#ferelden frost

[biowaredisasterbisexual]

Reflection Ruesday

Thanks for the tags, @thedissonantverses and @basedonconjecture! (And I see you, @woundedsoul12, I’m doing your version tonight too 😁). And thanks so much for creating this, @becausedragonage!

What to do: Go through your writing, art, gifs, etc. that you started but never finished and find something you love. Brush it up a bit if you want and share it. Tag me and use the tag Reflection Ruesday (it'll grow on you, I promise) and I'll comment and reblog. Then tag some other folks you think might enjoy it.

I’ll give very gentle tags to @hyperions-light, @ofcrowsanddragons, @mageofquandrix, @bygonesigh, @dymme, @vael-fire, @swamp-jello, and @grimrevolution and anyone else who wants to dust off something old to share!

Why break up a good theme? More Josephine and Leliana below the cut.

Ferelden was not quite what Josephine had expected. For one thing, she had not quite been prepared for the biting cold. Though she knew well enough that the south was nowhere near so temperate as her home country, Orlais was colder than Antiva as well, in Ferelden there was already a frost. The second surprise was the mud. Haven, it seemed, was far enough from any major settlement to be devoid of paved roads. The snow kept the dirt wet, and everywhere she walked, she sank.

It was…most unpleasant.

And then there was the smell. Though it did not reek of wet dog, the way haughty Orlesians claimed, it did smell of wet animals. With the muck and the wet and the hay for cows or horses, it was unavoidable.

The number of favors Leliana owed her in recompense for her recruitment was mounting higher by the minute.

Once inside her office off of the main hall of the Chantry, away from the prying eyes of everyone who might comment upon a show of weakness (at least until a runner came in, or Minaeve returned), she could let herself sulk for a moment. Josephine swept her cloak from her shoulders and hung it from the back of her chair. She brushed some hair up that had escaped its bounds as she went over towards her fireplace.

Every wall was bare stone, and cold radiated from each surface as though the building itself wished to drive them out. Josephine knelt carefully, avoiding any soot on the floor, as she lit the kindling.. The cold had made her clumsy, and she nearly knocked over the fire tools as she stood.

Josephine glared at her own hands for a moment, as though like a junior emissary they might bow to her will with the proper application of force.

She managed, only just, not to start as the door swung open, instead simply straightening so that the interloper might not know what she had just done.

“Did I scare you, Josie?” Leliana asked, sounding a touch too pleased with herself. The spymaster quietly closed the door behind herself, leaving them in relative privacy. Josephine knew she could pretend it was for her benefit that Leliana did this, but she also knew that Leliana did it so that her reputation - which grew more omniscient and frightful by the day - might not be damaged by someone seeing her being human.

Leliana pulled the hood from her head, revealing only slightly mussed hair the color of bright copper. A shake of the head, and her hair fell back into place easily. Oh, but Josephine was always deeply jealous of her ability to do that. Her own hair, coarser and naturally full of waves and curls, could never be made to behave so easily. Indeed, only the Commander’s hair was more unwieldy than her own.

“Of course not.” Josephine lied, her voice not giving even a hint of her deception. After all, she could have hardly risen to being a chief diplomat if she could not lie nearly as well as Leliana could.

Still, the other woman knew her well, and Leliana smiled knowingly as she removed her heavy leather gloves. “Of course not,” she concurred. Ugh, it was endearingly infuriating when she did that.

“Are you settling in?” Leliana asked, walking around the room slowly. It might have looked casual, but for the way her eyes narrowed on every feature in the room as though checking it for spies or assassins.

Knowing Leliana, that was actually what she was doing, however unnecessarily.

“I am.” As though to illustrate the point, Josephine walked purposefully to the chair behind her desk and sat down. Maker, but it was uncomfortable (though it was the most comfortable chair Josephine had been able to find). Everything, it seemed, in the entirety of Ferelden had been built for function, rather than for comfort. Though they criticized Orlais for going too far the other way, Josephine did wonder if they might learn something of the finer things from their neighbors.

She felt Leliana move behind her, and then lean over her shoulders to take in what was on her desk. “I do not imagine all of those letters are complimentary?” The other woman sighed.

“I suspect you know how complimentary they are.” Leliana was undoubtedly reading all of Josephine’s mail. And Cassandra’s, Cullen’s, and the Divine’s.

The older woman chuckled, and slid around Josephine until she was resting against the edge of Josephine’s heavy desk, between the Ambassador and her work. “Ah, Josie, you wound me with such baseless accusations.”

