#fic by brialavellan

[brialavellan]

Want/Need/Fear

I just got tagged in a cool prompt about what ocs would want/need/fear hearing and I kinda wanted to apply it to my ocs' LIs. I've done my Warden (Fiona Cousland) and her LI. I'll do the other ones soon

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"You are too cruel to deserve a man like him."

There was a time before where Fiona would dismiss court gossip. Her sensibilities we're throughly Ferelden and her demeanor naturally stoic - not given to hand-wringing over secrets and rumors. Bann Esmerelle's failed assassination plot showed her the error in her thinking. Though she plays haughty, holding her head high as she regards the nobles, she knows now to keep an ear to the ground. Much of it is salacious gossip that fails to unnerve her. She does not care for petty jabs at her demeanor or character. However, when they come for her husband, her king, her beloved, her cheeks burn and her teeth clench. He is neither pawn nor puppet. He has earned his crown. But she worries that she has taken her guileless and caring husband, the one she fell for, and she worries that the life she has foisted on him will make him cruel. That she is too cruel, too cutting, too heartless for him. Only when these sentiments are whispered does she give pause as she is forced to face her secret fears.

[brialavellan]

Hey, this is good actually???? And I haven't shared any writing in a while so here's some

Another little practice drabble to get back in a writing mood (gotta get chapter 2 of the rp finished) so here’s a bit re: the revelation that the vallaslin are slave markings.

“A noble would mark his slaves to honor the God he worshiped”

She balls her fist, feels the fire, all-consuming, the rage building, pressing against her ribs, lungs, choking, straining to breathe.

“After Arlathan fell, the Dalish forgot.”

She remembers her people, uprooted and hunted, homeless, stateless.

Her people, always grasping, always reaching, always clinging by the tips of their fingers, culture slips through like soft sand, so easily lost.

Her people, always fighting for every scrap of culture and knowledge. Suledin, whispered like a mantra, burning bright, held tight against her heart - always reaching, hoping, praying, begging that they will endure.

That she will endure.

And all she was, is, will be, marked on her face. It is her mask, makes her seen, makes her known, makes her Dalish.

And he wants to tear from her the only thing she has left.

“That’s bullshit!” she points at him, accusing, derisive, desperate to hit, hurt him. She will not let him take this away.

Everything that is left, slipping through her fingers, soft sand so easily lost.

“Is there anything you won’t tear down to prove how smart you are?!”

She clings to her culture by her fingertips, giving away, holding, tight before she falls, broken, beaten, the tatters of her, all that remains, snatched away.

“Why would you tell me this?!”

She gives way. She falls.

She will endure. Suledin, suledin, suledin, she sings softly, a mantra that soothes, a salve to stop the pain in her chest from spreading.

Soft sand slipping through her fingers, so easily lost.

And all she was, is, will be, marked on her face.

Not a slave, never a slave, never submitting, never breaking, always enduring, she will endure.

Suledin, suledin, suledin.

“Because you deserve better…,” he says.

She falls, broken and bent.

Suledin….suledin…..

The words are empty. There is no comfort, no reprieve.

Nothing to cling to, the last of her torn away, and nothing remains.

She’s been stripped, molded, bent, and broken to the shape of Andraste’s Herald, the Chantry’s savior, Orlais’s defender.

She yields, tired, so tired, of fighting, clinging, reaching.

And nothing remains.

[merrybandofmurderers]

wip... monday

open tag by @brialavellan to post part of a wip. so here’s a sneak peek at Part Four of my pavellan fic where Dorian gets to meet a few members of Lavellan’s family :3

Dorian had never been so grateful to see Skyhold’s gates. He sincerely hoped Lavellan had no immediate plans to return to the Western Approach. He had no idea a desert could be cold. And the sand just got—everywhere.

They’d barely passed over Skyhold’s threshold when a messenger approached. Before he could speak, Lavellan cut him off. “I have literally just returned; please, spare me whatever menial duty my advisors require of me until I’ve at least taken my boots off and had a drink.”

