswcrn-a]

[ drinks ] sender brings receiver a drink from a bar/their kitchen - Tore

Tore is used to doing the hosting. He has always had a certain homebody quality to him, his work to his Hold as their augur, their teacher, and tender of their hold beast satisfying enough that he had no desire to roam. He had a curiosity about the rest of Ferelden and even the rest of Thedas, to be sure, but it had largely been sated by trade for books with the lowlanders.

Still - their Thane, his cousin, thought that Tore and his lowlander wife were the best to reach out to the fledgling Inquisition nestled in their mountains. So regardless of his own thoughts on the matter, Tore was packed off to Haven, fears only stilled by the soothing mutterings of Sigyn in his head, the spirit of Loyalty telling him that until their last breaths, she would protect him and Sigrid as best she could.

At least, thought he, standing in Haven's tavern, their Inquisitor seemed open to the idea of talking. It meant it was likely the trip would be short, and he could return home with Sigrid, pregnant, in tow. Back home to his daughters, and to the hatchling hold-beast, and the comfort of his own house.

Atreion's offer of a hot drink was welcome, and Tore accepted gratefully. He wasn't a stranger to cold, but he didn't like it. He had scars on his arm from a deadly encounter with frost magic, and ever since, he'd been sensitive to it, the scar becoming tight and painful in sheer windchill or frost. The drink the Inquisitor offered him was hot, smelling sweet and spiced, lightly alcoholic, and his first sips came with a sigh of relief.

"I'm grateful you agreed to meet with us," said Tore, settling into one of the tables. "My cousin - our Thane, the one who sent word to you - sends his gratitude and his regards."

[fiberpunk027]

Writing Process Updates

I don't know that I will ever go back to not prewriting a story ever again. This has been a really lovely experience. While I'm grateful that writing Eat Your Young got me back into writing, this next fic when it's done I think will be a much higher quality because I've taken my time to connect the dots before even thinking about posting. It will probably be difficult to return to posting in a more serialized style with my BG3 fic, but I think I've learned a lot taking this time to follow where my summer brain rot has led me.

That being said enjoy a tiny sneak peek below the break.

The weather was just beginning to turn cold when another Landsmeet assembled in Denerim. The Arls, Banns, Teryns, and their entourages arrived in the early afternoon, as the frost-covered ground of morning was now long forgotten in the sun's rays. Landsmeets could be tedious multi-day affairs especially if agreements could not be made, which had been the case as of late. The reconstruction of the Circle’s Tower, Kinloch Hold, was the major concern at this meeting. Temporary repairs made during the Blight had begun to degrade and a more permanent solution was needed soon. He knew many of the nobles would disagree with wasting any of their rebuilding efforts on the Circle of Mages, considering it a matter for the Chantry and their templars. On the contrary, there were enough in the group who counted Mages within their bloodline that would care about the circle’s safety and comfort. It was bound to be a hotly debated topic. 

As he greeted each guest warmly. One thing he was confident in was his ability to play host. He may not have been raised to become a King like Cailan had, but that was something that set him apart from his half-brother. He was not bound by an ingrained decorum and often stepped outside of the strict boundaries that others tried to set for him. Just because he was King Alistair didn’t mean he would cease being Alistair altogether. 

And it didn’t stop him from watching expectantly to see if a familiar face would show themselves. Not that he expected to see the Arlessa of Amaranthine. So far she had sent her Seneschal to each Landsmeet that had been called. Still, news would always trickle in during these gatherings from gossiping nobles, their lips loosened by company and too much wine too early in the day. He could not resist eavesdropping. 

“Did you hear of the Darkspawn attack on Vigil’s Keep?” 

“All of the Orlesian Wardens were killed in the fighting.” 

“Served them right for stepping into Ferelden unwelcome.” 

“The Hero of Ferelden showed the Darkspawn what's what she did.” 

“I heard she had to conscript poor Arl Howe’s son. What a way to learn about your father’s legacy.” 

“She’s got an apostate with her too, a handsome fella, but still completely dangerous, Warden or not. I can’t believe they would trust Mages in their ranks.”

“It doesn’t seem safe, you never know when they’ll think enough's enough and turn to blood magic or worse demons!”

“It’s not any different from the elves. You can’t tell from lookin’ which ones have at least been civilized in an Alienage and which are still wild beasts.”

“Never thought I would live to see a ‘knife ears’ running Amaranthine, it does seem almost fitting after what Howe did to the Alienage.”

“I didn’t even know women could be Wardens, let alone elven women.”

“Such a pretty little thing. Too bad she never joins these meets. Could use something nice to look at.”

“Do Wardens take vows of chastity?”

“I sure hope not! T’would be a waste of a good body.”

When the conversations became too inappropriate a loud clearing of his throat was all that was needed to remind the present company that he was within earshot. He couldn’t control the thoughts of men as much as he couldn’t control his own at times, but it was better not to hear such unnecessary slander about someone he was once close to. There was a part of him that wished she could overhear, and present the offending parties with the gleaming edge of her daggers. 

The afternoon dragged on and the flood of arriving nobles seemed to have slowed to a mere trickle. He was just about to call it quits and return to his quarters for a quick break when there was the announcement of another arrival. 

“Presenting the company of the Arlessa of Amaranthine!” the caller shouted. 

“Ahh Seneschal Varel, I nearly missed you. You’re not typically running this late,” he said, greeting the man warmly. 