“Hardly baseless,” Josephine retorted, but she was smiling.

Leliana huffed, but did not look offended in the slightest. Nor did she move out of Josephine’s way, so that she might actually respond to those letters, complimentary and not complimentary alike.

Josephine leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms over her chest and looking at Leliana speculatively. This - intrigues halfway across Thedas, the looming threat of battle and bloodshed, secret pages filled with facts known only by one or two souls - was where Leliana shone. Though she was dressed simply, in leather trousers covered by pieces of armor, two layers of heavy shirts beneath her custom-made chainmail, leather bracers, and her hood, she projected an aura of confidence and competence that most could only aspire to.

It did not intimidate Josephine - no, she knew Leliana far too well for that - but she could see how easily Leliana might command the respect of the others.

“Do you have everything you need?” Leliana asked, nudging Josephine’s leg gently so as not to bruise her with the heavy metal Leliana wore.

Everything she wanted? Absolutely not, nor had she ever worked in a position where she had had such an embarrassment of fortune. But Josephine could do what she did with nothing more than ink, parchment, quill, candles, and a board if she absolutely had to. She nodded. “Yes. I am thankful to Her Worship for the accommodations.”

Leliana burst out laughing. Though Josephine knew she should be offended, she could not help but smile herself; Leliana’s laughter was always something special to behold.

“It is cold, wet, and muddy. This building has likely not seen an attractive drapery since the Orlesian occupation. Haven may be the site of the holiest of holies, but you cannot tell me it has met all of your expectations,” Leliana said.

Yes, Josephine should definitely be offended. And yet, as always, maddeningly, Leliana was not wrong.

“I am not the delicate flower you paint me as,” she protested, the barest hint of sulk in her voice, and only because it was Leliana. “But yes, you might have mentioned that we were to lodge in a town once overrun by a cult and lacking in cobblestone.”

“Where’s your sense of adventure, Josie?” Leliana wheedled, eyes sparkling.

“With the draperies. Which, by the way, I should purchase.” Josephine reached forward to gently push at Leliana’s hip. “Go on, I should attend to my work.”

Leliana pouted. “Have I offen-….Josie, your hands are freezing!” No longer giving Josephine the playful look of mere seconds before, the older woman was turning Josephine’s hands over between her own (noticeably warmer) ones before Josephine could stop her.

“No, this will not do.” Leliana placed Josephine’s hands together, as though about to lead them in prayer like the Chantry sister she sometimes played at, and began to rub them between her warmer, rougher palms. “We must get you better gloves, yes? It would not do to have you freeze here.”

Josephine huffed, but let Leliana fuss. Apart from any more selfish motivations (Southerners were all so aloof, and she missed physical connection), she knew it was good for Leliana. The more time she spent as the Left Hand of the Divine, the more disconnected Leliana became from her own, good-hearted nature. She had been forged, like steel, sharpened to a deadly and effective edge. But, like steel, Leliana could shatter and break if made too brittle. Moments like these, caring for an old friend away from prying eyes, helped Leliana retain some of her warmth and humanity. The effect could be seen for hours, sometimes even days, afterwards, at least by Josephine.

“I will purchase better gloves,” she promised, the mother being left unsaid. Still, Leliana heard it, and arched an eyebrow.

“Until then you must borrow mine,” she pronounced. Leliana reached into a pouch hidden on the side of her thigh, and pulled a pair of gloves out. Without waiting for permission, she began to tug them onto Josephine’s hands.

They still bore the residual heat that had seeped through from Leliana’s body, and the leather (lined with ram wool) was well-worn and soft. “And what shall you wear, then?”

“Ah, but I am Ferelden, my dear Ambassador,” Leliana reminded her, wiggling her eyebrows playfully. She was in rare form today, it seemed. “My battle gloves will be enough. Come, let us go get some soup to better warm you.”

She tugged on Josephine’s hands until both women were standing. Leliana tucked an arm under one of Josephine’s, and began to lead her towards the door. “My work,” Josephine reminded, rolling her eyes and attempting to reclaim her arm.

“Always so busy, Josie. The letters will wait. Besides,” Leliana smirked, “none of them were particularly urgent.”

Josephine sighed. “Baseless accusations, you say. Go on, then. Feed me, if you must.”

Leliana pulled her hood back over her head, and handed Josephine her cloak, and then Ambassador and Spymaster went to enjoy the culinary delights of Ferelden.

Oh, Leliana owed her for this.

[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.

