#flame-of-ostwick

[serenpedac]

Tagged by the lovely @grapecaseschoices to make my Inky in this picrew and share three facts about them. Thank you, this was fun! (it made me very happy that the picrew had freckles haha)

Here are some autumn vibes for my darling Rhiann ^^

She loves to bake! If she hadn't been a mage, she would have run a bakery. In fact, she does open a cute café in Ostwick after disbanding the Inquisition. Sure, baking may not be as easy with only one arm, but with the help of a few people she hires and who quickly become friends, and some of Dagna's inventions, she manages just fine!

Remember the quest in the Hinterlands where you have to bring Druffy the druffalo back to his farm? Well, she adopted him! He seemed unhappy (why else would he have escaped?), so she decided the Inquisition would give him a loving home.

She'd be hard-pressed to admit it, even to herself, but she is afraid of her own magic. It doesn't help that her magic is very much influenced by her emotions, which tend to run high. An outburst of anger may cause flames or her fear might result in frost. As any mage can tell you, this combination of strong emotions and magic is a danger to anyone around, most of all the mage themself.

Tagging: @lykegenia, @nerdierholler, @roguelioness, @evilbunnyking, @onewomancitadel and anyone else who has an Inquisitor they'd like to share (seriously, feel free to tag me, I'm not sure who is into DA on here)

[warpedlegacywrites]

The Reign, ch19: The Sky Is Watching

Theresa and her band make their way through the Fallow Mire.

“Remind me to thank Harding for properly informing us about the water!” Dorian shouted. His own reserves were running low, forcing him to resort to using his staff as a melee weapon. A hard swing knocked a skull clean off the shoulders of the nearest corpse. It bounced across the mossy ground until it was crunched beneath one of the Iron Bull’s massive boot heels.  Bull barely noticed, carving a wide swathe with his greataxe. His battle-roar was nearly a match for the menacing thunder overhead. At least he was having fun.  “You could have stayed at camp and let Solas take your place,” Blackwall reminded Dorian, plunging his sword straight through an exposed ribcage and swinging up, cutting the corpse in half from the waist up.  “And miss out on this lovely display of southern charm?” Dorian gave an aggravated cry as his boots sunk into the wet mud, holding him in place. He was forced to expend energy he barely had to fend off more bodies with a spout of flame while he dislodged himself.  Cole, who was similarly ensnared, declared forlornly, “The mud wants my feet to stay.”  “It certainly does.” Dorian tsked over his unsalvageable boots. “Is this what Fereldans might consider a tourist trap?”  “Aw, what’s the matter?” Bull called mid-swing. “Not enough slaves to rub your footsies?”  “My footsies are freezing, thank you!” Dorian gritted his teeth and pushed back against a particularly determined skeletal figure, sending it right into Brycen’s shield, which promptly shattered it. “If this is what spring is like, I shudder to think of summer. However do you manage winters?”  That last was directed at me, since Dorian knew I shared his distaste for the cold. I tossed him a chastising look before sizing up a gathering cluster of corpses charging straight at me. I channelled my annoyance into a chain of lightning, dispatching them all at once before they could summon more.  “Once again,” I told him, panting heavily, “I’m from Ostwick, not Ferelden.” I sank the end of my staff into the mud and leaned on it, hazarding a glance around. That appeared to be the last of them. For now. My scarf had fallen from my nose at some point during the fighting, and I quickly adjusted it back into place. “Although honestly, nationality doesn’t seem to matter much when you’re a mage.” Mattrin and Margot exchanged awkward glances, making me feel just a little guilty for my bitter tone. But only a little.  “Unless you’re Tevinter.” Dorian clapped me on the shoulder, using me for support while he caught his breath. “Then it appears to be the only thing that matters.” “Ehh, quit your whining and hike up your skirt, mage boy,” Bull grunted and rested his axe over his shoulders with arms stretched from one end to the other.  Dorian glared daggers at him. “At least I’m wearing clothes. Why are you always bare-chested?”  “Just for your benefit, big guy.” Bull flashed his teeth in a hungry grin while Dorian sputtered and struggled to come up with a snappy rebuttal.  

DAFF Tag List: @rakshadow, @rosella-writes, @effelants, @bluewren, @breninarthur,

@ar-lath-ma-cully, @dreadfutures, @ir0n-angel, @inquisimer, @crackinglamb,

@theluckywizard, @oxygenforthewicked, @exalted-dawn-drabbles, @melisusthewee, @blarrghe,

@agentkatie, @delicatefade, @leggywillow, @about2dance, @plisuu,

@hekaerges

[circtheeunbroken]

Alexa, play 'Family Ties' by Baby Keem ft. Kendrick Lamar-- detais on each lady below the cut

Yvenne Cousland: Queen of Ferelden, Duchess Dowager of Wycome, 'The Black Pearl of Highever', 'The Witch of Highever', 'Yvenne Stormborn', 'Yvenne of the Golden Eyes'. Syvonne Hawke: Viscountess Consort of Kirkwall, Viscountess Regnant of Kirkwall, 'The Rose of Kirkwall', 'The Dragon of Kirkwall', 'The Fereldan Heifer', 'The Great Muse'. Amaranta Trevelyan: Lady Inquisitor of the Second Inquisiton, Comtesse of Lancre, the Herald of Andraste, Senior Enchanter of Montsimmard Circle, 'The Bitch of Verchiel', 'The Jewel of Ostwick', 'Amaranta Flame-hair', 'Amaranta of the Glowing Halberd'.

[partystoragechest]

A story of romance, drama, and politics which neither Trevelyan nor Cullen wish to be in.

Canon divergent fic in which Josephine solves the matter of post-Wicked Hearts attention by inviting invites four noblewomen to compete for Cullen's affections. In this chapter, Trevelyan has someone she'd like to impress.

(Masterpost. Beginning. Previous entry. Next entry. Words: 3,848. Rating: all audiences, bar a few swears.)

Chapter 42: The Ball

The Great Hall was adorned in its finest, the banners of the Inquisition unfurled. A quartet played upon the dais, the floor before them awaiting its dancers. Attendees of every strata—advisors, digintaries, mages, soldiers—exhibited their most exquisite attire, anticipating the arrival of their guests of honour.

The door thundered open. A herald announced their names:

“Presenting! Lady Erridge of West Coldon, Lady Samient of Samient, Baroness Touledy of Val Misrenne, and Lady Trevelyan, of Ostwick!”

The Ladies strode in, none finer than they. Lady Erridge wore her pinkest, most ruffliest dress yet; Lady Samient wore her tightest, of dark, snakish leather; the Baroness wore her most glamorous, a gown in deep and passionate red—with a mahogany cane to match, of course.

Trevelyan entered last of all. The ballgown she wore? Unrecognisable.

The black brocade was gone, the lace ripped from its seams with wicked delight. All that remained was perfect canvas of purest navy, onto which it could be painted—with shining, silvery thread.

Her mother would’ve fumed at the very idea. But what good was learning embroidery, if one did not use it in defiance? Each Lady had taken up a quadrant of her own, yet the stitches they had sewed were all the same: dozens upon dozens of tiny, shimmering, stars.

Trevelyan sparkled with every step. Diamonds glittered around her neck, lent eagerly by the Baroness. Every candle’s flame glistened upon her. Even the night sky could not compare.

Were it not for the musicians, the room would have been stunned to silence. Whispers of admiration made their circuit. Trevelyan drank in the praise, striding through the parting crowds. They led her to the foot of the dais, where the Ladies had gathered, and where an elegant figure—clothed in blue and gold—stood tall. With little more than a smile and a gesture, Lady Montilyet brought the room to a hush.

“Friends of the Inquisition!” she proclaimed. “Thank you for attending! If I may, I wish to propose a small toast, to some of our departing guests.”

She raised her glass. “A toast to Lady Erridge and Lady Orroat, to the union of your families and of Coldon! A toast to the Baroness Touledy, for victory in Val Misrenne! And a toast to Lady Samient, for her safe journey home!”

Glasses and steins clinked together, accompanied by a hearty cheer.

“But to Lady Trevelyan of Ostwick,” Montilyet continued, “we do not say farewell. Gathered friends, may I please introduce you, to our new Arcanist!”

Applause went up, echoing off the walls, and filling the room with joy. Trevelyan laughed in delight, and caught glimpses of her friends amongst the crowd. Varric clapped, Dorian hollered, and even Sera cheered—though none were as enthusiastic as Dagna herself!

Still, there was one face she could not quite find.

“Tonight, we celebrate!” Montilyet declared. “So please, enjoy!”

The band launched into triumphant fanfare; good humour and good company were the orders of the evening. The Ladies, all aflutter, went about these goals with giddiness and verve.

“Won’t you come dance?” asked Erridge, having already recruited Lady Orroat to her cause.

Trevelyan startled, her attention elsewhere. She stumbled and stammered over her excuses. “Oh! Later, perhaps? There’s something, I, um...”

Lady Samient picked up on her meaning, and picked up her slack. “Come, Lady Erridge! I’ll dance with you.”

Appeased, Lady Erridge escorted her away. Trevelyan withdrew from the dancefloor.

She could dance another time. She did not wish to muss her hair or catch her skirt. Her eyes scanned the party. Her fingers trembled. The moment he saw her had to be perfect.

A hand caught her shoulder. The Baroness, apparently having already procured a drink, leant over, and tilted it forward.

“There,” she whispered.

The crowd parted, as if by her will. True to her word, at the other end of the room, there he stood. The man she’d been searching for.

The Commander.

Maker, he had only become more handsome the longer she had known him. That rough-hewn jaw of his, and the dishevelment of stubble upon it; the subtle waves in his hair, hints of his rebellious curls; those dimples upon his cheeks—the thumb-prints of the divine, left where the Maker’s scultping hand had gone astray.

And his weary eyes, whose gentle gaze found her, and drew her closer.

Trevelyan admired, as she approached, the coincidence of the navy blue doublet that Lady Montilyet had undoubtedly advised him to wear. Hm. She liked him better in red. Suited him more, perhaps—though it mattered little. There was nothing that could dull the shine of him; true gold, after all, did never rust.

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, as he straightened to greet her. And he would have done so, perhaps warmly, perhaps sweetly—had a scout, uniformed and on duty, not appeared at his side.

Ah, fuck.

They whispered something to him beneath the hubbub of the ball, which sharpened back into focus. Though Trevelyan heard nothing of the Commander’s reply, when his attention returned to her, his smile was gone.

“Arcanist,” he said, with a bow. “I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse me. There is urgent business to which I must attend.”

Bloody typical.

“Of course,” she told him, magnanimously. “Duty calls.”

“At inconvenient times,” he muttered.

“No duty is ever convenient,” she commented. That seemed to amuse him, at least.

“I will return as soon as I am able, I assure you.”

“Yes, Commander.”

She curtsied to him, and allowed him to depart. The scout lingered by the rotunda door; the Commander followed them through.

Gone.