“Your Majesty, we had a slight delay upon leaving, but you trouble yourself too much with these pleasantries,” he replied, shaking the King’s outstretched hand.

“We? Have you finally decided to bring your lovely wife along with you?”

Varel cleared his throat, “May I announce to you the Arlessa of Amaranthine, Warden Commander Tabris.”

As Varel stepped to the side allowing her to greet him he could feel his stomach drop to his feet. 

Her head was bowed, hands clasped tightly behind her back. The ashy brown hair that had once danced along the edge of her chin had grown long in the many months since he’d last seen her, now grazing past her shoulders. The pointed tips of her ears sticking out between elaborate braids in the traditional Ferelden style. Shockingly, instead of her usual leather armor she was dressed in a simple but elegant blue and gray gown, emblazoned with the crest of the Wardens. He was certain he’d never seen her dressed so much like a normal woman as long as he had known her. Despite the circumstance, she looked calm and serene, not as if the whole of Thedas had come to a complete halt around them. 

The first time they met he’d been surprised by her lithe frame. She looked so small and frail in the ill-fitting leather armor she’d been issued, clearly built for a much larger woman. But the steely resolve in her bright hazel eyes had been clear from the moment they first locked eyes. 

Even so, Alistair couldn’t remember the last time Warden Tabris had actually looked him in the eye. Sure she had addressed him cordially, given him a tight-lipped smile on occasion, and even smiled politely at the odd terrible joke he’d cracked in her presence. But her gaze was always shifted ever so slightly from his own, her eyes never managing to reach his, always sliding away to his chin or his hairline.

“Seneschal, you say that as if the Warden Commander and I hadn’t slayed the Archdemon and ended the Blight together,” he laughed trying to hide the nervous crack in his voice. 

The Seneschal chuckled as did another man he hadn’t noticed standing slightly behind her. He wore the tell tale blues and grays of the wardens, his long sandy hair partially tied back from his face and loosely framing the comfortable smile on his face. Even without carrying a staff, it was clear to Alistair this man was a mage. He could practically smell the magic that crackled within him, one small thing he was grateful to know from his Templar training. As if suddenly realizing he was in the presence of the King of his country the man quickly bowed alongside the Warden Commander and mumbled his apologies. 

“This is Anders,” she said, straightening back up, her face the very picture of stoicism. He wondered how she could appear so calm when inside he was burning alive. “I believe you met briefly during your last visit to Vigil’s Keep?”

He squinted at the man before him trying to place him.

“I suspected there would be a lack of perspective from inside the circle. I’ve brought Anders along to ensure we had adequate representation,” she continued.

“I tried to convince her not to,” Varel added quickly, his eyes darting back and forth between the Warden and the King. 

“I believe it was at your suggestion that I be conscripted, Your Majesty.” Anders gave a lopsided smile as the pieces fell into place. 

“Please tell me you did not just bring an Apostate mage into a Landsmeet, Zukal?” he hissed, looking around to ensure he wasn’t overheard. A throbbing pressure was beginning to build just behind his right eye. He pinched the bridge of his nose and wondered if she brought this man along specifically to pain him. 

“Warden Commander is my title, Your Majesty,” she quickly corrected him, her eyes narrowing. The men beside her looked at each other nervously seeing how brusquely she corrected their King.

He took a slow breath to steady himself. When was the last time anyone had spoken to him so harshly? “Apologies, Warden Commander,” he said, giving her a small bow of his own. He knew better than to be so familiar with her, but her faint glimmer of anger gave him a perverse sense of pride. Making her angry meant he had some sort of affect on her, positive or not.  “It’s been so long since I’ve been able to address you as anything, let alone your given title. Old habits and whatnot.”

“Should I have forgotten to address you by your title I would be promptly thrown into Fort Drakon,” she said coldly, “Regardless of our history, Your Majesty.” Her eyes bored into his forehead, but he was grateful for once to not have to take the full intensity of her stare. Much like the daggers she was fond of wielding her words and gaze cut into him, wounding his pride, but more importantly fanning the flames of his anger. 

“It won’t happen again,” he promised, offering her a calm smile and a clenched jaw, “I’m sure the Seneschal has been able to explain to you both the process here. Please feel free to join the others in the main hall once you’re settled.” He quickly turned on his heel and made his escape. It wasn’t lost on him how much this felt like a retreat from battle, instead of a graceful exit. But it didn’t matter, he needed to leave and clear his head before he said anything else she could hold against him. 

“Your Majesty?” she called after him, bringing him to a halt and cocking his ear toward her. 

“Anders is a Grey Warden, conscripted to the same noble calling we both took on willingly. I would appreciate it if his former status as an Apostate were not mentioned, less it ruins any chance we have of being heard without bias,” she said.

“Of course,” he answered, continuing to walk away, “I look forward to learning from him over the course of this Landsmeet. I’m sure there will be much anticipation to hear from one of Kinloch’s own.” He turned down the hall and out of their sight. 

“Next time you should just ask him outright to arrest us for treason,” he heard the mage sarcastically comment as he left. 

“If he expects respect then he needs to provide it as well,” she replied as casually as if talking about the weather. 