[syd-notfound]

As If You Were Never Gone

Chapter 7: Old Ghosts and New Light

Aurora felt it before she saw him.

That prickle along the spine, that strange shift in the air like the Fade was holding its breath.

She lifted her eyes from the tea cooling in her hands and glanced toward the covered walkway along the garden wall.

Solas.

He stood half in shadow, the morning sun catching the edges of his silhouette — tall, composed, distant.

Watching.

Not Ellana.

Her.

Their eyes met.

For a moment, she forgot how to breathe.

There was nothing particularly kind about his gaze. Not soft. Not inviting.

But it pulled at something buried deep. Not her body—though that, too, responded in ways she hated to name—but her sense. Her Fade-touched skin. Her blighted, mended bones. Like something ancient inside her turned its head when he was near.

Her pulse stuttered.

Don’t.

He knows something.

He is something.

But the worst part?

So was she.

Aurora straightened slightly, drawing her cloak closer around her. Her lavender-and-green eyes didn’t drop.

She’d looked demons in the eye and walked away.

She could look at him too.

Still—her fingers inched toward Ellana’s, resting loosely on the bench beside her.

The girl didn’t notice.

But Aurora did.

You’re dangerous, she thought, teeth clenched.

And she’s still soft enough to believe people like you.

I won’t let you hollow her out too.

And then—

Just a quiet shuffle of leather boots over frost-damp stone and a hush of breath.

“You look like you did the night we slept in the Wilds,” Leliana said.

Aurora didn’t turn. “Which time?”

“The one where you kept watch all night and refused to admit you had a fever.”

Aurora let a ghost of a smile pass over her lips. “You kicked me in the ribs when I wouldn’t drink your awful tea.”

“It worked.”

Finally, she looked.

Leliana, without the hood. Without the eyes like daggers and the voice that commanded nations. Here, she was just herself—not the Nightingale. Just the woman who had once walked at her side beneath a sky full of stars, carrying secrets and song.

“I’m glad you stayed,” Leliana said, stepping close, voice low and warm. “You didn’t have to.”

“I didn’t want to,” Aurora admitted.

Leliana’s smile tilted. “But you did.”

Aurora nodded once.

Leliana sat on the low stone wall across from the bench, leaning forward, elbows on knees.

She turned to Ellana, who sat quietly beside them.

“I used to travel with this one,” Leliana said, smile widening. “She saved my life once, when I was bleeding on the road near Orzammar. She patched me up, gave me the worst-tasting poultice in Thedas, and said if I died, she wasn’t carrying my body down the mountain.”

Aurora shrugged. “I was trying to be inspirational.”

Ellana looked between them, wide-eyed. “You were friends?”

“Almost like sisters,” Leliana said, her voice turning wistful. “The kind that threaten to stab each other when they’re tired.”

“We shared a tent,” Aurora said with a smirk. “I know what her feet smell like.”

“You swore you’d never speak of that,” Leliana hissed.

The three of them laughed — even Ellana, though it was tinged with awe.

And for a moment, under the brightening morning, the ghosts that clung to Aurora’s shoulders felt… lighter. “Do you remember Zevran?” Aurora asked, unexpected. Her voice had gone soft, distant.

Leliana smiled. “Maker, yes. He flirted with everything that moved. And some things that didn’t.”

“I still don’t know if he meant half of it.”

“Oh, he did,” Leliana laughed.

Aurora’s eyes glinted. “He asked me once if I’d let him polish my boots wearing nothing but a smile.”

“Did you?”

“I made him do it in full armor. With sandpaper.”

They both laughed quietly, and for a moment—just a breath—it was as if the years fell away. As if Ferelden still reeked of mud and campfire and stubborn hope, and they were just two women with nowhere to be except right there.

Ellana looked between them, quiet, smiling softly.

“You two were really close,” she said.

“We were,” Leliana replied. “Still are. Some bonds don’t snap. They just stretch. And wait.”

Aurora’s throat worked, but she didn’t speak.

Not until Leliana reached out and brushed her fingers gently against her forearm.

“You don’t have to carry everything alone, ma lath.”

Aurora blinked fast, once.

Then nodded.

And for the first time since waking in Skyhold, she leaned — just slightly — against someone else.

[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.