Trevelyan looked down at her pretty, sparkly skirt, and fluffed it up, pointlessly. Not quite the moment she’d been hoping for.

Oh, well. She would have ample opportunity for such moments with him in the coming days. If he didn’t get called away by something or other during those, too.

Stowing her frustration, Trevelyan returned to the party. There was plenty there to distract her, anyway. She watched the Ladies dance together; she enthused with Dagna about their work; she spoke to Lady Montilyet about her new quarters (ready tomorrow!); and she gossiped with Dorian about absolutely nothing of note—though he was, as always, terribly good conversation.

Yet still no Commander.

The noise of the music and the chatter and the stomps of the dancing were beginning to blur in her brain. Dorian noted her change in temperament, as she attempted to peer through the garden door from afar. Too many in attendance; the party had spilled out into it. It was no less busy out there than it was in here.

“Try up there,” Dorian suggested, indicating the mezzanine above. It seemed Sera had been banned from it today, as there was no skulking to be seen. “It has a balcony, if you need some air.”

“Thank you,” said Trevelyan. She’d had little cause to ever stray up there before—but this seemed as good a reason as any. She bid him farewell, and escaped up the stairs.

The moment she reached their peak, her troubled mind calmed. Mere feet above the chaos, the music came quieter, the conversation nothing more than ambience. Thank the Maker.

Besides, this mezzanine was well-furnished for a somewhat hidden space, with a luxurious chaise and portraits of figures Trevelyan did not quite recognise. The candelabrum here were not lit, leaving all illumination to that of the moons, whose glow trickled through a pair of glass doors—beyond which, as promised, was a balcony.

But Trevelyan felt enough at ease to stay inside—and she found the view of the party below to be quite of interest. The dancers weaved such wonderful patterns; outfits, in all colours, were arrayed like a painter’s palette. She could watch, as those she knew flitted from one group, to another. An enjoyable pict—

The rotunda door opened, drawing her eye. The Commander entered the hall. He strode into the party with such determination, it was as if it did not exist around him. Trevelyan traced his path as it led him, direct, to the Baroness.

They huddled against a wall. He whispered something. Urgent business? Oh, no.

But the Baroness smiled. Wider and wider. She asked him a question; he replied with nod. She placed a hand over her heart, and sighed. Trevelyan did the same.

If the news they shared was what she hoped, then she was rather glad she hadn’t kicked up a fuss at the Commander’s departure. Because if it was what she hoped, then he could have left all night, and still she would smile.

Maker, she had to see the Baroness—and she would have, if not for the feet hurrying up the stairs. The Baroness? No cane. Then—!

The Commander sprang onto the landing, startling himself as much as he startled her, determination abandoning him in an instant. “Arcanist!” he stammered, attempting to bow. “Forgive me—Dorian told me you were here.”

That crafty bastard. Trevelyan put his schemes aside, and asked, “Is everything all right, Commander? What was your urgent business?”

Before he’d even said a word, he smiled. That alone brought her relief. “There was a message from the Inquisitor,” he told her. “The battle is won. Val Misrenne is safe.”

Trevelyan could scarcely believe it. She clasped a hand over her mouth, a beaming smile beneath it. She shook her head, out of sheer incredulity. By Andraste. She could not fathom how dear Touledy felt.

“Thank the Maker,” she breathed. “Or, I suppose—thank you, Commander.”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “I think it is the Inquisitor’s party and the guard of Val Misrenne who ought to have the credit of it.”

“Of course, but you may take a little as well, Commander. Your handling of the situation was… impressive, to say the least.”

Such a compliment did not seem to sit well with him, for he stuttered as if he had not the words to form a reply. Awkwardness prevailed, until his fortunes changed, and his eyes chanced upon the balcony doors.

“Forgive me, I didn’t meant to disturb you. Were you… headed outside?”

Trevelyan smiled. She looked at them, then at him. “Preferably not alone.”

“Oh. I could...”

She backed into the doors, her eyes beckoning him to follow. He trailed after her as if in a trance, stepping through, to the tranquil night beyond.

The stars above shone in greeting, illuminating the finely-carved stone of the balcony balustrade. Trevelyan rested herself upon it, gazing out. The Commander’s presence, a warmth in the absence of the sun, settled beside her.

“It’s... a nice night,” he said.

She quite agreed. The entire courtyard was laid out before them, from the tavern—as lively as the party they’d left behind—to the stables—quiet, at this time of day. Moonlit stone, punctuated by glowing torchlight, encircled the fortress, and banished the darkness from its embrace.

“I, ah, have something for you,” he said, hand fumbling within his jacket. “I believe this is yours.”

He managed to locate this ‘something’, and freed it from its concealment. A white cloth, that flashed in the moonlight, embroidered with leaves Trevelyan recognised. It was far more pristine than the last time she’d seen it.

The napkin slipped pleasantly from the Commander’s fingers into her own. She noted the warmth of his proximity, still lingering within the weave, and the sweet, earthy scent that had been left by his possession.

“Technically,” she teased, “I believe it is Lady Montilyet’s.”

“I hardly think she’ll miss it.”

“I certainly hope so.” She tucked it away—safe. “Thank you, Commander.”

“Thank you for the use of it,” he said. “Though, speaking of Lady Montilyet—you, ah, took the offer. To become Arcanist.”

“I did.”

“Good.”

“Good?”

The Commander stammered, “For you—I mean. I mean, I am glad. That—despite how you came to be here—you have found enough reason to stay.”

Trevelyan shook her head, and smiled. “I know that I ought to have left, and truly have started my life afresh… but that would have been dishonest, to what I truly want.”

“May I ask… what is it?”

“What?”

The Commander met her eye. “That you… want?”

She bit back the smile that threatened to betray her. “Well… I suppose there is one thing—”

Feet clattered up the stairs. Trevelyan stopped herself. As if she were summoned by these precise circumstances, Lady Erridge stumbled out onto the mezzanine.

“Lady Trevelyan!” she called. “Oh, Commander, there you are! Sorry to disrupt, but I came to see if you should like to dance!”

The Commander shook his head. “No, thank you. I don’t dance.”

Erridge giggled. “I know! I wasn’t speaking to you, Commander! Come, Lady Trevelyan! The Commander shall have plenty of time to whisper with you when we are gone!”

Though the interruption was not exactly ideal, Trevelyan could not deny the sentiment. She curtsied to the Commander, somewhat apologetically.

“It seems I am summoned away. Urgent business, I believe they call it.”

His mouth tilted into a smirk; it made her skin tingle. “Another time, then.”

“Of course.”

Raucous music caught their ears, and Erridge perked. “Come along!” she said, snatching up Trevelyan’s hand. She threw a hasty farewell to the Commander over her shoulder, and whisked Trevelyan away. They tumbled down the stairs together, bursting onto the main floor of the hall—as the band cued a jig.

“Over here!” called Samient and Orroat, from the dancefloor. In the absence of Lady Erridge, they had partnered together—but saved a spot beside them, just in case.

Trevelyan and Erridge squeezed past the other dancers, and hurried to take it. They joined hands—properly, this time—and waited for the song to start, giggling all the while.

Strings and wind erupted into a prancing melody of alternating highs and lows, and caught them quite off-guard. But Lady Erridge sprang to action, and Trevelyan followed her lead. They bounced around the floor with zest and zeal, clapping their hands, kicking their legs into the air. Skirts clashed and flew, an explosion of fabric and colour.

It burst apart, into an exchange of dancers. Trevelyan sailed into the arms of Lady Orroat, who cut as fine a form as one could expect.

“So this is what you were all up to yesterday?” she said, of Trevelyan’s dress. “Maker, it’s beautiful!”

Though the compliment was quite routine, a look of panic struck the passing Lady Erridge. “Look, dear Orroat!” she called, loosing a hand from Samient’s, to jab her finger at some collection of stars. “I sewed those ones!”

Dancers parted again, to what must have been Erridge’s utmost relief. Trevelyan swapped Orroat for Samient, the latter of whom smiled as if amused.

“It seems dear Erridge has quite reversed her position on your knowing Lady Orroat,” she whispered.

Trevelyan giggled. “Good, for I could hardly say we should make such a handsome couple as they!”

Nor one so well-suited. It seemed the touch of her dear Orroat’s hand had quelled Lady Erridge’s worry in an instant, and the pair twirled and danced so pleasantly to the eye, it made Trevelyan miss a step. Samient ably accounted for the fumble. It was a wonder how she danced so well, in a dress so constricting. Then again, it was a wonder how this was Trevelyan’s first stumble, in a dress so grand.

Though their jig came to an end, another began—and Lady Erridge would not be satisfied with just the one! Trevelyan was made to dance the next three complete, until—quite exhausted—she formulated an excuse, and made her exit.

The sight of the Baroness at the edge of the dancefloor was quite welcome, as if safety and anchor in a storm. Trevelyan hurried towards her, and greeted her with a smile and an embrace—for which they both knew the reason.

“I’ve heard the news,” she said, as she recovered her breath. “How do you feel?”

The Baroness sighed. “Relieved. When I leave for my home tomorrow, I shall return to find it at peace—but that peace has not come without sacrifice. And yet, I know it could have been so much more. That Val Misrenne and its people still stand is worth celebrating.”

“It is. And I hope that it brings you peace, as well.”

Trevelyan hugged her again—but the music’s sudden and effervescent return caused her to jump. Laughing at herself, Trevelyan glanced back at the dancefloor.

“You know, I am surprised Lady Erridge has not called you up for a jig!”

The Baroness chuckled. “No, no, my leg is far too frail for that.”

“Really?” Trevelyan raised an eyebrow. “I remember you saying that you still dance.”

“I do.” She grinned. “But the leg is an excellent excuse.”

Trevelyan caught her meaning. “Lady Erridge’s enthusiasm is quite difficult to match.”

“Indeed. She has the stamina of a demon. Though I’m sure Lady Orroat could find some use for that.”

Trevelyan laughed. “Your Ladyship! Please, I feel so terrible teasing her!”

“Then you should not like to hear what we say about you and him.”

The Baroness winked, as if to point. Trevelyan, utterly confused by who ‘him’ was, heeded the suggestion. She turned, laid her eyes upon the man in question, and groaned. Weaving past the dancers was—she ought to have guessed it—the Commander.

“Oh, Maker! You all have far too much—” She halted, realising the Baroness’s mouth was half-open, her cane being raised in the air. “No, no—!”

“Commander!”

He heard the call. His head whipped round. No stopping it now—he was coming towards them.

“Baroness!” Trevelyan hissed.

Touledy smiled, gave a suggestive flick of her brow, and said nothing more. Though Trevelyan was almost glad of this—the Commander ought not hear anything she was thinking.

“Ladies,” he greeted, upon arrival. “Is there something you need?”

“Why, yes,” said Touledy, all too confidently. What was she up to? “Lady Trevelyan here wishes another dance, but I am afraid I am unable to”—she flashed her cane—“would you be able to dance with her Ladyship, in my stead?”

“Oh.” The Commander softened. "Are you all right?”