The kindling in his stomach she’d ignited burned a little brighter at those words. He wanted to turn back around and remind her he hadn’t wanted this respect, this role, or this life. If he had still been just a Bastard and a Warden he would have, but if he remained either of those things she would have been able to look him in the eye wouldn’t she? Neither of them would be in this awful mess in the first place. 

He did his best not to stomp his way to his quarters, his refuge since he’d become King. He threw himself into a massive wingback chair propped up near his favorite window and brooded. How dare she treat him like one of her wet behind-the-ear recruits when she couldn’t even bear to look him in the eye. Of course, maybe that was preferable knowing their history. It had been quite some time since they traveled across Ferelden urging their countrymen to honor the Warden’s treaties and prepare for the oncoming Blight. Shouldn’t time have made this easier for her?

Then again, time clearly hadn’t made it any easier on him. It wasn’t often he found himself in her presence. Vigil’s Keep was far enough away from Denerim that they rarely crossed paths and the burdens of running a kingdom didn’t exactly leave him time to travel aimlessly. But in the idle hours when he was finally alone with his thoughts, they always drifted to the past. Back to the dark days when all of Ferelden seemed to be against them and the single bright spot in his life was her gaze searching for him after every battle. 

This Landsmeet won’t last forever, he thought to himself as he stared out the window into the gardens below, maybe the discussions would be brief and the gathered nobles would be back on their way by tomorrow evening. Maybe the leaders of Ferelden would come together and unite in their unequivocal support of restoring Kinloch Hold to a more livable state. Or more likely they would band together against the mages expecting them to live in squalor or worse turn them over to the Templars entirely. But this was his time, he could fantasize about whatever unrealistic reality he wished. And right now he wished to think about a reality where he didn’t have to face Warden Tabris again so soon.

[breadedsinner]

Mark of the Red Death

A sebhawke Necromancer AU for @persephoneggsy. Happy birthday!

-

“Do you know what the most powerful force in the universe is?” Hawke’s mentor once asked her. She shook her head in uncertainty. “Love,” he said. She still did not understand, at the time.

*

By the time Hawke entered the castle, blood had become part of the walls, oozing from the cracks. Red handprints smeared across the castle walls, crisscrossing over one another until they became a single beast, clawing for release that never came. Banners and carpets torn, tossed in every direction. A few abandoned weapons were strewn about. Anyone could see this was a struggle, brutal and very recent, but to someone like Hawke, a mage so in touch with death, standing in the middle of it was like being in the belly of an animal, and feeling it die all around her. The clangs of steel still echoed in the halls, shadows of victims running to an escape they would never reach danced in the shadows. Their final heartbeats still hung in the air.

As foul as it was, the gore was not especially notable for Hawke. Every known nation in Thedas worshipped death in some way or another, and mages such as her were its disciples. Of course, some feared what she could do, some outright reviled, and yet she found herself highly sought after. Everything from mixing potions to communing with the dead; if it involved magic, Hawke could do it. It was the only way a simple Ferelden farmgirl could ever mingle with Tevinter Magisters and Orlesian Chevaliers. It was the only reason she was here, in this gutted Starkhaven palace.

It was not the blood that disturbed her this day, but whose blood it belonged to.

She proceeded down another hall, torn carpet under his feet, sunlight refracted through broken glass. As the chamber door appeared, she hurried, an anxious lump in her throat. She knew what she would find, but still hoped it was not so.

She threw the chamber door open and found her student, Dorian, standing over caskets. He loomed over her, she being a petite woman, but he looked upon her with reverence. He was of high Tevinter lineage, but even with all his expensive education, his own dabbles in Necromancy never came to more than raising a few long-dead corpses to stumble for a few moments. There was a reason his former mentor sent him to her.

As she walked, she looked at all the caskets, lined up in a row. Some of them were very small. All of them were closed, though Dorian was peeking inside the one at the far end.

“Is that him?” she said, her usually blunt voice cracked.

“Yes,” he said with remorse. "He is the only one in decent condition."

Dorian open the casket and they both studied the person inside. A young man--could not have been much older than either of them--lay still, with eyes closed. They could see the bronze sheen of his skin still leaving his body, the luster of his slicked brown hair coming undone. Plush lips formed a faint, serene smile, but the color was fading by the moment, cracks forming.

Hawke ran a finger along the slope of the prince’s slender cheekbone. "This is him, the youngest of the three Starkhaven princes. Did you examine the body? What did you find?”

“I did,” said Dorian, his voice solemn but with a tinge of eagerness, wanting to perform well for his renowned mentor. “He was lucky, in a way. Got an arrow in the chest while trying to lead others to a secret exit. He was so close, too. Another second and he might have made it."

Her finger ghost down the outline of his face, lingered on his chin, then she made a fist. A purple light, wafting and warbling the air, illuminated her fingernails and surged through her skin.

"You're going to bring him back?" said Dorian, trying to suppress to excitement in his voice.

"For a moment," said Hawke, her icy blue eyes turning like frosted amethyst. "long enough to ask him what happened here."

Hawke opened her palm and pressed it against the prince's chest. Purple light washed over her body and passed through him, as though she were transfusing her own energy into him. Dorian tensed, looking for color to return to the corpse, betraying his logical mind, knowing that's not how Necromancy worked. At least not any form that he or any journeyman mage was aware of, though there were tales of spells that could keep resurrected corpses near perfectly alive again, at a great cost to both caster and corpse. But not even an esteemed sorceress like Hawke could perform such a feat.