“Oh, no, Your Worship, I was coming to inform you, sir, that you have guests—”

“Yes, I’m aware of all the nobles vying for the chance to annoy me, but as I said: boots off, drink had.”

“No, sir, not nobles. Elves. Dalish, sir. From your clan, they say.”

Lavellan froze, then tossed his reins at the hapless messenger and sprinted off up the stairs.

Dorian handed his reins to the messenger, as well. “Just take these over to Dennet, if you would, my good man.” He hurried after Lavellan.

He arrived in the great hall to see Lavellan embracing a red-headed elven woman, lifting her and spinning her around, pressing kisses to her face, greeting her in Elvish. Once he put her down, he caught sight of Dorian and immediately called out to him, waving him over. Dorian’s heart skipped a beat in the face of Lavellan’s enthusiasm.

“Let me introduce you,” Lavellan said, when Dorian reached him. “This is my sister, Anavi. Anavi, this is Dorian, our resident Vint.”

“That’s me,” Dorian said with a wry grin and gave the elven woman a short bow.

[doctoraliceharvey]

get to know me

tagged by: @brialavellan (thank you!)

name: Dee

birthday: March 3 (2021 will be the big 3-0)

sun sign: Pisces

height: 5’2 ½”

hobbies & interests: writing, researching (wheee history), knitting, and historical-based sewing (as well as sewing in general, though Bertha the sewing machine and I are still at odds, handsewing is much smoother for me atm)

favorite color: Orange and green

favorite books: The Priory of the Orange Tree by Samantha Shannon (and her Bone Season series, oof!), The Temeraire Series by Naomi Novik, and I’m about to start on City of Brass once I catch up with these two series.

last song: A Divided Land from Assasin’s Creed: Origins

last film/tv show: currently rewatching MFMM (end of season 1) and DBM 5.07 for fic purposes 

inspiration: kind of a mixture of spite and “no one else is going to do the things the way I want them to, so why not?”

story behind url: Favorite character from DBM, my socially awkward, science-loving, snarky pathologist: Dr. Alice Harvey

tagging @randomkiwibirds, @theloversthedreamersandme82, @rahleeyah, @andallthatmishigas, and anyone else who’d like to join in!

[enby-hawke]

i was tagged by @slothabed for a first lines meme, This is my very unedited first lines for my DA2 retelling called What Good Can Come From Blood Magic? I’ve been working on it little by little. Thanks for tagging me. 

I tag @fuckbioware @isalavhenan @brialavellan and whoever else is working on something and want to share. ( @gloomba331​ I’m still thinking that da/starwars fic you showed me) Again no pressure if you don’t want to.

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It always came back to this dream, to this moment. Hawke had tried everything to wrestle control, to bury the memory deep but when sleep claimed him he found himself back on that highway, his hands buried in the bloody remains of his sister seconds from death, staring down the witch of the wilds and asking the same question:

“Can you save my sister?”

His hand stretched out to the witch, still warm and wet with blood, singing with the healing spell that sustained Bethany. He remembered how his mother kept Bethany’s bloody head nestled in her lap, stroking her ruined curls. Her eyes were transfixed on the witch, half in terror, half in hope.

Hawke could hear his heart in his ears, his exhaustion taking him as he struggled to sustain his magic. The witch was already walking away, ready to abandon them on this highway, but her voice clung to the air like the smoking stench of darkspawn corpses that suffocated them, worse than burning bile. “Why would I? You are safe at the moment.”

Each step seemed to bring her strides away, as heavy as his heartbeat. “You bitch-” he spat out but stopped when his mother cried out his name.

He turned to her, her brown freckled face streaked with muddy tears. “She’s not breathing,” her voice cracked, breaking as Bethany’s chest went still.

His panic poured his remaining magic into her regeneration, but though her flesh responded, her heart still refused to beat. He shocked her once. And then twice.

Carver grabbed him, and Lucky could feel the desperation in his brother’s grip. “Do something,” he growled, his throat slick.