Trevelyan noted, rather indignantly, that the Commander asked this question with the same sort of gentle voice that he often put on for her. This was a concept which, she suddenly discovered, she did not like. Why, oh why, did she have to make him befriend the other Ladies? Fool.

“Yes, thank you,” the Baroness answered, “but her Ladyship must have a dance.”

Trevelyan rolled her eyes. “But Baroness, the Commander does not like to dance, and I—”

“I could try,” he said.

Trevelyan stared at him. She thought of a thousand questions in response to this. But somehow, the only one she could quite manage was:

“What?”

“If you would like to.”

Oh. Well, there was little chance of her saying anything other than, “Yes.”

The Baroness grinned, relishing in her triumph. “Go on, then,” she said, “enjoy.”

Easier said than done. At least Trevelyan had danced enough jigs with Lady Erridge to know what she was to do with them, now. In her mind, as they walked to the floor, she went over the steps. Left, left, kick, clap. Switch. Then to the right? But—

The music grew in volume. Yet it sounded like no jig she’d ever heard. Trevelyan realised that the musicians had betrayed her. Not a jig. Not at all.

Sweet, slow strings floated across the hall. A… romantic melody, that had couples approaching the floor. Dear Maker fucking Andraste shitting Void. People linked hands and put them on waists and Trevelyan realised that she was in the midst of it, surrounded, and there was no escape, and she would have to do those things herself.

She faced the Commander. Maker, why did he have to look so pretty and be so sweet? This sort of thing was far simpler with unimportant suitors that one could so easily discard after, even if one did step on their toes.

He offered a hand. Trevelyan’s shook.

But still, they met.

Her fingers slid into his palm, sensing the warmth that emanated from beneath the leather of his glove. The feeling of his skin, however rugged or tender, was cruelly left to the imagination. She savoured it regardless.

Her other hand gathered up her skirts, like the rest of the dress-wearers were doing. Almost in position. There was simply one last thing to emulate—

The Commander’s hand moved for her waist, hesitant in its approach. The first touches of his fingertips—gentler even than that of cotton or down—caused her body to tense. She did not know how she was to bear his entire hand.

But his hand stopped short. It instead hovered over the fabric of her dress, as if afraid to press any further. Disappointing.

Nevertheless, the gentle strings of anticipation harmonised into a symphony. Dancing commenced, and the Commander’s feet shifted. Trevelyan mirrored his steps. Her nerves hit a peak.

And then, began to fade.

Because dancing with him was unlike dancing with anyone she had danced with before. It felt different. Gentler. Warmer. Safer. No pressure for extravagance, or flourish. It almost did not matter if she was dancing well or not. It was only him that mattered.

“You should dance more often,” she whispered to him. “You do it well.”

He smiled, softly, and said, “All right.”

Her words must have emboldened him, for his grip around her hand firmed and strengthened, and he drew her closer by its pull. His other hand slipped around her back, fitting perfectly into the mold of her body. The gap between them was more indistinct than ever.

Yet in that closeness was comfort. Her head, laid on his shoulder. The warmth of his chest, felt within her own. That gentle, soothing sway they shared. She let her eyes fall shut, the dancers fall away, and listened only to the beat of his heart. Trevelyan could have stayed like that for an eternity.

But the music slowly, gradually, dulled to quiet. The other dancers reappeared around them, the party audible once more. It was over.

They came to a standstill. Trevelyan’s hand reluctantly left his grasp; his trailed away from her waist. Yet still, she smiled, for nothing could take it from her lips.

“Thank you,” she said.

“Of course,” he replied.

“I shan’t make you dance another.”

“That’s… all right.” He rubbed his neck. “Will you, ah, be stargazing tonight?”

She played with her dress. “Most likely.”

“Ah. Good.”

She curtsied, he bowed. He left, she stayed. Her feet still wobbled, a little.

But she would have to recover quickly. For she turned to her side, and saw complete what had, until now, been only a disruption in her periphery: the Ladies, huddled together, in keen observance.

Trevelyan shook her head, and, before they could open their mouths, told them firm:

“Not one word.”

[tirednecromancer]

Do hit me with all the Martina lore though, if she still tickles your brain so many years later!

Sorry for the wait, I literally had this all typed out on google docs but then I ended up writing more of my Elden Ring fic and got lost in my own bullshit.

Martina Trevelyan, the first born and heir apparent until she was discovered as a mage. She has two different modes in my head, when I ship her with Gaspard, she is 35 and a bit past her prime, but there is a whole plot from Divine Leliana to make her Gaspard wife, so they can place a legitimate born mage on the sun burst throne.

When I imagine Martina and Alexius, she is the first enchanter of Ostwick and the old friend and once mentor of Vivienne. She is 51 to Alexius 55. She is bitter. She lost her disciples when the tear in the sky appeared and the conclave went up in flames. She commiserated to his pain in the same way Fiona does, about the idea of losing a precious child. So she forgives him, she accepts his anger at the death of his son. She sits by his side as he receives the news. She is the one who pushed Dorian to reconnect with him, and she together with Gereon, because he is just Gereon to her now, they rage at Dorian's father, because that foul man did not deserve a son, much less a living one. Poor Dorian, gets angrily adopted by a bitter and a grieving mages all at once.

[herald-divine-hell]

I can't think of a specific question right now but I'd love to know more about your Inquisitor x Leliana headcanons. For any or all of your Inquisitors.

Aw. Thank you for the asks!

I have two Inquisitors whom I primarily ship with Leliana.

The oldest, and perhaps dearest to me in my heart, is Alexandra Trevelyan, but there is also Amayian Trevelyan, too.

Alexandra Trevelyan and Leliana

Alexandra was intrigued by Leliana when she first saw her, and it grew even more when Leliana called for seeking aid from the rebel mages than the Templars, which she assumed some of the Chantry like Leliana would have been more supported of.

Alexandra helps Leliana rekindle her love for stories. It is less that Alexandra pesters her to tell stories, but in this case it is Leliana who is hearing stories - the ones born when Alexandra explored the Fade during her time in the Circle, and Free Marcher and Orlesian tales she heard from her mother and father.

Although Alexandra is constantly seen by her fans (primarily my friends, lol) as being suave and seductive, when it came to getting Leliana to fall in love, it was less seductive (though it did play a role), and more earnestly on Alexandra's part. The poor mage is incredibly stubborn, and although she does not know Leliana like Josephine, she sees kindness in her, glimpsed between the cracks Leliana provides every once and a while. It makes her all the more interested in Leliana.

Leliana herself found Alexandra amusing, a pleasant past-time. Alexandra's wit endeared her, and both are increadibly work-oriented, so Alexandra often worked with her in the Rookery, aiding each other in the others report, and Leliana giving her advice as a good advisor is meant to do. It started expand from there.

For Amayian Trevelyan and Leliana

Leliana and Amayian actually met in Origins. During his time at the Circle, Amayian had a prophetic dream (born from his reincarnated soul of Andraste) that urged him to go south, to find a flaming rose upon a mountain of ash. This lead him to escape Ostwick to Ferelden, around the time the Battle of Ostagar occured, and when Loghain closed off the kingdom. Without much to go off on, in a foriegn land, Amayian sort of migrated, trying to head to the mountains. One night, he was found by the Warden and the co. and taken in.

Leliana fretted over him constantly in Origins. Amayian was just a boy, just shy of nineteen, who seemed to take everything too seriously and who had an emptiness in his eyes that endeared her to him.

Because of this, Leliana and the Warden nearly always sat by him. He almost became the Origins' crew little brother, though Amayian himself was uncomfortable with the situation and really didn't know how to react to it all.

One night, when Leliana was singing, Amayian heard an Orlesian lullaby being strummed by her lyre, and sang the song quietly to himself, because it was a similar song his mother sang to him when he was a babe.

This, of course, excited Leliana. She was finally getting something out of the mule-head. Gently and softly, she would push him to sing, and Leliana allowed him to toy with his lyre, teaching him how to play it.

Of course, Amayian fell. And he fell hard. And he didn't know what falling meant. He did not understand why his throat clamped shut and his heart raced. At one point, he went to Wynne, saying that he thinks he's having a heartattck.

Wynne found it absolutely amusing and tried to reassure him that these things were natural.

That only made him more stubborn. No it wasn't. He never had such a feeling before. He never once looked at a person and felt sweat gather on his forehead, touch the back of his neck. He didn't know why his eyes lingered when she smiled and why he liked hearing her laughter. He was afraid something was wrong with him.

Especially since the Warden and Leliana was in love.

Amayian also has a great fear of healing magic. His own failure to aid in his mother's bleeding when she was dying from blood-loss made him fear his healing powers. This became a point of contention because at one point Amayian did heal Leliana...but when the Warden was bleeding after the battle, Amayian froze up, and he fled.

This caused Leliana to be confused and angry with him. The confusion soon gave away and anger swiftly took over as the years gone by and her failures to find him, or the others to find him.

Fast-forward a decade later in Inquisition, and Leliana is both relieved and angry that this young boy is alive.

And who told him he could get so tall, anyway?

And she wants to be angry at him. But there is that boy she knows still there, even if he has gotten colder, his eyes harder.

She was willing to burn down a village. But how could she let this Amayian do that? This boy who was one of the first to draw his staff to defend her from Marjolaine's assassins, who took a dragonlings' claw to his back to save her.

Let her be burned, Maker, but leave the poor boy be.

And their relationship kinda expands from there. Both wanting to heal the other, but thinking themselves unworthy of healing.

[rosella-writes]

Hi Rosella, happy Friday! For DADWC, I am here with another poetry prompt, from “Fugue” by Louise Gluck:

10. A golden bow: a useful gift in wartime.

How heavy it was — no child could pick it up.

Except me: I could pick it up.

11. Then I was wounded. The bow was now a harp, its string cutting deep into my palm. In the dream it both makes the wound and seals the wound.