Hawke pushed harder, a bead of sweat against her pale brow. Her fingers clenched against the prince's blood-stained tunic when his eyes popped open. Dorian and the prince gasped at the same time, both shocked at the spell's success.

“Ah…” the prince’s cloudy blue eyes looked about; his body twitched as if waking from a long slumber. When his eyes cleared and found focus, they immediately locked onto Hawke, a wide, elated smile followed. “Marian!” he cried; his arms opened for her.

“You know the Prince of Starkhaven?” asked Dorian.

“He courted me briefly,” Hawke said, voice casual and flat.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Oh, Marian,” the prince’s voice was deep and sorrowful, his eyes pouring over Hawke. “I thought I’d never see you again.”

“I’m sorry, Sebastian, but there’s no time,” said Hawke, still steady. “Do you know what happened?”

His smile immediately faded. “I … I do.”

“If we’re going to get any justice for you and your family, you need to tell me everything you know. And hurry, I can’t keep up the spell forever.”

“Those … people who stormed the castle. They had no flag, but I heard their whispers, as I tried to escape. Lady Johane Harimann hired them. If you search them, I’m sure you will find further proof.”

“That’s a good start. Walk me through your last hours.”

The prince only seemed to move his upper body, his hands clearly aching to reach for Hawke. His eyes still foggy with death, yet they almost glimmered at the sight of her, like stars glittering through clouds of night.

As he finished, Hawke placed her hand over his. The purple light around her slowly dimmed, she sighed, and the prince began to fall back.

"Dorian," said Hawke, the last of her magic faded. "Start examining the mercenary bodies. Take account of all that are in decent shape."

"Are you going to 'interview' them, too?"

"I might, though I'll need to restrain them first. But let's see what we can find on them, first."

"Very well," he took a few steps out the chamber. "And... for what's it's worth, I'm sorry about..."

"Please go, Dorian," she said, her words blunt as stone. "I need to think."

"Of course," and he hurried out.

Hawke sighed as she heard the door clack, and the footsteps faded. She tried to collect herself with deep, slow breaths. She had walked battlefields and massacres, bloody accidents and cruel forces of nature. The sight of blood stirred no emotion after a time, yet the smell of death, the force that hung like heavy fog, still became overwhelming if she lingered too long. All the worse, that it was someone she knew. Someone she loved.

One more steadying breath. She has already made her decision when she first heard the news, and she was never one to go back on a decision once she made it.

She brought her hand to the prince's chest again, this time with a crackling red light. When she touched his skin, he shuddered and buzzed, like streaks of lightning consuming his heart. Blood rose in his face, spreading color throughout. Crackles of red light crisscrossed against the arrow wound; it did not heal to become normal skin again, but the blood and the gash were gone, replaced with a jagged crimson patch. A memory of death.

He groaned, and the corners of his eyes crinkled.

Marian sighed in relief but was immediately stricken by a sharp pain in her chest; the magic taking its due, boiling a patch of her skin, parallel to the prince’s.

"Marian," he said softly, less a jolting rise, and more a gentle awakening, as if stirred slowly late in the morning by a lover's touch.

"Oh, my sweet Sebastian," she said, her voice cracking. "I never should have left your side. If only I had..."

"Shh, it's all right, my love," he leaned into her palm and kissed the inside. "I know you'll make this right."

"I will," she said, and she leaned into the casket to kiss him. She felt the magic as it worked, re-threading muscles, erasing the cracks. A healthy dark olive hue poured over his face, spilling into his neck, then his chest. If anything, his kiss was even more tender than she remembered. “Listen, dearest one. I can’t bring anyone else back. I have given half my life to fuel yours. You feel pain, I feel pain. You die, I die.”

“I always wanted for us to share in everything,” he said, his voice as slow and sweet as honey, as if nothing in the world was wrong.

"I'll make sure everyone even remotely responsible pays dearly for what happened here. We shall wreak this vengeance together, and I will never leave your side again."

The prince looked upon her with clear, piercing blue eyes. "Never."

*

Hawke did not understand her mentor’s words about love in her youth. Even now, she was not certain if it was meant to be encouragement or warning. But on this day, she chose her own meaning for it.

[flowerpetalprincess]

Whump Of May || Day 18 - Nightmares

Whumper had long ago set eyes on Whumpee. Even more so now that they had spited him. Whumpee in turn, had done their best to fight against his influence. Not very successfully, but she tried all the same.

Unfortunately, as much as Whumpee tried to resist... she had to sleep eventually.

And when she did, the nightmares would start. The song of the Archdemon ringing in her ears as she felt the corruption taking over. Her skin rotting away, her fingers becoming claws... Her body shifting and changing... her humanity falling away.

It wasn't the end of Whumper's plans, of course not. But it was one of many steps to break Whumpee down into a willing slave.

-

Figured I'd go back to my roots with this one and do a redraw! (2015/2023)

Wolve originated as my canon Grey Warden, and during a crossover roleplay with Rise of the Guardians (ROTG).

Due to her relationship with Jack Frost, and her place as a Hero of Ferelden, Pitch took a special interest in her. He planned to torment her, break her down, until she gave in and became a willing victim to his plans.

Despite past failures within the book series (Guardians of Childhood), Pitch's ideal goal with Wolve was to make Wolve his Darkling Princess.

His own loyal servant.