There was no more time for thinking. There was only one way he could think to save her.

He tore himself away from his brother and darted after the witch. The world was oddly silent, though his hound bayed in warning. Lucky threw himself at the witches feet, wrapping his arms around her ankles. Pathetic? He didn’t care. She was the only one that had the power. He had already failed.

“I’ll give you my soul,” he offered before she could ask what he was doing. He flinched, expecting to be struck, but instead he felt the witch shift in her armor. He looked up with her with a bleary gaze to see two yellow eyes staring hungrily at him. “That’s what you do, isn’t it?”

Her deep purple lips twisted into a half-smirk, her deep brown skin looked ageless in spite of the wrinkles. “And why would I need it?”

This was his only card. It had to work. He’d make it work. “How much does a soul go for? What more can I give you?” He clung to the tattered battledress half expecting to attack her in his next breath. He didn’t care if it was suicide. He would not lose Bethany.

He waited as she studied him, with an amused expression. “As you are, you are worthless, but…”

She let the pause stagnate until Lucky shook her. “But-” he growled.

All the anger fled from him after he captured her glinting gaze, murderous and gleeful. “Perhaps bound to a new future, you might someday be useful.”  

She took his chin with armor taloned fingers, her grip tight and gaze hollowing and heavy even in memory. “But are you sure you’re ready to barter your soul like coin?”

Hawke shivered, feeling the power in her touch. “Will it save Bethany?”

His heart lurched at her predatory smile. ”If you accept.”

[gayrab]

Just a note that if you like video games - particularly dragon age and mass effect (or some other video games) that I have a blog brialavellan.tumblr.com

I also write DA gen fic under the handle brialavellan on AO3 (look I just *clenches fist* really love Briala ok)

I don't have a tagging system - just like to warn in advance though I try to tag for common triggers

And if you're under 18 go away (because I am 28 and don't feel comfortable with kids possibly getting harmed by my online presence)

[brialavellan]

I just got tagged in a cool prompt about what ocs would want/need/fear hearing and I kinda wanted to apply it to my ocs' LIs. This one is for my Lavellan ('Manehn) and her (ex)-LI

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"You were never real to him"

"We weren't even people to you?"

"Not at first."

As she speaks, everything clicks into place. Each word he speaks in response is another betrayal. The shroud of his lies is lifting but she's still choking under the weight. She does not know this man. This cannot be the same man. She clenches her teeth tight to stem the swell of revulsion and white-hot hatred that is burning her chest. She now pines for the simple bruises to her ego that his breakup left behind.

"You change everything"

Everything except his willingness to sacrifice this world for a chance to restore a warped memory of a dead people. Everything except his wanton refusal to take responsibility for the world he has made.

She will not cry for him, no matter how deep her anguish grows.

She will not pity him, no matter how hard he begs for it.

She will not understand him, no matter how much he tries to rationalize his plan.

Instead, she will stoke the flame of her seething rage, hold it close now matter how much it hurts, and forge herself into his greatest foe. He said she taught him the value of this world? Then she would teach him one more thing.

She will teach him fear.

[brialavellan]

🌹?

She sees his visage standing before her. She stares into sad eyes. Eyes that seem to beg for a semblance of understanding, to see the justification for his crimes.

I am not a monster. If they should die, they should die in comfort.

---

Thank you for the ask!!! 💜

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for every "🌹" received in my inbox i'll post one random sentence of a random WIP i'm currently writing

[brialavellan]

I just got tagged in a cool prompt about what ocs would want/need/fear hearing and I kinda wanted to apply it to my ocs' LIs. This one is for my Hawke (Mhairi) and her LI.

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"You could've stopped him."

Mhairi remembers the day her childhood ended. It was the day when, after the midwife left, her mother called her to her bedside to show her the twin babes that would be her siblings. When Mother rustled her hair with a rare fondness and said she would be a big sister and that as a big sister, she would need to help with the babies. She nodded her head, folded her arms and, with a rare severity, assumed her new role of nurturer, protector, and caretaker. Now, after so long, these roles are woven into her being. She cannot be anything else. Her healing arts and her playful demeanor all stem from the need to nurture and care for those she loves. When Bethany and Carver died, she bore the shame of her failures as her Mother demanded. When Mother died, she bore the shame of her failure as her Uncle Gamlen demanded.