THANK you, I used this to deal with the idea of a mentorship that grew too close within the Circle and a child who was given an adult role far too soon. For @dadrunkwriting

Relationship: Lucas Trevelyan x Senior Enchanter Lydia of Ostwick

Warnings: mentor x student dynamic, abuse of authority, death

~~~

Beautiful, boy.

A warm glow of pride takes root in Lucas’s chest, like an ember gently blown into a flame — Enchanter Lydia’s hands around his help guide the tiniest of magelights towards a sconce, which they plant within with a quick snap of Lucas’s fingers. He’s ten, and this is his first intentional magic. 

Ever after, his success is owed to Lydia. She is the ember of pride that watches his growth within the Circle — her eyes are the ones he searches for when he learns to conduct electricity without scorching the soles of his shoes, when he learns to commune with healing wisps of Compassion, when he raises his first successful barrier against the battering power of an Enchanter. He learns quickly, but he does not do it for his own gratification. He practices and reads and studies for the sake of his mentor’s warm smile. 

Unlike the other apprentices in the Circle, Lucas holds no fear of the Templars — they are guardians, failsafes, as Lydia says. She soothes him with reminders of this in his darker days, when he comes to her with the aching pain of missing home. She folds him to her breast and strokes his hair and hums an old song that replaces any memory of his mother’s voice. 

It’s Lydia who wakes him in the dead of night when he’s seventeen. She holds his face between her hands and presses her forehead to his, whispering frantically as he rouses from deep sleep. He doesn’t know what she says — it could have been a prayer, or advice, or simply an attempt to quell any rising fear. But when the Templars take him past the door he was never permitted through, up the winding stairs, and urge him into a room with soaring ceilings and windows that pour moonlight through their tinted panes, she is not with him. 

His Harrowing is his first magic done without Lydia’s proud, watchful protection. 

Lucas cannot say what he experienced within the Fade when he wakes — the Templars later tell him he cried out, not for his mother, as many apprentices do, but for the Senior Enchanter. She is outside the door, wringing her hands, when he is finally permitted to leave. 

Beautiful boy, she gasps. She takes his face in her hands again and kisses his forehead, and he can remember the sensation of her hot, quick breaths across his hairline and over his tear-stained cheeks even years later. 

My beautiful boy. 

Her last words when Ostwick’s Circle falls carry Lucas to the Conclave itself. He can still feel her blood drying in the sticky creases of his hands, see her violet eyes grow cloudy and tacky and dark like those of a dead fish. He can taste her last dying kiss in his mouth. 

At the Conclave, Lucas’s magic is as wild and barely constrained as it was when Senior Enchanter Lydia first guided his hands. It is both the string of a bow and of a harp, humming beneath his skin — capable of such violence as what laid the Circle low, or of such healing as he tried to weave in the depths of Lydia’s wounds. But where he had excelled in warlike arts, Compassion slipped away from him, and his mentor had grown cold in his arms. He has only the memory of that glowing ember of her pride to carry him — he tries to remember it as he stands among the other mages at the great gathering, how she would find and hold his gaze even in a crowd.

[teamdilf]

Writing Patterns Tag Game

I was tagged by @sinelaborenihilsr2 - thank you!

Rules: list the first line(s) of your last 10 posted fics and see if there's a pattern!

(I've skipped past two NSFW fics with spicy first lines.)

Dance of the Damned:

For her entire life Adrien has cared for her. 

A Boy with a Sweet Smile and Silver Blue Eyes:

Mother is pregnant with her fourth child. 

Afraid to Love, Afraid to Lose:

Flames lick Karlach’s red flesh and the heat radiating off her is enough to burn Petra’s own skin, and she’s a good metre away from her love. 

Quiet Afternoons:

“Pet, I’m cold,” Astarion whines, sliding closer to her and wrapping his arms around her waist, resting his head on her shoulder and looking at her, doe-eyed.

Delicate Morning Flowers and House Wine:

Her name was Coralie Trevelyan, and a bit of discreet asking around told Dorian that she was an enchanter at Ostwick Circle Tower, and one of the representatives sent to the Conclave.

The First Anniversary:

It’s been a year since the gold-plated puppy broke Iris’ heart with his promise that he would tear the world asunder, and for nearly a year now she’s lived with Dorian as his roommate in Tevinter.

Long Way Home:

“Dad? I’ve done the math.”

Yes, You Can Exercise Like a Vampire: A Baldur's Mouth Gazette Feature:

“Good news, Colin!” Ettvard Needle says in the tone that usually precedes the opposite.

Lost Souls Like Us:

Karlach has decided she’s going to be happy after her breakdown following Gortash’s death. 

New Beginnings:

Don’t become his.

What do I notice? I tend to start my works with a simple statement that establishes the setting or tone of the work, and/or the POV character of the first chapter. Occasionally, I'll start with an attention-grabbing first line that doesn't really seem captivating outside context.

No-pressure tagging @thetrashbagswasteland, @outpost51, and @sparatus.

[contreparry]

Happy Friday! For the characters of your choice, [pulling other person close, feeling them breathe a sigh of relief] and “I’m so proud of you, you know that?”

Here's some younger Trevelyan and Enchanter Lydia in Ostwick Circle for @dadrunkwriting (I love writing stuff about my interpretation of Lydia).

No one told her how miserable she would feel when she woke up from her Harrowing.

Evelyn prepared as best she could. She grilled her former peers, the apprentices who passed the trial, but their answers were shifty and vague at best. She read first-hand accounts, though most of those were in the restricted section. That hadn't stopped her, of course, but it made retrieval and studying more difficult. All she could glean from her research was that Harrowings were personal, and that Mages couldn't do much of anything to prepare beyond remembering their training and not giving into temptation.

She thought she did rather well for herself, though she now understood why no one talked about Harrowings. The knowledge that a sword hung over her at all times was alarming enough, but the way that the Fade and those who dwelled within it shifted based on her own tumultuous emotions, playing upon desires and longing that she was barely able to voice to herself-

No one talked about that. How could they? But Evelyn woke up from her Harrowing and nearly burst into tears where she lay on the straw mat on the floor. She somehow held herself together, and Lydia quickly bundled her up in a blanket and whisked her off to the infirmary. Shock was a common symptom of Harrowings, she announced, and none of those present protested. Not even the Templars. So Evelyn sat on a proper cot, bundled up in a thick blanket despite the autumn sunlight that poured through the windows and gilded the room in gold. Lydia shoved a mug of chamomile tea in her hands. When she sipped it she tasted honey along with the floral herb. Lots of honey.

Evelyn clutched the mug in her hands and sobbed, great heaving gasps rattling her shoulders as she tried to regain her composure. Lydia put honey in her tea. So much honey it was nearly undrinkable, just the way she liked it when she was little and first arrived at Ostwick Circle.

Lydia's arm wrapped around her shoulders, a supportive hug that Evelyn buried herself into as she cried. Lydia didn't speak. None of those "there theres" or "dry your tears" like one of the other Enchanters might do. She let Evelyn cry until there were no more tears to cry. Her head ached fiercely and she felt like a wrung out dish rag, but Evelyn felt... better. Not good, but better.

"My Harrowing was difficult," Lydia said. "And I'm certain yours was a challenge as well."

"Not in the way I expected," Evelyn confessed, taking a cautious sip of her now cool tea. She expected an epic battle, a demon with horns like swords and wreathed in flame, but hers was... so ordinary. It was something that could be, if only- but it wasn't possible. That was what saved her in the end. Pessimism.

What a miserable thing to be grateful for.

"That is how it tends to be," Lydia replied. "Which is why there isn't any way to properly prepare you. It is... a test of faith. As much for us as it is for our apprentices."

"I was back at Trevelyan Hall. In my bedroom. The demon- he even got the curtains right," Evelyn murmured. White lace. Delicate. Perfect for a noble child. There was tea and a three-tier stand full of dainty treats on the table, little sandwiches and scones and petit-fours in beautiful pastel hues neatly arranged on every plate. A little party for a homecoming long wished for, the demon announced with a flourish of his hand. He was wearing her father's face, and that was where he made his mistake. She might have been young when she left home, but Evelyn couldn't remember having ever seen her father smile.

"Mmm. It is a strange thing, how our memories work. Mine remembered all the books I wanted to read in the White Spire and reproduced them perfectly. Dog-eared pages and all," Lydia explained. She squeezed Evelyn's shoulder tightly, and Evelyn leaned into Lydia's comforting touch. Her wispy blond hair tickled her cheek when she dropped her head on Lydia's shoulder, but Evelyn didn't move.

"The menu for afternoon tea was everything I like. That was what kept me grounded. No one at the Hall would prepare a whole tea full of my favorites. Too sweet," Evelyn explained.

"Like candy," Lydia agreed. She hugged Evelyn tighter to her side, pressed her lips to the crown of her head, and sighed. Her whole body shook, as if the tension within her suddenly snapped.

"I'm so proud of you, Evie dear. You know that, right?" she murmured.

Evelyn smiled. "Yes. I know."

[nirikeehan]

internalised prejudice from bad things happen bingo for thalia?

Thank you!! This was a perfect prompt for some Ostwick Circle backstory exploration with Thalia. I had a blast with it.

For @badthingshappenbingo and @dadrunkwriting

WC: 2469

PS the lyrics that get referenced here are from Stolen Roses by Karen Elson.

---

The banging on the door shook Thalia from a dead sleep. “Mage Trevelyan! Open up.” 

She rolled over, opened bleary eyes. Her dormitory, its familiar slanted ceiling with the spiderweb crack in it, greeted her. “I’m coming,” she called, dragging herself from her narrow bed. The air was chilly, and she was only in the thin shift she wore to sleep, her hair hanging past her shoulders in wild tangles. 

I can’t let a Templar see me like this, she thought. She didn’t recognize the gruff voice muffled by the door, which worried her. If you knew which ones you were dealing with, you could adjust your behavior accordingly. Thalia had grown used to the regulars over the years: Jareth liked meek obedience; Stella let you get away with a bit of spunk; never let Wilfred find you alone, especially in a store room. 

She threw one of her clean robes on over her shift, grabbed the long mass of her hair and twisted it. She had no time to braid, and almost as little to secure it in a bun at the nape of her neck, but she would be damned if she let a Templar catch her with her hair down. The banging recommenced as she was pinning the last of it into place. She smoothed the frizzy bits behind her ears, fingers shaking.

Thalia marched to the door and threw it open. “Can I help you?” she asked in her best noblewoman voice. 

The Templar was one of the new ones. An additional retinue had been sent from the White Spire several months prior, supposedly to “shore up” the routine patrols. No one knew why exactly, but rumor claimed it had to do with some unpleasantness at another Circle in the Marches. The man who stood before her in full plate was tall; her eyes leveled on the flaming sword engraved into his chest. He had greasy brown hair flecked with grey, an aquiline nose, and a stony expression. 

“Took you long enough,” he growled, angling past her to see inside. 

“It’s barely dawn,” Thalia pointed out, trying not to sound annoyed. “I was asleep.” 

The Templar’s eyes narrowed, and his mouth tightened. Thalia waited for him to accuse her of lying. Kevan. That’s his name. Knight-Templar Kevan. 

“Knight-Captain Gerard wants to see you,” Kevan said, as if she hadn’t spoken at all. 

In her seven years at the Circle, she had never uttered a word to the Knight-Captain or his Commander, Faith. She was fairly certain neither of them even knew who she was, and she hoped to keep it that way. A chill went through her. “Why?” 

“Not for me to say.” Kevan stood aside, motioning her into the hallway. 