[lazybulette]

Atisha Surana

Full Name: Atisha Surana Name Meaning: peaceful (atisha) Notable Nicknames: Tish Race: City Elf Gender/Pronouns: Female, she/her Sexuality: Bisexual Age: 20 Place of Origin: Kinloch Hold, Ferelden’s Circle Tower - Denerim's alienage before that Occupation: Grey Warden - Warden-Commander of Ferelden, arlessa of Amaranthine Background: Circle Mage Class: Mage (Arcane Warrior, Battlemage) Past Occupations: Apprentice and star pupil of the First Enchanter Significant Other: Zevran Best Friend(s): Morrigan, Alistair Close Friends: Sten, Leliana, Wynne, Shale, Oghren, Jowen, Nathaniel, Anders, Justice, Velanna, Sigrun, Ariane, Finn Pet(s): Fenrir the mabari war hound Family Issues: Atisha has very little knowledge about her family, having been brought to the Circle at a young age. She knows she’s from an alienage, she thinks that her mother loved her very much, and she can vaguely remember the lullaby her mother used to sing to her (due to the fact she used to whisper-sing it to herself for comfort as a little girl). She practically adopted Irving as her parental substitute. Religious Views: While Atisha is very skilled at appearing to be a devout follower of Andrastianism on the surface, primarely to avoid awkward questions, she has no particularly strong feelings about religion and has in fact drifted further away from it after leaving the Tower. Overall Personality: Atisha is a very intelligent and studious person, having thrived in the academia of the Tower, as well as having an incredible drive to succeed. She is very proud of her intelligence, although she works hard not to become over-confident and is very diligent overall. Relying on her soft-spoken mannerisms and silver tongue to stay out of trouble where she can, she is an incredibly curious person to the point it’s often what lands her in trouble. She enjoys philosophy and hearing others’ world views, and tends to be very open-minded towards it even when she disagrees, finding different perspectives refreshing and considering it as something to help her grow and learn. Confident in her own abilities and incredibly stubborn, she is incredibly determined and goal-oriented with a tendency towards being very decisive - at times ruthlessly so, favoring hedging her bets in the face of adversity. While she is dutiful, she has come to love the freedom and vast array of experiences outside the Tower, and has grown to want to see as much of the world as possible, to experience as many different things as they can. She is very flirty, having a tendency to flirt casually, as well as being quite prone to leaning into sassy banter - especially with close friends. Unabashedly feminine, and adores novelty, delighted to find new ways to express herself. Positive Traits:

Polite and approachable

Diplomatic voice of reason

Open-minded, wants to learn from others

Charming

Easy going and difficult to get a rise out of

Loyal

Negative Traits:

Manipulative (increasingly so)

Prioritizes ruthlessly

Exceedingly curious and cannot resist poking hornets nests (real or metaphorical)

Prone to back-talking non-elves and/or non-mages in positions of power

Anxious when her academic knowledge is lacking

Self-esteem entirely reliant on being knowledgeable and intelligent

Notable Equipment: Spellweaver, Fade Wall, Corrupted Magister's Staff, Wade's Superior Dragonbone Plate Armor set, Helm of Honnleath, The Spellward, Lifegiver, Golden Cog, Andruil's Blessing Notable Skills: Master Coercion, Master Combat Training, Master Clarity Notable Spells: Arcane Shield, Arcane Mastery, Elemental Mastery, Attunement, Time Spiral, Combat Magic, Aura of Might, Fade Shroud, Draining Aura, Hand of Winter, Stoic, Winter’s Grasp, Frost Weapons, Cone of Cold, Blizzard, Flame Blast, Fireball, Inferno, Glyph of Paralysis, Glyph of Neutralization, Drain Life, Death Magic, Curse of Mortality, Death Cloud, Vulnerability Hex, Affliction Hex, Misdirection Hex, Death Hex, Mind Blast, Crushing Prison

Status: Alive

[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.

[syd-notfound]

As If You Were Never Gone

Chapter 1: The Second Survivor

The snow around the Temple of Sacred Ashes was no longer white.

It was gray with ash, thick with soot and melted lyrium, and soaked red in places where no one dared to look too long. The air reeked of burning cloth, sanctified oils, and death.

Above it all, the Breach tore the sky like a festering wound — pulsing, screaming silently in every mage’s bones.

Cullen’s voice came sharp through the wind. “We found someone.”

Cassandra turned, armor already streaked with frost. “Where?”

“North side. In the snowdrifts. Alive… barely.”

They followed the scout through the broken slope, past scorched trees and cracked icons of Andraste. Soldiers had already formed a perimeter. One stood, sword drawn but trembling. “She wasn’t here before. We would’ve seen—”

And then Cassandra saw her.

Crumbled in the snow. Half-covered in ice and ash. Face pale, blood dried around one temple, fingers stiff with cold. But not dead. Not yet.