And now she has failed again. The man she loves has given in to his madness, has killed hundreds, including the Grand Cleric, and she did not stop it. She failed to save him from his torments. She failed to save those he's killed. More lives lost to her inaction. More shame she will bear. Thedas will demand she bear the shame and she will oblige. After all, she lives to serve.

[brialavellan]

Sharing some writing time! It’s for my DA longfic and I know I get incentivized to write when I share lil morsels for people so enjoy or whatever. It’s about Mirwen (one of my OCs) and being in the crossroad with the eluvians:

~~~~

The air almost hummed with a magical energy that left a trail of goosebumps up Mirwen's arms. The Fade was so close, it was almost as if she could slip away past the Veil and float freely or fly away, wandering these drifting roads for a lifetime. Her footsteps lightened into a lilt wherever she walked, her steps soft with a ballerina’s grace. A strange power surged in her chest that stole her breath yet invigorated her at the same time. The rippling air seemed to caress and embrace her in a warm hug that smelled of honey and roses.

A word for this feeling sprung unbidden into her thoughts.

Home.

She was home.

This was her world.

The world of the elves.

She stopped and took a deep breath, clenching her hands to anchor herself. She stared at the ground and closed her eyes, focusing on the soft thumping of her heart. After a while, the floating feeling faded and she opened her eyes. The air had become a little more oppressive, heavy enough to keep her anchored. A slight torpor began to spread in her limbs and she planted her feet flat to adjust. As she pressed on, she wondered as she wandered what would have happened if she had given in.

Some part of her, a fragment of a fragment deep in the recesses of her soul, was almost sad that she didn’t.

[brialavellan]

Just over here fleshing out my other DA OCs.

This is one lil drabble for my Cousland Warden, Fiona, and her reasoning behind agreeing to the Dark Ritual:

:::

There is no glory in bloodshed.

She was a romantic once. She was never interested in the historicity of Brother Aldous's tales, only in the various beasts within the telling and only in the plot so much as she would recast herself as the unflinching protagonist. She would save the day by the blade, felling werewolves and dragons and darkspawn and blood mages and any other terrors that a Fereldan child who wanted for little yet dreamed of much could conjure.

Then she grew up and her childish fantasies were cut down like that sweet noble boy at her bedchamber door. The razing of Castle Cousland wasn't the beginning. It was the end. Howe killed that silly little girl with her imbecilic notions of saving the world with her wooden sword, her delusions of nobility and glory in swordplay pooling at her feet like her father's blood running in crimson rivulets through his sword-sheared silk tunic.

She would never be that girl again, but it was for the better. Her early thirst for battle had been forever quenched by the first blood she spilled, but during this wretched Blight, there is no reprieve from the deluge, this rot and decay and death that washes over her beloved nation and that threatens to drown the world.

And her and her allies are the only thing holding the floodwaters back. She stands resolute, steadfast to the point of stoic coldness because she can no longer be selfish.

Except in this.

Her hands shake at her sides as she watches Alistair and Morrigan disappear into the bedchamber, her mouth still agape in shock that she has agreed to such a deed. That she convinced Alistair to agree. That these are her words and her lips and her nodding and her sealing a dark fate with her hushed whispers and she isn't stopping this.

She touches the Sword of Mercy pendant that graces her neck with a shaky breath. Where is she? Where is the pious woman who refuses to take shortcuts or to trust dark intentions and dark magics?

But there is no glory in bloodshed.

And she will not gleefully fling herself on the funeral pyre. She will not forfeit what little life she and Alistair have left.

Not when there's another way.

[brialavellan]

So I saw a prompt in another fandom along the lines of where you choose your five favorite pieces of content you created, tell why you like them, and link them so other people can see it.

And I need a distraction so I'm gonna do it.

Here they are:

1. Vir Suledin, Vir Harillen - I thought my idea of a Lavellan reapplying her markings after Solas takes them was a unique idea. I'm proud of the characters I created too and how I showed the varying perspectives of the Dalish on a Lavellan that romanced Solas.

2. Nightmares - I think I did a good job capturing my Hawke's despair. Plus the ending is just *chef's kiss followed by tears*

3. Herald of Change - Frankly, I'm just proud I wrote 19 chapters of something. I hope I can finish the damn thing before DA4 ruins it.

4. The Night Before - I'm proud because it's my first fic ever and I loved writing about the anxiety and fear a Lavellan must have felt agreeing to something so dangerous as attending the Conclave. I also got to build 'Manehn's home life and dynamics. I also think it's pretty good for my first ever fic. I actually think the quality is higher than my later stuff.

5. Breaking the Mask - I just wanted to take Solas down a peg and have him face the consequences of his callousness.

Tagging: @teknon , @nerdlingwrites , @merrybandofmurderers , @embajadora-montilyet , @isalavhenan , @bohemiantea-scorpiocoffee , @heyitsharding , @noseforahtwo , @razrogue , @doctoraliceharvey , @bunabi, @of-dathomir , @juniper-tree , @sowingtheseeds , @persephonechiara and anyone else who I vaguely remember that creates content. If you make content and I forgot to tag you then tag me so I can see it!

[brialavellan]

A part of of the chapter I’m working on in my longfic, partially because I want to share something and feel like I’m making progress and partially to make me feel better because I’m kinda blah today:

-

'Manehn hated being alone.

Being alone meant she was forced to devote her attention to her thoughts.

Sometimes she couldn't contain them, her head so full to bursting with thought that her words came out in rapid fire sentences, words jumbled and jostling as each thought screamed for attention with no rhyme or reason beyond needing release from a soaring high of emotion.

Sometimes the thoughts were clouded and a deep malaise set in that slowed her thoughts and reflexes to a painful crawl, making every syllable an excruciating effort. In her deepest depressions, her thoughts were like barbs on a whip that lashed her, demanding a penance she would never satisfy unless she submitted to death.

And everything she did, from drink and sex when she was young, to battle and work as she aged, seemed to exist as pure distraction. Fortunately, the somewhat steady rhythm of work as the Right Hand proved a slight salve for the tumult of her emotions, and she had mellowed further in middle age.

However, she was no longer alone with just her thoughts.

When she first drank from the Well, the voices were whispers, the faintest fluttering of other consciences that she could ignore until she needed assistance - if the Well deigned to give it. That was the problem with the Well of Sorrows. Whatever will moved the Well was fickle, often leaving her with silence to her answers and then demanding attention at its discretion. If she could demand advice, she surmised, she would have defeated Solas twenty years ago.

But the dragon's blood had done...something. The voices were louder now, going from mere nuisance to a genuine interference. The voices were still discordant and only responded at their whims, but they were louder. There was more blankness where memory should be, as if she was now displaced in time and disassociated from her own actions, actions she should have remembered, actions she had only taken recently.

And it terrified her.

[brialavellan]

3. Hate

In her heart burns an unquenchable flame.

Not the passion for creation that the Chantry speaks of. It's a seething hatred - an acrid, choking fire that burns her lungs and leaves the taste of ash in her mouth.

Unbridled rage.

She hates him because she loved him. He speaks of remorse but she hears nothing but callous cruelty. He speaks of love but she hears nothing but bitter betrayal.

And it burns.

It burns hotter than the Anchor, this fury that threatens to consume her.

"Mar bellanaris din'an heem!" she spits at him through clenched teeth and dripping tears.

"I know," he says, his voice breaking from her glowering glare. He turns and walks away, disappearing into the eluvian.

She is still for a moment, left in solitude.

She breaks.

Small whimpers escape as she clutches the wound where her left arm was, blood dripping from the leather and seeping into the tiles. Hatred boils away, leaving her hollow with nothing but shame and sorrow.