Stunned, Thalia stepped forward, only to remember she was barefoot. “Just a moment. I need to find my shoes.”

She hurried into the recesses of her room, making a show of searching for the slip-ons she already knew were under her bed. Her heart flitted against her ribcage like a frightened bird. Just be calm. Be calm.

After several deep breaths and wearing her shoes, she returned to Kevan. “All right, I’m ready.”

Without a word, he led her from the bedchamber, down the rounded corridor and to the long winding stair. Mage quarters were high up in the stone tower — to lower their chances of escape, her friend Willow had once quipped. Laboratories, classrooms and libraries were on lower levels, administrative offices lower still. Each landing they passed was accentuated by a sconce burnt down low due to the hour, and a tall, narrow window. The windows were wide enough to press one’s eye to, but not much else. Predawn light leaked in, and on each pass Thalia caught a glimpse of either the fog-laden forest or the calm grey sea, depending on their cardinal direction. 

They reached the floor belonging to the Templars, and Thalia wrung her hands while Kevan withdrew a key and unlocked the heavy wooden door. She had not been summoned to the Templar offices in years, not since she’d first arrived at the Circle. She had been sat down in a chair, had her finger pricked by a senior enchanter murmuring platitudes. Then came Knight-Templar Algernon with ink and needles, seizing her chin and turning her face this way and that, a calculation in his eyes that put a cold knot in her stomach.

She hadn’t seen Algernon on patrol in awhile, to her relief. She’d never quite been able to look him in the eye, afterward. 

She followed Kevan to the one doorway with lighted sconces. Kevan knocked lightly and cracked the door without waiting for an answer. “Knight-Captain Gerard, this is the next one.” 

Thalia stayed silent as she scurried in past the scowling Kevan, and bowed to the Knight-Captain in greeting. 

Gerard was an older man, perhaps in his middle fifties. Thalia knew little about him, except that he’d been born in Orlais and retained a slight accent. He’d been Knight-Captain when Thalia joined the Circle. At the time of the Blight, he’d given frequent speeches during assemblies about darkspawn safety. Her dorm mates Matilda and Crispin had mocked the man mercilessly afterward, exaggerating the lilt like players in a farce. It put many acolytes in stitches, but Thalia, whose tutors had drilled her for years on proper Orlesian pronunciation, found the japes rather cruel. 

She thought of this now, staring wide-eyed at the Knight-Captain as he sat behind his large mahogany desk. He was of stocky build — wide and strong and, rumor had it, capable with a sword despite his advanced age. He had a close-cropped greying beard, a shiny bald head, and skin pocked by an old illness. 

Not even fun to look at, Willow had complained once, during a holiday feast when all mages and Templars had sat to table together in the refectory. What’s even the point? 

“Good morning, Lady Thalia,” said Knight-Captain Gerard. Stoic, but not impolite. Thalia was not sure which surprised her more: that he knew her given name, or that he’d chosen to use her title. Most Templars didn’t know or cared that she was nobility; neither did most fellow mages, for that matter. “You must forgive us for summoning you at such an early hour. Please, have a seat.” 

“There’s nothing to forgive, ser,” Thalia said, falling back on remembered courtesies. She thought of following her previous bow to a curtsy, to prove she was a proper lady, but worried that might seem like overkill. She sat down as daintily as she could. “I’m certain you must have good reason.” 

“We do, I’m afraid.” Gerard’s mouth hardened into a line. “Senior Enchanter Lydia is dead.” 

Thalia gaped. “You’re kidding.” 

“I can only assure you we would not joke about something this serious, my lady.” 

She pressed a hand to her forehead, lightheaded. One of the most important mages in the Circle tower, dead? Thalia had not known Lydia well, had never worked with her personally. But like all the other senior enchanters, Lydia’s reputation preceded her. She was certainly not very old — not even so old as the Knight-Captain. Thalia clutched the fabric of her robe in both hands.

“How? Why?” 

“We’re hoping you can help us with that.” Gerard watched her with a flinty gaze. 

A chill settled over Thalia, along with comprehension. “She was murdered, wasn’t she?” 

Gerard cocked his head. “What makes you think so?” 

“Pardon my impudence, Knight-Captain,” Thalia said, “but the Templars wouldn’t be summoning mages in the pre-dawn hours for questioning if you thought it was an accident.” She swallowed hard. “Or natural causes.” 

“You’re a clever girl, Lady Thalia.” Gerard stood, his plate mail clinking as he moved to a nearby bookshelf and withdrew a volume of parchment bound in vellum. Thalia caught a glimpse of her surname written on the cover in careful script. Gerard flipped open the file, squinted as he strolled toward Thalia’s chair. “Always studious, it says here. Dedicated to your lessons. Very few incidents of…” He turned a page. “Insubordination.” 

“Insubordination?” Thalia felt her palms begin to sweat. 

“Mm. All mages have some, it seems.” He waved a dismissive hand, eyes on the file. “It’s all right, never met one who hadn’t had an instance or two. Ah.” He looked up, poking the page with his finger. “9:32 Dragon. You led some of your fellow apprentices in singing subversivesongs.” 

Thalia’s cheeks grew hot. She’d forgotten entirely about the incident in question. “That was six years ago.” 

Some of the younger children had expressed in an interest in the piano that usually sat silent and unused in a common room. Thalia had sat down and, terribly rusty, played the first song that came to mind: an old Free Marcher ballad about loss and longing. 

The thorns on the roses cut through my skin The vultures flew down and then pecked  What lay on the surface was a tiny crack And below was a gigantic wreck 

So I held my head down and I dealt with the blows In hope that I’d soon be free  to go where the stolen roses grow to forget all the bad memories. 

A passing Templar — Jareth, he always seemed to find her in those early days — had overheard and thought her choice of song nefarious. An official reprimand followed, and no more music during their free hours for six months for all the acolytes in her section. Oh, cheer up, Willow chirped when Thalia lifted her tear-stained face from the pillow, we all know that Jareth’s a cunt. I bet it’s ‘cause he likes you and can’t handle it, so he has to ruin everyone’s fun. 

“Indeed,” Knight-Captain Gerard said. “And at times, some of those rebellious feelings, shall we say… fester?” 

Horrified, Thalia shook her head. “Nothing festered. I swear it. I’ve never even touched the piano since!” 

Gerard’s mouth twitched, and he closed the file. He drew himself up to his considerable height and watched her in silence.

“What does this have to do with Senior Enchanter Lydia?” Thalia worried protesting might anger him, but risked it anyway. If he thinks me guilty of something, I deserve to know why. “I barely even knew her, but I didn’t wish her any harm. I don’t see how a song I sang half a decade ago says otherwise.” 

Gerard pursed his lips, then sighed. He strode to the bookshelf and replaced the vellum tome upon its shelf. He lingered there, trailed his hand along the procession of spines. 

“Lady Thalia,” he said carefully, “here at Ostwick we pride ourselves on fostering a peaceful environment for our mages to hone and practice their craft. Unfortunately, the same cannot be said for other Circles throughout Thedas.” 

“What do you mean?” Her voice barely broke a whisper. She thought again of the rumors that had been swirling for months. Kirkwall had come up once or twice, so far away it might as well be a place that existed only in the Fade. Normally, she put no stock in such things, but now… “What’s happened?” 

“Nothing you need concern yourself with. These are restless times on the continent, that’s all. Hopefully it will all blow over soon.” He suddenly looked much older, and quite tired. “You say you didn’t wish Senior Enchanter Lydia any harm. Do you know anyone who did?” 

“No. Of course not. No.” Thalia pressed her lips together, her mind racing. 

“Are you sure? Think hard, my lady. Have none of your fellow mages expressed dissatisfaction with your circumstances as of late?” 

Thalia could think of a thousand moments, a kaleidoscope of slights: Matilda seizing Crispin’s arm to keep him from raising a hand against the patrol that had stopped him for the fifth time that week. Willow stretched out on the sofa by the dormitory hearth, scratching behind her delicately pointed ears. Trouble’s brewing with the new Templars; they’re looking at us all twitchy. Elias hunched over five open books on a library table, unkempt hair stuck in every direction — he never remembered to brush it, now that he’d made Tranquil. Calmly pushing toward her the words of a long-dead Chantry scholar about the nature of sectarian conflict. There’s always a breaking point, Thalia.

Running into Jareth again recently. Realizing how mean his gaze had turned over the years. You know so little about the world, mage, he sneered. It’s got to be like that to keep you lot in line. The horse is out of the barn with the others. There’s only one way to stop it. 

What others? Thalia had asked. Stop what? 

He’d ignored her. She hadn’t seen him again after that. She hadn’t seen a lot of the regulars recently, now that she thought about it. 

“Why are you so certain it was a mage, Knight-Captain?” Thalia asked softly.

Gerard’s expression hardened. “I’m afraid I cannot disclose that information.” 

“Because I can think of a number of Templars who might have cause to hurt Lydia.” Her voice sounded brittle, as scared as she felt, giving voice to the idea at all. 

“My Templars are not suspects in this investigation,” Gerard said, with an infuriating finality.

“Why not?” 

“Because they aren’t,” Gerard snapped. “Are you being obtuse on purpose, girl?”

Thalia flinched, lowering her head. “No, ser. Forgive me, ser.” 

A tense silence followed. She stared at her lap, wringing her hands. Gerard let out a slow breath. “No, forgive me. I should not have raised my voice at you. It’s been… a long night.” He cleared his throat and strode toward the door. His hand reached the knob, pausing there. “If you think of something you may have forgotten, or notice anything that might help us understand what happened here, you’ll tell us, won’t you?”

“Of course, ser,” Thalia lied, staring at the door. Dare she stand, or would that look too much like she wanted t leave? She met his eyes. “I will do so right away.” 

“Excellent. You may return to bed now. I apologize again for disturbing your slumber.” 

Gerard opened the door to reveal Kevan waiting for her, stony-faced. Thalia scrambled to her feet and tried not to run out of the office. 

The Knight-Captain blocked her way with his mailed arm slung across the doorframe. Thalia halted, forced to look up at him. She swallowed. 

“You should know, you were never really a suspect, my lady,” he added quickly. “Standard procedure, you understand. We’re questioning everyone.” 

A deep, seething anger bubbled up in Thalia as she stared at the old man and his contrite face. Every mage, you mean. This time, she did curtsy. “Good luck in your investigation, ser.”

“Right. Yes. Thank you.” Gerard moved his arm, and Thalia escaped into the welcome chill of the dim corridor. 

[eva-cybele]

wolmeric week day 3: AU

Kaede sighed and shoved a rogue lock of blonde hair behind one sharply pointed ear. Usually, the chance to leave the circle tower was a welcome change of pace – there were only so many times a girl could read the same books or blow up the same training dummy – but this assignment was… less than ideal.

Stupid Orlesians.

Her escort cast her an amused glance from behind his shaggy hair. “You know, you seem awfully sour for a woman who just got a free pass to live somewhere that’s not a tower in the middle of nowhere.”

Wrinkling her nose in distaste, Kaede grumbled a quiet, “Shut it, Waters,” in his direction.

Most mages wouldn’t dare speak to a templar like that, but Thancred wasn’t like most templars – they were the only Fereldans in the Ostwick Circle, and had always gotten along well. He was human, but they were both Denerim street rats at heart, even if his path had led to the Order, while hers landed her in the Circle. He had a few other reasons to treat her more kindly than the other mages in the Circle, but, well. Those didn’t bear dwelling on in the cold light of day.

“Oh, don’t be like that. Orlesians aren’t all bad.” His serious expression lasted for about five seconds before dissolving into a snicker. “Damn, I can’t say that with a straight face after all.”