On top of being a loyal servant, she would also serve as a trophy. A being the Guardians couldn't save. The ultimate victory in Pitch's eyes.

List I'm using.

-

Wolve belongs to me, inspired by Dragon Age Origins, Bioware

Pitch Black and Jack Frost belong to Rise of the Guardians, Dreamworks.

Do not steal, repost, or alter my art in any way.

[exhausted-archivist]

Prepared Ingredients

Updated: 2023/12

As of now this list is updated with everything found in media released as of Oct 2023.

Like the original, this contains all prepared ingredients; butters, cheese, chocolate, dough, flour, jams, ect. If known to a specific region it is marked next to the item in parentheses, if it is not, it is either unknown or universally consumed.

For Other Food Posts

Dishes, Sauces, and Sides

Drinks

Raw Ingredients

Canonically Possible Foods and Drinks

Food and Drink Master Post

Disclaimer

Though real life plants may be listed here as edible, it is for fictional use only. This is not intended to be used as a reference nor guide for what plants are edible or safe to eat. Please do not use it as such.

Basic Ingredients

Alcohol

Brandy

Cinnamon-infused whiskey

Dark Llomerryn Rum

Hirol’s Lava Burst

Prophet’s Laurel Gin

Red Wine

Watered Down Ale

Whiskey

White Seleney Wine

Broth

Deepstalker Broth

Fish Broth

Butters - Non-dairy butters

Peanut Butter

Caramel

Cocoa Products

Chocolate (Orlais, Tevint)

Chocolate Bitters

Cocoa Butter - used to make white chocolate (Orlais)

Cocoa Powder - difficult to procure

White Chocolate (Orlais)

Compote - Fresh or dried fruit that is cut into chunks and stewed in a syrup of sugar and other flavours.

Red Grape Compote (Orlais)

Croutons

Custard

Dough

Pie Dough

Puff Pastry Dough (Orlais)

Extract

Mint Extract

Orange Extract

Vanilla Extract

Flour

Ryott Flour (Chasind, Ferelden)

Semolina Flour (Rivain)

Wheat Flour

Whole Grain Flour

Frosting

Buttercream

Chocolate Cream

White Frosting

Gold

Edible Gold Leaf

Gold Dust

Jam

Plum Jam

Raspberry Jam

Mulled Fruit

Mulled Raspberry

Oil

Cod Liver Oil

Orange Essence

Pasta

Antivan Pasta

Couscous (Rivain)

Gnocchi (Antiva)

Grain-based Noodle

Noodle

Pound Cake

Stock

Brown Stock

Sugar

Brown Sugar

Molasses

Powdered Sugar

Sugar-cream Icing

Sugar Flowers

Sugared Rose Petals

Syrup

Sugar Syrup

Tea Biscuit

Toffee

Wafer

Vinegar

Apple Cider Vinegar

Herbed Wine Vinegar

Dairy and Eggs

Butter

Cow Butter

Goat Butter

Halla Butter

Herbed Butter

Nug Butter

Cheese

Antivan Smoked Cheese

Blue-veined Cheese (Orlais)

Brie Cheese

Brined Goat Cheese

“Dalish” Cheese - An ill described item as it is unclear if it is actually cheese. One thing is for sure it isn’t Dalish.

Dry Cheese - Unspecified cheese used in cacio e pepe(Antiva)

Feisty Cheese (Orlais)

Goat Cheese

Halla Cheese (Dalish)

Ram Cheese (Ferelden)

Cream

Spiced Cream

Thickened Cream

Whipped Cream

Egg

Hard Boiled Egg

Yogurt

Dried and Cured Foods

Dried Fruits, Vegetables, and Fungi

Dried Apple

Dried Apricot

Dried Beans

Dried Cherry

Dried Cranberry

Dried Currant

Dried Mushroom

Dried Peas

Prunes

Pitted Prunes

Raisin

Cured Meats

Bacon

Nug Bacon

Smoked Bacon

Cold Cuts

Dried Meats

Dried Mackerel

Lutefisk

Jerky

Spiced jerky

Salted Meat

Dried Salt Pork

Salt Pork

Salted Beef

Salted Dragon Meat

Salted Fish

Salted Goat Meat

Sausage

Blood Sausage

Smoked Sausage

Spiced and Salted Sausage

Smoked

Smoked Beef

Smoked Fish

Smoked Goat Meat

Pickled Foods

Pickled Apples

The Pickled Apples of Arlathan - Apples said to be from the time of Arlathan. The taste is described to be one of fresh apples, with the same crispness.

Pickled Fish

Pickled Lamprey

Pickled Nug

Pickled Ox Tongue

Pickled Vegetables

Pickles

Prepared Animal Products

Gelatine

Grease

Ground Meat

Ground Beef

Ground Nug

Lard

Spiced Meat

Miscellaneous

Lyrium

Soup Bone

Wyvern Venom - There are 47 ways to distill wyvern venom to be safe for consumption.

Sources:

(If you want to find the direct links or page numbers, check out the Wiki's Food and Ingredients page.)