Her sobs grow louder and she shrieks at the empty space where he stood, a primal scream that makes her body quake, turns her throat raw, her voice hoarse.

She crumbles.

She curls into a ball.

She weeps.

[brialavellan]

dialogue prompt 45 (how much of that did you hear)?

It's post-celebration Solavellan breakup angst! Why don't good things ever happen to my OCs? Why can't I write anything nice?

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She hears about it from the scurrying servants first, those who lingered until the last to clean up what remained of the celebration of the Inquisitor’s victory against Corypheus.

She hears more from Leliana, who notices everything, including ‘Manehn’s great distress that Solas has now abandoned her twice.

As she ascends the stairs, she hears the screaming and the shattering, the sounds of grief and rage turning into wreckage.

“Fenhedis lasa, you pile of fucking halla shit!” 'Manehn screams as she smashes an inkwell against the stones. “I should’ve cut out your tongue when I had the chance, you miserable lying bastard!” she screams as she slams a book into her looking glass.

Cassandra bursts through the door and finds ‘Manehn surrounded by shattered glass and splintered wood, her nostrils flared and fuming. Cassandra fears her fury will turn into fire or daggers, wounding words that would cut and bury deep into anyone that tried to comfort her.

‘Manehn regains her control enough to see Cassandra staring wide eyed at the mess she has made. She shrinks back up and rubs her hands together as her face falls in embarrassment.

“How much of that did you hear?”

“Enough,” she says sympathetically as she gingerly slips into the room, leaving the door slightly ajar. Just in case.

“I know how much he meant to you.”

“I didn’t mean all that much to him, apparently,” ‘Manehn slumps back onto her couch, biting her lips to stifle any hint of a sob. “I just don’t understand why he didn’t even say goodbye…”

Tears begin to trickle down her cheeks. 

“Why didn’t he bother to say goodbye?”

---

THANKS FOR THE ASK!!! <3<3<3

[brialavellan]

2. Love

It’s been years, decades, since love crossed her lips. Love was lost, hidden away under brambles of betrayal and heartbreak. 

But 'Manehn has learned to love again. She finds with delight that she can love as she loved before, earnest and yearning. She is utterly smitten, utterly love-drunk. Her lover’s gaze brings her shivers yet her touch, her caress brings blessed release. She wakes up in the morning with her name on her lips and sings her name in her ear when they make love at night. 

She takes Briala’s hand in hers and slides a silver band onto her finger - a Dalish trinket, usually given by a Keeper to bless blooming love among clanmates.  A promise to cherish and nurture this new love. A pledge to be hers, to never part until she is claimed and whisked away to the Beyond by her final breath. 

She kisses her hand where she placed the ring, sealing her promise with her lips. 

"Sylaise enaste var aravel. Lama, ara las mir lath. Bellanaris,” she says with shimmering eyes and a crooked smile. 

Briala smiles back, tears welling at the corner of her eyes. She does not know the words, but she knows her intent and she believes her. She has learned to trust that her words are plain, her meaning clear and intentions true. There is no game, no hidden meanings, no secrets within secrets she must pry from her by duplicitous means. Trust was withered, wasting away from the sickness of the Grand Game. But Briala has learned to trust again. It’s been years. Decades.

“I take you as my wife to cherish and love through trial and tribulation. I take you as my wife in the sight of the Maker. May he smile upon our love, his most cherished gift.” she replies and pulls her close, placing a kiss on her lips. She takes a necklace and places it in the palm of her hand. A mere trinket, an old heirloom that she kept. An old memory that brought nothing but pangs of pain when she stared at the carved ironbark and emerald crystal. Now, she will pass on her hurt and be healed. 

‘Manehn caresses her cheek and wipes away the fallen tears then wraps her in a tight embrace.

“Ar lath ma vhenan,” she whispers in her ear as tears fall. Those words do not sting. She has passed on her hurt and been healed. 

Under thorns of betrayal, deceit and heartbreak, love now blooms.