As they passed through a part of the forest that seemed darker and thicker than the relatively sparse woods they had been traveling through for nearly a day now, Kaede finally asked the question that had been on her mind for the entire trip – “Why in Andraste’s name does an Orlesian country vicomte need a mage? And more specifically, why does he need an elven mage from bloody Ostwick? Orlais has Circles, surely he could have found one closer.”

Thancred shrugged, catching hold of the reins of Kaede’s mare in an attempt to guide the beast around a tree that had fallen half over the path. “Apparently he asked for a Knight-Enchanter, specifically. And seeing as how those are in short supply, First Enchanter Matoya determined you were the best candidate.”

“Do you know why he needed a battlemage? And, well… anything about him?” Thancred was always the man who knew things – had things been different, he would have made a great bard, Kaede was sure.

Shoving his bangs out of his face, Thancred cast a look around, then urged his horse a bit closer to hers. “I don’t know much, but rumor is, he’s the Divine’s bastard son.”

Kaede opened her mouth to respond to that – though with what, she did not know – but before she could, a horrifying scream rent the air and a large creature darted directly into their path, trailing blood from several wounds.

“Andraste’s tits, is that a drake?” Even Thancred, who approached most things in life with the same laconic humor, seemed startled by the appearance of dragonkin.

Adrenaline hummed in Kaede’s veins, and she all but leapt down from her saddle, raising her left hand and forming a complex sigil in midair. Recognizing her as a threat, the drake reared his head back to spew a gout of flames their direction, but the fire flowed to the sides and around the shield that hung, invisible, in the air in front of her.

Apparently irritated at the lack of immolation of his prey, the drake lashed out with fang and claw, narrowly missing Kaede as she rolled out of the way, only to find herself face to face with a smaller – but still larger than her – dragonling. And if the cursing behind her was anything to go by, Thancred had met a few of his own.

Kaede braced herself for an attack that never came, for at the moment that the dragonling lunged, a brilliant blue blade lodged itself in the side of the creature’s neck and sliced through muscle and tendon, leaving it half-beheaded and bleeding on the forest floor.

A gloved hand reached down and pulled her to her feet, and Kaede found herself face to face with possibly the most handsome human man she had ever set eyes on, even though his armor was spattered with dragon blood and his wavy black hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat.

“Are you hurt?” A warm, masculine voice with an Orlesian accent was barely audible over the screech of the remaining dragonkin surrounding them, and Kaede shook her head.

Movement caught her eye behind the man, and she abruptly pushed him to the side as the drake rushed forward towards them, reaching for her magic and pushing outwards, until ice crystallized around the creature’s legs, stopping it in its tracks. An arrow immediately lodged itself in a eye socket and the drake screamed as it crumpled.

A strong arm caught her around the shoulder and pulled her close against the mystery man’s chest, spinning to keep her beyond the reach of another dragonling’s lunge, when a lance came down and skewered it between its shoulderblades.

A quick glance over her shoulder revealed Thancred and another human man, with a lance in his hand, fending off the last two dragonlings, and then, finally, everything was quiet.

As she willed her heart to slow back down to a normal pace, the arm around her shoulders relaxed a bit, and her eyes were drawn back up to lock with pale blue ones. “My thanks, my lady. I take it that you are the Knight-Enchantress I sent for, then?”

Blinking in surprise that this was the vicomte she’d been assigned to serve, Kaede couldn’t resist a second look at him – she didn’t know of many Orlesian nobles who fought in places other than the dueling rings of tourneys, but this one looked well at home amongst the chaos of a battlefield.

A loud, Antivan-accented woman’s voice interrupted whatever answer Kaede thought to give, as a dark-skinned elven woman with a face covered in tattoos strode over to the drake and gave its corpse a kick. “Well. At least these aren’t bloody tainted. Unlike the last bunch.”

The grey-haired human man answered with a grunt, nudging the dragonling in front of him with his lance, before pronouncing in a gruff voice, “Aye, but that makes them harder to track.” Silver griffins emblazoned both their armor, and Kaede wasn’t sure which to be more confused by – the appearance of a Dalish elf, or the presence of two Maker-forsaken Grey Wardens.

Finally realizing that she was still more or less in the arms of an Orlesian lordling, Kaede took a step back and looked around the clearing in complete bewilderment – “What in Andraste’s name is going on here?”

The handsome human bent in a shallow bow, his sharp blue gaze never wavering from her face. “My apologies for the late introduction. My name is Aymeric de Borel, and as you can see, we have something of a dragon problem.”

[rhetoricalrogue]

It’s almost 4 am, so I’m thinking of my characters and their fighting styles, as one does when they’re still wide awake.

The Main DA group

Moira: taught by Highever’s finest tutors, but never had to actually put things in practice until the night her family’s home was attacked. Knows how to fight, but she has a learning curve for her to follow through with her attacks with the intent to kill vs running practice drills. Later, Zevran takes her under his wing (pun intended) and picks up where her instructors left off.

Vivian and Gavin (wonder disaster eldest twin duo): mix of quick, practiced knife fighting and using the environment to their advantage. Pretty much anything is a weapon before Gavin’s forced to throw a fireball at their enemies as a heavily ingrained survival tactic. “Take care of your brother” is also a heavily ingrained phrase, so Vivian puts herself in the line of fire to shield and/or take attention away from Gavin without even thinking.

Rolfe: scarily efficient, get the job done quick and move on just as quickly without anyone noticing tactics. The only times he’s flashy is when there’s an audience and he knows he has a role to play for certain perceptions.

Vincent: would rather talk things out, but will fight when given no other option. Normally takes a defensive stance out of habit: casts shields, arcane blasts, etc. but can wipe multiple people out with chain lightning or fire. Has learned how to summon flame in a way that it looks like he’s breathing fire purely for intimidation purposes, earning him the title of the Dragon of Ostwick.

Ravena: had some mandatory weapons training from the Chantry guards and resident templars, but when Rolfe found out that his favorite cousin needed training, he took it upon himself to provide it. The end result was a mix of sneaky, stabby knifework with some dirty fighting tactics thrown in.

Marian, the Sprouts: they fight dirty and every single one of them got their first dagger lessons from Uncle Rolfe (or dad, in Marian’s case.) Bryony and Primrose will bite without warning. Rolfe is incredibly proud of his daughter and nieces.

Alex: WHY would anyone want to fight this boy? He’s a 6’4” human version of a golden retriever who would rather buy you a drink and make friends than actually fight. He can hold his own, but really, you have to get through his sister first and Marian is scary. Takes more after his mom with sword and shield fighting. Has also, like his mama, punched a tree while suffering from seasonal allergies. (He apologized to it later.)

The Detectives

Lucas and Zoe: (if ever there were an AU where any of my detectives were siblings, it would be these two) straight up brawlers, no real finesse save for some self-defense training. Lucas has a more predictable boxing style while Zoe swings fast and hard and angrily without really having an easily telegraphed shot. Both are good for quick fights but lack the stamina and speed for anything more prolonged.

Charles and Rowena: “can we talk this out???” Both of them have little to no experience in combat and would rather find a non-violent outside the box solution if conversation was out of the question.

Astrid: as the result of having a former battle goddess/fey nanny who basically raised her in the place of an absentee mother, she’s trained since practically childhood in multiple forms of combat. (Fiona figured that running practice sword drills = tired kiddo who didn’t fight bedtimes and she was 100% right.) She was on her way to being an Olympic fencer when injuries from a major car accident shut that path down, but Fee modified some training, pulled some strings, and got her really into longsword competitions and LARP tournaments for fun. Adam still hasn’t agreed to sparring with her after finding out that his underground Fight to the (almost) Death opponent is her instructor, but she feels like she could hold her own against him. She also bites, like full jaw power, “I bit Murphy’s nose off when he had the audacity to kidnap me” bite strength. Fiona cried when she heard what her wee beastie had done, she was so proud.

The Oregon Peeps

Paxton: he’s a lover, not a fighter, but used to play baseball in college and still has a hell of a swing with a nail studded and barbed wire wrapped bat.

Rita: the sharpshooter in the relationship. Prefers the quieter crossbow instead of firearms for stealth reasons. Has used a wrench in a pinch, but doesn’t like having to get up close and personal with the freaks while on supply runs.

Elena: silenced handguns are her go-to weapon of choice when out in the shit, but she’d rather be stealthy and avoid conflict with marauders and infected alike before she has to use her sidearm.

The D&D crowd

Briel: “I’m a cleric, but…” main way of healing her friends is to beat up the bad guys before they can actually hurt her friends. Carries a big hammer she’s named Helga and goes into a rage when calm doesn’t quite work.

Molly: fluid, almost graceful moves with a cutlass. She moves like the sea she’s most at home in.

Merwin: “MY WIFE IS SUCH A BADASS” support, but also a stormy brute force to be reckoned with. Fights with a trident he stole claimed as a birthright from his family home.

Daniella: long distance archer who prefers to stay out of harm’s way and offer support to more heavy hitters. “My version of help from above is a sniper on the roof” combat method.

Lilian: can use a longsword, but you can definitely tell she’s not comfortable doing so. She traded Sunny music lessons for sword tips, but is more at home with a well-placed eldritch blast or other offensive spell (preferably at a distance, as she’s almost died three or four times already and would like to Not Do That.)

Damian: he just wants to be left alone with his books, thank you very much. Will throw a fireball if pressed, but would rather work on his illuminated manuscripts in peace.

Darien: fighter with a structured, strategic combat method that he learned from his background as a knight. Tries to keep to a code of chivalrous conduct when possible, feels extreme guilt when he can’t.

Mouse: small, quick, takes the “fuck shit up and get out of harm’s way fast” lessons the Queen of Thieves taught her to heart. Stab, stab, disengage and/or try to pick her target’s pockets before running away is her usual tactic. Has bitten and will bite again.

[lothrilzul]

Dorothia Margareta Amell

9:30 Escaped Kinloch with Jowan because she panicked. She didn’t go with him when he got hired to stay in Redcliffe. She kept a low profile for about a year. 9:31-9:37 Went to Amaranthine when she heard of an Apostate there that fit Sniffles’ description but they said he vanished. She ended up boarding a ship to Ostwick, from where she planned to make her way to Kirkwall, and to look up her family (unknowing Sniffles was there as well), but she never made it. Templars arrested her and she was transferred to the Ostwick Circle where she stayed until the uprising. She joined the rebel mages, but eventually left them when the Tevinter influence was manifesting. 9:37-9:41 She tried to seek out Anders and her cousins, so when she heard famous author Varric was with the Inquisition, and more so that the Inquisitor was a mage herself, she sought out the Inquisitor in Redcliffe. She joined the Inquisition as ‘Healer Maggie’ and asked Lavellan not to tell Cullen her name. Of course he eventually found out anyway. It was awkward at first, but both of them matured since they last met. They eventually bonded over their shared experience of the Circle and the old flame was reignited. 9:44 By the time the Inquisition was disbanded, they married. ^^

[ramblinganthropologist]

Writober 2023 2 - Spiders

Summary: Aeronwen Trevelyan is afraid of spiders. Normally that isn't a problem, but when a new shipment comes in she comes face to face with her fear. Luckily, she has backup.