Primary Sources:

Dragon Age: Origins (Base and DLCs) Dragon Age: Awakening Dragon Age 2 (Base and DLCs) Dragon Age: The Last Court Dragon Age: Inquisition (DLCs + Multiplayer)

Books:

Dragon Age Tabletop RPG Core Rulebook Dragon Age Tabletop RPG: Blood in Ferelden Dragon Age Tabletop RPG: Game Master’s Kit: Buried Past World of Thedas Vol. 1 World of Thedas Vol. 2 Dragon Age Official Cookbook: Tastes of Thedas Dragon Age: The Stolen Throne Dragon Age: The Calling Dragon Age: The Masked Empire Dragon Age: Last Flight Dragon Age: Tevinter Nights

Short Stories:

Short Story: Paper and Steel Short Story: Paying the Ferryman Short Story: As We Fly

DA:O

Codex Entry: The History of Soldier’s Peak: Chapter 3

Codex Entry: A Tattered Shopping List

Item: Sugar Cake

DA II

Codex Entry: Wyvern

DA:I

Codex Entry: Plant vs. Corpses

Codex Entry: Waterlogged Diary

Note: The Gilded Horn’s Drink List

Note: Knight-Captain’s Orders

The Last Court

Flames of Freedom

The Next Course

Thieves

The Wyvern is Cornered

Wanna support this blog? You can check out my ko-fi.

[chmpn]

how many times has he turned the phial around in his hands?  this…  this wretched thing that had once leashed his sister to the circle?  it’s made so many rotations between his gloved fingers at this point that he’s lost count.  ignatius has to take a deep breath and slow his pace for just a moment as he reminds himself that the circle is no longer.  it's fallen.

soldier’s peak is very different nowadays from how it had been when they’d first rediscovered it in their travels during the blight.  ignatius had overseen and personally assisted with the fortress’ restoration, and now that he is ferelden’s current commander of the grey,  it is the country’s main grey warden stronghold.  it’s the closest thing to a home that he’s had in a very long time.

frost crunches underfoot as he makes his way to the main building.  where his letter had asked sabine to meet him,  whenever she had the time to meet up again.  one of the newer recruits had been tasked with notifying him that the hero of ferelden was waiting for him in his office and he had never left a room so quickly.  ignatius finally finds himself inside of the building and he kicks the snow from his boots before he practically sprints for the office.  it’s been way too long since he’s seen his sister.  he'll quickly pocket the phylactery for the time being when he's just outside of the room,  then he’s pushing open the door and slipping inside.

“ sister, ”   iggy greets warmly as he’s closing the door.   “ i’ve missed you. ”

@haereticae / sc.

[thedarklingprincess]

Would You Prefer I Wait Till You Were Gone? || Ferelden Frost

Couldn’t find this on any of my blogs, so reposting here.

“Jade…?” He whispers quietly.

She doesn’t answer; the grip on him tightens instead, hanging on for a dear moment before going slack.

Pitch’s smile turns into a wicked grin and he catches her arm as she goes limp, supporting her easily.

“WOLVE!”

Pitch looks over his shoulder as Jack runs towards the fallen Commander. “Ah, Frost.” His lip twitches up.

“What did you do to her?!” Jack shouts, raising his staff.

“Do?” Pitch asks, amused. “Why, Jack. I made her better.”

The spirit stared.

Pitch rolled his eyes. “She embraced what you didn’t. She has taken the invitation you threw so carelessly away.”

“Jack!” Another voice, the Antivan lilt giving away who it is. “Jack--” Zevran stumbles to a stop just behind Jack and stares. “…no.” He whispers, shaking his head.

“Ah, Zevran.” Pitch smiles. “Do you like her new look?”

Something inside the Antivan snaps, and without a second thought he charges the Nightmare King with a furious roar.

“Jade.” Pitch calls.

The girl stirs, blinking up at Pitch before noticing the charging Antivan. Her eyes widen slightly and she hastily slips between the two. “No!”

Zevran barely stops in time, the blade that had appeared in his hand left quivering in the air.

“Wolve…?” He starts quietly.

Pitch tuts. “Sorry, Arainai. “Wolve” is gone. This is Jade, my princess.”

Jack raises his staff but glances at Wolve and lowers it.

She glances at Pitch, then at the others, and draws closer to the King.

“Wolve—it’s me.” Zevran starts, lowering his blades. “It’s Zevran, your husband!”

She blinks at him, silent.

He takes a step forward and she startles, but remains firm where she stands, Zevran’s eyes search for an answer, for some way to make things better, Wolve would know, Wolve could fix things easily… but Wolve… she wasn’t here, was she?

What he finds is not what he wants to find, the necklace he had been searching for less than an hour ago, abandoned on the floor.

“Wolve…” He shakes his head. “I’m—I’m sorry.”

“It’s a bit late for that.” Pitch says.

“Fix it.” Jack says flatly. “Undo it.”

“No.”

Zevran drops his blades, they land with a clatter on the floor and he stares up at Pitch, trying not to stare at his beloved. “I beg of you.” He whispers. “Please, give her back to me.”

Pitch looks at him. “Would you have preferred I wait until you were in Antiva?”

Zevran hesitates, hand quivering. He wants to reach out, he wants to snatch her back and hold her and never let her go, he shouldn’t have let her go. It’s painful because it’s Rinna all over again, he lost her, he threw her away and he lost her after he promised not to screw up.

But the self-hatred is quickly replaced by another blinding rage. “You told her.” He hisses. “You took the necklace and the note and you told her.”

“I was honest with her.” Pitch says evenly. “You weren’t.”