The scout took a step forward. “We should bring her in—”

“No,” Cassandra said sharply.

Because she knew that face.

Everyone did.

Varric, still breathless from climbing the slope, squinted. “No way. No chance. That’s—”

“The Hero of Ferelden,” Cullen whispered.

It couldn’t be. She had died years ago — sacrificing herself to stop the Archdemon, her body lost in flame and ruin. But here she was.

An elven woman in Warden leathers scorched beyond recognition, vallaslin faded, lips cracked and blue — but unmistakably her.

She stirred.

Just barely.

Her voice was a thread of sound, no more than a breath.

“…fire…”

Cassandra knelt beside her. “What did you say?”

The elf’s eyes flickered open, distant and unfocused. But those weren’t her eyes… they were different. The usual lavender now had bright green bursting from her pupils, like they had a rift of their own inside her irises. “…there was fire… then nothing…” Her gaze locked on the sky. On the Breach.

And suddenly, she jerked — violently — as if she felt it pulsing inside her bones. Her back arching, almost like she was in agony front every pulse from the breech. But her hands were clean.

No mark. No tether to the Fade. Just a woman who had died and yet still breathed. Varric stepped forward, cautious. “You think she was in the Temple?”

“Impossible,” Cullen muttered. “She wasn’t on the list. No reports, no sightings…”

“And yet here she is,” Cassandra said.

The elf’s breathing quickened. Her hands gripped the torn earth beneath her. And when she looked up, the fear in her eyes was ancient. “I was gone,” she whispered, silent tears leaking down her cheeks. “I was gone… and something pulled me back.”

They said nothing. The Breach crackled above them like a wound refusing to close.

The world swayed around her. Too bright. Too loud.

Snow clung to her lashes like fire. Her breath came in sharp, dragging pulls, and each one felt like it might be her last.

She didn’t remember getting here.

Only the flame. The crack in the sky. The sound of her own scream as the Fade swallowed her whole and spat her back into the snow.

She wanted to close her eyes again — to slip away, quietly, before anyone noticed she wasn’t supposed to be alive.

But then —

Boots crunched beside her. And someone knelt.

Not the Seeker.

Not a stranger.

A man.

Golden hair dusted in ash. Fur-lined mantle. And eyes that hadn’t been gentle in years.

Until now.

“Commander—” a scout murmured.

Cullen raised a gloved hand. “Give us a moment.”

He dropped to his knees beside her, not as a commander — not even as a templar — but as the boy she once saved.

“…Warden?”

Her eyes fluttered open, barely.

She blinked up at him.

Her vision wavered. Her eyes struggled to focus, glazing over before she squeezed them shut.

When she opened them again, her gaze focused on the man in front of her, familiar amber eyes piercing through her.

“…You’ve changed,” she whispered, voice rough with pain.

“You haven’t,” he said softly. “Not really.”

A shiver ran through her — whether from cold or memory, he couldn’t tell.

“I remember you,” she rasped. “The tower… the demon. You wouldn’t meet my eyes.”

“I couldn’t,” he murmured, looking down at his hand braced in the snow. “I thought I was unclean. Corrupted. I thought if you touched me, I’d burn.”

Her breath hitched.

“You didn’t.”

He looked up.

Snow clung to her lashes. Her vallaslin was faded now, ghosted on her skin — but he still remembered it, back then. The Keeper’s mark. The calm way she’d stood among corpses and possessed mages and offered him mercy.

“I was cruel to your kind,” he said, barely audible. “Elves. Mages. I judged you all before I knew anything.”

She blinked, slow. “I know.”

“And still… you chose to help me.”

She coughed, her voice thinner now. “Because I was raised better than that.”

He managed a soft, broken laugh. “You always had more grace than any of us deserved.”

Silence.

The Breach pulsed overhead — a sick green eye watching them all.

She turned her head, wincing. Her hand found his — weak, shaking, but deliberate.

“You don’t have to kneel, Cullen.”

“I want to.”

He lifted her in his arms himself, ignoring Cassandra’s protests and Varric’s swearing. He shrugged off the scouts who attempted to take her from his arms. Using his mantle to cover her, keeping her warm, he made his way back to Haven refusing to stop, refusing to falter, his hold on her remaining steady.

Because once, when he was weak, afraid, and drowning in shame, she saw him — not as a templar, not as a monster, but as a man worth saving.

And now it was his turn.

[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.