---

There was nothing like a shipment of fresh books to put Aeronwen Trevelyan in a good mood.

At the moment, she was in the library, surrounded by boxes that held the books rescued by Inquisition scouts from a falling apart mansion somewhere near the border. They hadn’t specified what the books were, or their condition, but just the thought of digging through them brought a spring to her step as she glanced around at her hoard.

Today was going to be a good day.

“Sorry we brought you so much work, Aeronwen. They insisted you would probably want to take a look at these based on where we found them.”

Scout Harding had been in charge of the delivery – she had shown up with the books too. It was always nice to have the dwarf in the library when she wasn’t working on her real job for the Inquisition. Aeronwen was never one to turn down a friendly face, especially if it was hers.

Besides, she had fascinating stories about where she had scouted, and she was always happy to hear them while she worked.

“It’s alright, really.” Aeronwen smiled as she lifted the lid off the first case. The books were old, but none of them looked particularly moldy or decrepit. A bit of dusting, some treatment of worn pages and spines, and they’d be on the shelf in no time. Of course, thoughts of shelving them went to the wayside as she lifted one out of the stack and inspected the cover, bound with an old symbol of the Circle of Magi. “By the Harvester’s scythe, where did you find these?”

It was rare for Circle books to make it out of the towers – the first enchanters were like dragons when it came to their stashes of knowledge. This one, and the others like it stamped with the symbol, looked to have come from somewhere in Nevarra.

Which… well, she always needed more books on Necromancy, if for her own personal study if not for the library’s stash.

“On the border between Ferelden and Orlais.” Scout Harding cocked her eyebrow. “Why? Is something odd about them?”

Aeronwen nodded as she held out the cover. “This came from the circle in Perendale. They must’ve looted it during the Blessed Age.”

She flipped it open – the book sent up dust, but there was nothing worse there. It was a tome on the basics of enchanting magical objects. The sight of it, and the mention of using Tranquil to do so, made her blood run cold. As soon as it was opened, she shut it tight and all but slammed it back.

Of course it had to be about that.

“Are you ok?”

That caused Aeronwen to look up – Scout Harding looked worried, eyebrows knit in concern. She felt her cheeks heat as she glanced away, back to the stack of books that still needed checking out.

It wouldn’t do to lose herself now. She had work to do.

“Bad memories is all. I think I’ll go back to that stack later.” She shook her head, feeling the twinge of pain from the center of her forehead. The brand was treating her better these days, but it still hurt from time to time. It was one of those times, probably brought on by memories of enchanting items in Ostwick.

She was the last person to need a book on the topic – it had been beaten into her.

Still, there was work to be done. With a deep breath, Aeronwen approached the next box and lifted the lid. Immediately, something scuttled out of the box and crawled up her hand. Her eyes widened at the sight of the large spider resting there, and more like it crawling out of the box to freedom.

Her body took over – she screamed and jumped back, slapping the spider to the floor. In a matter of seconds, a bolt of lightning crashed down on it, reducing it to ash. The rest of the spiders were soon smoldering as well, having burst into flames the second she had seen them.

Her mind flashed back – a dark room at the bottom of the tower, where spider webs stretched across the ceiling and tangled in her hair if she got too close. How big those spiders had been, and how large their eyes and teeth. How it had hurt when they bit her in her sleep, or when she got too close, or…

“Aeronwen, calm down!”

Scout Harding’s hands found her shoulders as her mind rushed in a panic. She could still feel the spider crawling up her arm, but there was nothing there. It was just a memory as the offending creature lay smoking on the floor in a pile of ash.

It took Aeronwen a few moments of frantic breathing, eyes shut tight, to calm down. At least she had only set fire to the spiders – there had been a real chance she could’ve burned the whole library down. Luckily, not even the books were singed.

But her heart still raced as she fought to stay in the present.

“I’m… sorry.” She muttered through gritted teeth, eyes still closed. “I can’t stand spiders.”

The dwarf patted her shoulder in a comforting motion. “It’s alright. It did come out of nowhere after all. Maybe I should check the other boxes to make sure there’s no more surprises waiting to say hello.”

“For the sake of the library, it might be for the best.”

Aeronwen took another shaky breath, feeling her heart slowly starting to beat less frantically. With a shaking hand, she took a book from the box. It had some cobwebs on it, but none as thick as the Tower. The spiders must’ve set up on the ride over.

She would need someone to freeze the books later – it would prevent any eggs from hatching.

Still, her face colored as she glanced over at Scout Harding looking through the boxes for any other stowaways. Of all the people to see her at her worst, the dwarf was the last person she would’ve hoped for it to be. No doubt she thought terribly of her now – a grown woman going to pieces over spiders.

She sighed, glancing down at the book. Ironically enough, it was a primer on primal magic. The gods must have been laughing then as she dusted off the cover and put it aside. At least the former apprentices of the Circle would get some use out of it, provided it wasn’t too out of date in practice.

Magic teaching didn’t change much – though whether that was a good thing or not, she wasn’t sure.

“This box is clean, Aeronwen.” Scout Harding’s voice brought her back to the present as she walked over. “Maybe it was just that one that had the spiders in it.”

“I should hope so…” She sighed. “I’ll get Ian to check the others later. He doesn’t…”

She paused. It was hard to explain to outsiders. “He’s better with spiders than I am. He can handle those for me.”

What he couldn’t handle was how stupid Aeronwen felt as she stared down at the box of books. When it came down to it, it was like she was a schoolgirl having done something stupid in front of her crush. Well, that was exactly it to be honest – only she wasn’t a school girl. She was a grown woman who couldn’t talk to the object of her affection outside of work.

And she had just made herself look ridiculous in front of her. Clearly, she was an ace at this romance thing.

“Alright, if you insist.” Scout Harding didn’t leave, though. “Er… maybe you should give the books some time to… you know. Have you had lunch yet? I was about to head down to the great hall and all…”

Aeronwen’s head picked up. “You want me to come with you?”

“Sure, you said you wanted to hear about my last mission, might as well do it over food.” The scout smiled. “And it’ll give some time for stowaways to leave the library so they don’t get flash fried.”

That made the dwarf chuckle, but it wasn’t from mockery. She seemed in good spirits – and surprisingly, Aeronwen found her mood had shifted with just a few words. Her steps felt light as she closed up the box, leaving it for her cousin to handle.

Technically, she was abandoning her post early… but if the Inquisitor wanted the library in one piece, he would understand.

“I should probably get something to eat.” She nodded. “Lead the way, Scout Harding.”

Maybe one day she would be brave enough to ask the woman for her first name. Until then, Scout Harding would have to do. At least she didn’t seem to mind the formality as the two left the library, close enough to make Aeronwen’s heart race for an entirely different reason.

She was no doubt reading into things… but she was a librarian. She could read into whatever she wanted.

“Now, tell me all about Orlais-“

But first, she was going to listen to where the other woman had been over some food. Then… well, she’d figure that out later. Being with the Inquisition was teaching her the fine art of improvisation.

Should she thank the spiders for that one? Maybe not… gods, she hated spiders.

[sanctamater]

How quickly does the time pass when the good lady finds her mind far from herself; bent over desk and papers — plans and schematics; mining reports, land deeds and surveys, lists of refugees in Low and Darktown alike in need of coin — the fragile beginnings of a network that she anticipated growing far from the influence of the past and all its chains. An act of freedom, of self; as much as it is one of survival. This, the way forward; and the Maker has lit the way for her through hell and high water. She would be a fool to squander it now, and the good lady is anything but ungrateful. And with His blessings, this venture would prove fruitful — no, more than that; this venture would prove lasting. It is difficult, however, to maintain a focus when her thoughts continue to drift towards the Knight-Commander — elation, nervousness unfurling and fluttering in the pit of her stomach at the thought of seeing her in person again; though she cannot quite place why she feels this way.

So absorbed in paperwork is she that the good lady hardly hears the quick steps of her shopkeep, head jerking up when the door to her office swings open. Evaine — or was it Eveline? She cannot remember; and manages a soft smile, straightening as her hands smooth out the fine velvets and silks of her dress. The girl offers her own back; small and nervous. “ She’s here — the Knight-Commander, I mean. ” “ Thank you, Evaine. ” Point for her, the guess was correct; and earns her a small smile. As quick as the girl has appeared, she is gone; pattering back to return to her post; and the good lady takes a breath, fingertips grazing the edge of her desk. How unorganized it must seem — a good deal like her own thoughts, and she takes a breath; eyes fluttering shut as she relaxes, for once. Her men are competent — so is she.  There is no need to be nervous; in fact, a small part of the good lady knows she has been looking forwards to seeing her again, to speaking with her — frank and honest. Another breath, and she too moves to leave the comforts of her office, casting one last glance into the room at the door. If the Knight-Commander were to gain entry to this room, she would be first greeted with a sprawling map of the Free Marches hung above her desk; Kirkwall noted first, followed by other city states — Starkhaven, Ostwick, Wycome, Markham, too — outlines of pros and cons and what information on Circles and their Knight-Commanders that she has been able to garner since her arrival in Kirkwall. A part of her wonders if Meredith might be pleased by such resourcefulness — another part wonders why the Templar’s approval matters at all; and the good lady shuts the door with a firm ‘click.’ Steps are quick, light — a flurry of fabric as she moves swiftly down the steps and through the heat of the forge, barely registering the sharp clang of metal against metal, the roar of the bellows, the crackling of the fire — singleminded in her pursuit until the bright light of day floods her senses as she steps into the main area of the shop; populated by small, fine weapons; daggers with jewelled and engraved hilts, pocket knives, rapiers — easily concealed as they are ornate; the glow of liquid silver distorted by a familiar shadow; one she offers a warm smile to where others may have shrunk away.

“ Knight-Commander, how good it is to see you. ” 

For a moment — and only a moment — she takes the Knight-Commander in. A formidable woman, even in the small space at the front of her shop; and the afternoon light that steams in from the warped panes of glass in the narrow windows bestows her with a votive glow, a memory of every story she has ever heard about noble knights — and where every knight she had heard of in her youth had been struck by beauty, the good lady finds herself fixated by Meredith’s; and a warm smile flickers across her features as brief as any flame. But a moment is a moment and it is gone too quickly when the good lady moves again; surprisingly quick on her feet for a woman of her stature and her grip is firm when she takes the Knight-Commander’s gloved hand in her own; a decisive shake. Her father had taught her what seemed like a lifetime ago when she had barely been able to peer over his desk. The mettle of any man be he highborn or low is in the shake of a hand; you will have your work cut out for you, dear girl. The good lady knows what she presents herself to be — open, fair, diligent — what does the woman before her wish to be seen as? 