Another flicker of hesitance, “you are not an honest man, you manipulate and screw with her head—Wolve would have understood—what did you say to her? How much did you fuck with her head Pitch?!” He growls, taking a step forward.

The girl practically hisses and he stops dead.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Zevran scowls, a feral bearing of teeth. “You…” He grinds out. “Just… give her back, I will give you anything… name it, but give her back.”

Pitch rests a hand on the girls shoulder. “You have nothing I desire.”

She glances up at him again, a soft smile.

The Antivan, on the other hand, seems to break, he had tried so hard to stay tall and proud and fight for his beloved, but here she was against him, here she was and he was responsible, he had done this.

He could do nothing.

He wobbles for a moment before falling to his knees, staring blankly at the girl who did not know him, not anymore. “Mi amor, mi único, por favour…” He murmured rapidly, holding out his hands for her.

She drew back into Pitch’s hand, confusion evident on her face.

“Undo this, Pitch! Bring her back!” Jack yells again.

Pitch rolls his eyes. “No.”

“Mi amor!” Zevran wails, reaching out for her. “Te… Te amo!”

The girl blinks before looking up at Pitch again. “Can we leave?” She asks.

“No.” Zevran says, drawing closer, she looks at him with a frown. “Don’t, please.”

“Yes, my dear. We can.” Pitch smiles at her, pulling her closer to him and away from Zevran. “Oh, and Jack? Sending Nightlight? Not your best decision.”

“Why?”

His smile turns sinister. “He was the only one who could’ve stopped me.”

“Wolve!” Zevran cries, struggling to stand, to reach her. “Please… don’t do this, I’m sorry!”

She doesn’t even look at him.

“Goodbye boys. Come, Jade.” Pitch says at the pair of them vanish.

[endlessshower]

Ferelden Frost Back~

art (c) @endless801

[ripflemeth]

Wines of Thedas

Wines are often named after the place where they originate. As a result, many terms that we use for wines would be anachronistic in Thedas... so I dreamed up some wines that you can use in your writing and worldbuilding! In a couple places, I also came up with in-world explanations for where these wines could have derived their names.

In parentheses, I included the Real World wine the Thedas head canon was inspired by, when applicable.

Enjoy!

ICE WINES OF THEDAS

These are head canons I have for wines that are made from grapes that grow in humid continental climates where the first frost brings out the sugars in the grapes before they are harvested. While the climate of continental Ferelden would be the right temperature, any wines made there are kept locally and are not part of the greater Orlesian wine trade, which is dominated by wineries from the Frostbacks to the Minanter.

Cabernet Orles (Cabernet Franc) - The primary wine in Orlais made from black grapes. There are many varieties, named after local wineries.

Merlot - The name for this wine is derived from the Orlesian word merle, or blackbird. It is another common variety throughout the vineyards of Orlais, a dark-blue colored grape variety.

Dalish Wine (Gewürztraminer) - This is an aromatic wine grape and is often called "Spiced Dalish" for its bouquet. These grapes are grown exclusively on the western slopes of the Frostback Mountains. The name is a bit of a misnomer, having nothing to do with actual Dalish clans, instead coming from the region of the Dales where the wineries are located.  The human nobles who run the collection of wineries have tried to rebrand their wines, but despite many efforts to get another name to circulate, the term "Dalish Wine" still persists.

Cœurling (Riesling) - A white grape variety that originates in the Orlesian heartlands. It typically has notes of apple and tree fruit. Varieties that are grown along the Minanter tend to develop more citrus and peach notes.

Veltlin Verde (Grüner Veltliner) - Hailing from the Green Dales in the northern Minanter river basin, this sweet and citrus wine is named after the Antivan village Veltlin (not a canon location) where it was first fermented centuries ago.

Chenin Blanc - A white wine grape variety from the Chenin river valley in Central Orlais, on the coast of the Waking Sea. It is highly acidic and is used in the production of sparkling and dessert wines.

Armitage Blanc - A recent wine that was created by Jean Louis Armitage, who hails from Verchiel. He was trying to craft a new grape for the production of brandy and ended up with this winter-hardy variety instead. It is very popular for its high sugar levels and hardiness and has a fruity taste, a trendy wine du jour.

OTHER WINES

Cloudwater - In the wetlands of the Minanter River Delta, rice grows as a staple. The Dalish in the vicinity, including Clan Lavellan, use the rice to ferment this liquor that appears cloudy in color due to the unfermented rice solids that remain suspended in the alcohol. The Dalish use this cloudwater as a key ingredient in many tonics and syrup, and you can often find bottles of it for trade that have been infused with seasonal fruits such as wild strawberries, blackberries and cassis.

Seleny (Champagne) -  This sparkling wine originated in the Seleny river basin of western Antiva. It is renown for its secondary fermentation that causes the wine in the bottle to produce carbonation.

Seleny became associated with royalty in the Black Age, when Asha Campana became the Queen of Antiva. As a favorite wine of the queen, she sent bottles of it as a gift to celebrate each new wedding she arranged for her children and grandchildren across Thedas. The tradition was adopted to pop a cork of Seleny in celebration at wedding ceremonies, and the wine is often affectionately nicknamed “campane”--or the Orlesian bastardization “champagne”--for this reason.

Note from the author:

If you’d like to use these wines in your fanfic writing or DA roleplay, feel free to do so. You don’t have to credit me, but if you want to, you can tag me bc I’d really get a kick out of seeing them in action!