[mistrias]

hilda/alistar + saccharine please 👀👀👀👀

micro prompts

-

Hilda's twenty-eighth birthday ended as all her birthdays did: In bed with cake.

Her first birthday after the Blight had been a disaster. There wasn't enough flour and eggs in what was left of the Keep to prepare cake for all the soldiers and wardens, as well as all the displaced citizens of Amaranthine - there probably wasn't enough flour and eggs in all of Ferelden at that time. Alistair was devastated that he couldn't continue Hilda's birthday tradition of sharing cake in the mess hall and singing folk songs all night - which probably wouldn't have happened anyway, considering the state of the country at the time - but he decided to create a new tradition, in which the cooks at the Keep made her a cake using recipes from one of the countries in Thedas that they would probably never be able to visit.

The first had been a deflated thing that was more bread than cake, but she cried anyway when Alistair presented it to her at the end of a particularly difficult day. The next year, when things in Ferelden had calmed down enough that good ingredients were available again, her birthday cake was a chocolate raisin torte from Antiva. In the years after that, there was a sea salt and caramel cake from Rivain, then an oversized oatmeal biscuit from the Anderfels that they ate with their hands, two years of different Orlesian petit fours, and then, the year of her twenty-eighth birthday... the best cake of them all.

Alistair knocked on the door to their quarters with a tray in his hands. On that tray was a small vase of roses, a jug of fresh milk, and a cloche engraved with an ice rune to keep the cake underneath nice and cool. Hilda opened the door for him and grinned, pulling him inside by the sleeve of his shirt.

"Delivery for the Warden-Commander," he said in as authoritative of a voice as he could manage.

"Took you long enough." She hurried back over to the bed, perching on the edge of it and smiling like an excited child.

He often felt like that when it was just the two of them in their room at night - like they were little children without so much as a care in the world. Cliche, sure, but that was how he felt. And he deserved it. They both did. Things were dour enough outside of the little home they'd built - it didn't need to be dour inside, too. So they always had flowers on the bedside tables, Hilda's colourful shoes and dresses inside the armoire, Alistair's toys and trinkets sitting the mantle, and two desk drawers stuffed full with love notes. He was proud of this place. He was proud that they let themselves have these little slices of happiness instead of letting their despair eat them whole.

"Now presenting... a feast fit for a queen!" He dramatically pulled the lid away to reveal a modest vanilla cake topped with a display of a little cat made out of apples, blueberries, strawberries, and frosting. His idea; the cook had done it justice.

As if being summoned, Lady Rarely-Pounces leapt up onto the bed, and Hilda grabbed her before she could, rather aptly, pounce onto the cake and ruin their entire evening. "I love it, Alistair," Hilda said, grinning at him and reaching for an apple slice. Maker, he loved her. A hundred cakes wouldn't be enough to celebrate her. "Thank you. This might be my favourite cake yet."

"Good." He leaned across the bed in a way that made it clear he was demanding a kiss, which she dutifully gave. "Just wait until you see what I have planned for next year."

"I can't wait."

The two of them picked the cake apart over the next few hours, talking and feeding each other and at one point, smushing cake onto each other's faces until it looked like they had beards. Alistair has no idea when they fell asleep, but when he wakes up in the morning to find the last remnants of the cake smeared across the sheets and the blankets and Lady's fur, he thinks to himself, Maybe for her twenty-ninth birthday, we'll eat at the table instead.

[flowerpetalprincess]

Ferelden Frost Pg1 || Done

The Birth of a Darkling Princess

“It’ll be okay now.” He promises, lifting one pale grey hand to ouch her temple. “You’ll wait no longer, I promise.”

She startles as his hand approaches, but takes a calming breath and lets her eyes slip close as cold flesh meets the skin of her temple, darkness swarming instantly from the touch.

A scream, loud and pained, animalistic, the cry of an animal in its death throes; she screams but he doesn’t pull away, neither does she, the fearlings gather and she threatens to go limp, to fall.

Stop stop stop, I’m afraid, I’m terrified, what are you doing, stop.

Her skin from the spot on his temple is swarmed with darkness, the fearlings practically pounce on the girl and Pitch grins as she screams, as she howls, as she’s covered in the darkness that took him, and that is taking her.

The screaming fades; and the fearlings pry themselves from her, retreating to their corners and their shadows. And the girl who stands there looks at him weakly, bright golden eyes and grey skin, shadowed, her hair slips over her face and he brushes it aside.

Her hand reaches up, and clings to him, and his free hand gently curls around it.

“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.

Do not steal, repost, or alter in any way