I have lots of friends and fellow fans to thank for brainstorming these with me or giving me prompts that led to these creations. I’m always a sucker for creating fictional culinary delights for Thedas, so if you wanna chat foods or world building (especially for Antiva), hit me up!

Xoxo Kitty

[celestiae]

warden-commander. she bristles somewhat at the title, shoulders stiffening and brow furrowing in a flash of discontent at the formality of greeting. warden-commander is leagues better than the hero of ferelden but both feel unfathomably distant - grandiose epithets to maintain a confused, hollow girl as a hero; lies told to make a desperate, painful story more palatable for the masses. they’re words for someone else, names for someone she’ll never be ever again, and the person beside him is a disappointment in comparison.

“ i don’t think it ever got quite this cold in kinloch. i remember frost on the windows in the winter, but never snow. ” truthfully, elisabeth would rather not remember kinloch at all. the feeling is likely mutual. a smile, hand crafted for just these kinds of situations, finally graces her features, “ i hear wardens in the anderfells train in the sand to hone their endurance. i imagine snow serves much the same purpose. ”

the silence that follows, while somewhat longer than she would like, feels more authentic, or at the very least is closer to what she had expected. when he speaks again, his voice his quieter and his tone is softer, a sincerity and embarrassment in his voice that evokes the same good natured awkwardness that had drawn her to him years ago. the laughter that leaves her lips in response is like something pulled straight from the past, warm in sincere in a way that stands in stark contrast to the smile from just seconds ago.

“ don’t be so hard on them, ser rutherford, they’re just learning. ” blue eyes drift towards the tangled mass of limbs that had caused his discomfort. every warrior has to start somewhere. she doubts he was any different when he’d first learned to wield a sword or hold a shield. she certainly hadn’t been. “ believe it or not, i wasn’t much better when i started off. ”

his question about how long she plans to stay gives her pause, fingers pulling at a loose thread in her cloak. she’d already told leliana that she intended to stay as long as she was needed, but apparently that information hadn’t been passed along, and the quiet music at the back of her mind seems to indicate that as long as she’s needed may not be as long as she has. but the calling is a problem for her and her alone, not a burden for him to bare.

“ i’ll be here as long as time allows, ” an honest answer, if somewhat dodgy, “ as long as that’s alright with everyone in charge. ”

  A familiar routine sets him at ease, eyes fixated on the green recruits that cycle through motions he had once long ago. Their movements send specks of snow flying about, breath visible in the harsh cold. While their skill is nothing like the Templars he had fought with in the past, their motivation is undeniable and that he can work with. Surrounded by the clanking metal rather than the uncertainty of magic, Cullen finds comfort in this frigid climate. 

          “ You will find yourselves flat on the ground if you do not improve your form” Cullen barks out sternly, regarding each recruit he passes with a critical gaze. Surprisingly, he merely doles out suggestions, his demeanor rather tame considering their situation. As dire as it was, Cullen knew they weren’t soldiers - many of them were volunteers or pilgrims from nearby villages, hardly trained in the art of war. 

     His approach was tailored to them specifically, his harsher treatment reserved for the Templars that had followed him from Kirkwall. When he finally makes his exit, he leaves instructions with his Lieutenant, opting to give them a break from his presence for the time being. Yet, he’s stopped hardly a few feet from their training area, his eyes widening slightly despite the warning from Leliana.  

     Even a decade later, her voice still catches his attention, a feeling of dread not too far behind despite the passage of time. Years of strict training have gifted him with some form of resilience though, a smile gracing his lips after a brief moment of hesitation. “ Warden-Commander Amell ” Cullen greets her first, nodding his head respectfully before continuing. “ It’s colder here than I’m used to, but the snow will give the recruits more ample opportunity to challenge themselves ”

He pauses for a moment, smile faltering slightly, voice just a tad quieter. “ Forgive me, Leliana told me you were visiting but I was not sure when. I might have prepared something better to show than the greenest of our recruits ”  It’s at that moment one of the recruits trips, knocking down another in their attempt to recover. Cullen winces slightly, a nervous chuckle slipping out. “ Will you be in Haven for long? ”

[pinayelf-archive]

He loves her eyes.

He tells her all the time he's wanted her from the moment he saw her - and he could tell she doesn't quite believe it. But it was true.

Despite the fact that he'd been consumed in a tunnel vision of revenge when he stepped foot in Ferelden, catching her eyes when she walked into that holding cell shook him. The anger bubbled still, but he was immediately disarmed by the dark brown eyes of the woman who killed his father.

Then it turned out his father deserved it. Those brown eyes became a comfort, a friend to help him push through Delilah's revelation.

Those brown eyes continued to make his heart flutter. It ignited a fire when they gazed at his lips as they spoke. The fire was stoked when those eyes locked with his while she was in the throes of ecstasy.

Nathaniel never had a favorite color. Many told him blue suited him, so he wore it often. But he was rather indifferent to it.

Until he found himself holding Amihan in his arms as snow fell in the nightfall.

Snowflakes coated her eyelashes, her eyes still vibrant beneath the moonlight. He told her he loved her, and she looked at him at first in disbelief.

Then she said, "I love you too."

The frost was bitter and sharp, but somehow her eyes encapsulated him in warmth and a feeling he had not felt in a long time. Home.

Nathaniel's favorite color is brown.