The answer presents itself within her mind for a moment — tall and lean, she cuts an imposing, beautiful figure with the silvery gleam of a sword at her back. In control, as someone of her station ought to be. All traits she admired; and her smaller hand easily slips from Meredith’s, clasping in front of her abdomen as she listens. If she tries, she can only just imagine the Templar before her as a little girl, face pressed to the windows in an attempt to see what riches lay in store within the bakery of her youth. “ A bakery? My, their sweets must have been memorable, for you to think so fondly of them now. ” She cannot offer anything but ghosts of what once was; and the promise of what may be. “ They say sugar makes temperament sweeter. My grandmother would have disagreed with that. ” 

Her smile is a crooked one; the ghost of a girl she’d left for dead on a riverbank in the name of the Maker ( no, not the Maker - but him. ); gone in an instant when she straightens herself, impassive and serene as any carving of Andraste. Immovable in her own way, and the silence that falls is punctuated by her own eyes meeting the sharp blue of the Templar’s; gaze tracing the firm line of her jaw, the slope of her lips —  “ Your blade compliments you, Knight-Commander. I do hope it proves itself useful in due time. ” A pause; and she clears her throat — feeling the cold weight of the Knight-Commander’s gaze upon her — or, at least, she thinks that she does; turning on her heel with a sharp breath to begin the short walk into the heart and heat of it all; looking over her shoulder to speak to the Knight-Commander, effortlessly beckoning for her to follow with a wave of her hand. “ Come, please. I have much to show you — and I do not wish to take up too much of your time. ” 

The following evening results in another prompt letter. In its own way, this promptness amuses the Knight-Commander, though she cannot find fault in the Good Lady for writing so quickly so as to assure that such needed information is sent in a timely manner. Content, however, with what she has received, Meredith sets the parchment aside at her desk to be read in another week's time, on the very last day of Harvestmere - but before the holiday.

Retreating to quarters, laying in bed awaiting sleep to take her (as is difficult to achieve most nights), the Knight-Commander thinks of the space where Lady Comstock has chosen to build her forge. Near the lively Hightown market - a place where some childhood memories still, somehow, linger; it remains familiar to Meredith, even from all those years ago, even before her dear sister's untimely death. Even now, having lived amongst those most dedicated to the Chantry and its Templar Order since childhood, wherein her own personal patrols are limited and oft escorted by templar knights, she knows the streets of Kirkwall just as well as the lines and hallows of the back of her own hand; she has half a thought to go on her own accord, but dismisses it in the same breath - it would not be proper. She decides then, too, against writing a return letter to the Good Lady; their business has been attended to, with a time and date set for their meeting. In the week between.

In the days between, the Gallows remain, for the most part - and perhaps, uncharacteristically so - quite quiet and reserved, saved for the never-ending concerns raised by the First Enchanter from across the hall, acting as a constant thorn in the Knight-Commander's side. One she must tolerate and learn to live with, lest she be accused of even worse by having the sole advocate for the mages under her change be removed from his position.

Still, the institution of the daily routine under her guard maintains relative normalcy; days pass without incident, and even the morning of seemingly goes by much faster than usual, with the Knight-Commander exclusively focused on the stack of her templars' written reports and administrative tasks until Elsa - her long-standing, long-serving tranquil assistant - reminds her of the time as it approaches noon-hour. Satisfied and content with just a small, brief meal, the Knight-Commander begins her journey to Hightown; across the habour, the sea remains just as calm, though the breeze somewhat quickens the waves of the Waking Sea just before docking.

Salt-laden air clings to her hair and to the Chantry robes that pad the hefty steel adorned on broad shoulders; polished but worn leather boots walk in tandem like a steady drum beat. Two Templar Knights loyally follow their Commander through the open cobblestone streets of Hightown. Nobles look on; young children run out of the way and cling to their parents' legs, while older youth look on, some in admiration, others in rebellion. Meredith keeps her chin held high, her posture firm. Every stride through this city - her city - commands respect.

Without needing to refer to Lady Comstock's letter, Meredith recounts the location of the new forge with ease; eyes confirming the blue and white signage that dictates it as such. Decades ago, it had once been a bakery, but over time, clearly refit and remodeled into a home of production of metal rather than bread. A quick gestured command leaves her accompanied guard stationed at the front entrance, and the Knight-Commander steps forth over the threshold. Eyes shift across the space, noting the source of heat and the workers already busying themselves. Already, she feels its warmth beneath thick robes and heavy plate. The young shopkeep at the front soon makes note of her arrival and leaves towards the rear in a hurried pace to inform Lady Comstock - or so Meredith assumes.

In the moments she waits, a smirk graces her lips, tugging at the corner of her mouth. While the swords will have yet to be tested by her templars themselves, this business proposal appears to already work in her favour; efficient, cooperative, and - with the gifted sword in her possession (and purposely strapped across her back for today) - effective.

Gloved hands rest atop the leather belts adorning her hips, thumbs hooking in against the edge of leather in wait. Upon seeing the Good Lady, a rare genuine smile soon graces her features, in lips and eyes both. "Good afternoon, Lady Comstock," Voice edged with its usual lower register rasp, her right hand extends from her waist to offer a polite, customary but still firm handshake; they are business partners now, as it were. "I will say, I have been... eagerly awaiting to see your forge. When I was a girl, this was once a bakery..." A soft chuckle soon follows as her eyes settle upon Amelia; unlike their meeting sat across the distant expanse of her desk, now standing tall and face to face, she realizes just how much she towers over the Good Lady. For a moment longer, she studies her features, notes just how porcelain-like she is, how her blue eyes are the colour of deep sapphires.

"I am just as eager to see your tour of it now."

[herald-divine-hell]

WIP Wednesday

This piece is a constitution of the WIP uploaded the previous day. some changes were made, but overall I have aided more!

~

Above the withering gray wall of fog, the black walls of Ostwick rose like pillars of night from the snowy earth. The sounds of the seas were in Leliana’s ears—the rumbling groans of the seas as frothy white mauls crashed against its sides, lifting them high and pummeling them down in swift moments near disorienting; the whistling of ropes unlacing and growing taunt; the shouts and beats of sailors as hurried toward this task or that; the hissing of the masts and the cracking of the sails as the winds snapped them full with air. And beyond, the fog combed through the deep blue-gray waters, slow-moving fingers that trailed as lightly as a lover across their beloved’s scars. Absentmindedly, she wondered how many scars did the sea bare? And soon after that—did the stroking touch of the fog aid them in the easing of the hurt?

Perhaps it was happenstance that she had been staring at Amayian’s back when the thought came to her. 

Leliana had found him standing there before the sun slipped a ruddy finger over the horizon and across the waters, his eyes fixated northward as the thin lace of white grew thick and lumbering. The wind had been in his hair, dark wavy curls writhing as the salty air grasped and tugged, flowing like some veil of night speckled with the starlight of sea-spray. The tails of his long black coat danced lightly along the wooden panels of the ship, the sleeves drawn back past his elbows, revealing the white cotton shirt beneath, dabbled with gray from splashing water. A fine embroidery silver latticed across them, in swirling vines blossoming with forked leaves; trailing and lost as they reached the cuffed coat-arms. Standing there, frozen, with only that shifting wind grasping at his hair and his coat, one would think he was a statue with all the shades of living men. 

A thought flitted through her mind, a soft voice she had nearly forgotten. One bounded in warmth and fitted for smiles. The tones dragged scrapping daggers deep across her chest, leaving a burning ache at her heart. He always seemed like a statue, didn’t he? 

Yes, she admitted, the words a long drawl, wary to leave the iron chains confining her mind. Always wanted to draw the first watch. Amayian Trevelyan had already been an eager sort, in actions to say the least. In everything else, well…When it came to words, those seemed lost to him.

The gentle voice chimed, laughing. Remember when we tried to have him tell an Orlesian tale. 

Something close to a twitch tickled the corner of her mouth. Oh, yes. She recalled that one. A poor attempt, in truth. He had all the story-telling ability of a boulder, all stone and solid truths. Zevran had not allowed him to live it down, even if the poor boy had no idea why the ending - And then he died - was a terrible conclusion. There was no fervor in those stories, even if she could tell that he was told the story faithfully - perhaps too faithfully for her taste, but it was an amusing one still. And he had been so quiet then. Shy was not quite the right word. Detached, withdrawn, even dour. But not surly. Unfriendly, but not grumpy or mean-spirited. Perhaps when I teased him a little about a jest that soared well over his head, but there was nothing angry in his voice. Only neat confusion. Always neat, that one.

Leliana was not sure which voices spoke, the Sister or the Nightingale. The tones mangled to one, one fond, the other edged close to hardness. But the memories stirred, quiet at first before rushing like a cliff-climbing wave cast by the sea. Violet and blue skies jeweled in stars; amber flames twirling with the sudden sputters of a racing song; a lanky boy with thick curls that touched the ends of his ears but grew as time went on, almost shaggy. But neatness, despite it all—neatness in his words, in his precise, measured actions, even for a boy of nineteen.  No, Amayian Trevelyan was never mean-spirited, even when warranted. He was not much of anything, to be true—neither happy or sad, angry or shamed. When Leliana dug her fingers deep enough, hints could be caught, dragged slowly out to be examined. Most had been a glimmer of a blush tracing the outlines of faint dark freckles on olive skin, a quietness in the voice when she leaned close and fixed the positioning of his fingers as she taught him how to strum a lyre properly, where to settle it in his grasp, how to hear the wrongness of a certain plucked note. And the blush was the greatest struggle of all not to tease him. Perhaps she had feared that if she did so, he would settle—never cast away—the lyre onto the ground, thank her for the lesson, and pull away from everything Leliana had tried so hard to bring out, and return to the icy greetings that marked his tone when he first joined Enasalin and Ralia and the others. But he never did. He simply took it, knowing or unknowing what the words meant in truth. As if it was to be expected, as if he could ascertain some points that he could use. 

The cold voice traced a dagger along her spine, slow, methodical. To use what? To serve. And when service did finally come, what did he do? He fled, like some coward. There was no mockingness in that tone from the Nightingale—from Leliana’s self—but merely the truth. Amayian had been so…eager…to follow whatever Enasalin or the others gave him requests to be complete. But when Leliana had needed him, truly needed him, she saw for a moment hesitation, and soon after the confusion in that hesitation, in those guileless eyes that were as smooth and clear as glass in a mirror. And then he turned, and ran. Ran from Leliana. Ran from Enasalin. 

Her hand drifted for a moment to her stomach, felt the cold of her chainmail despite the leather gloves, reaching out to her—the grief and the pain of childbirth. Her children. Their children. Born from a foolish moment of weakness, on both of their parts. At times, she wondered if she used him…

Just like Marjolaine. 

Leliana closed her eyes, drew her stomach-resting hand into a fist, and for a moment felt a coil of shame in her heart, clogging her throat. She remembered those nights well enough, the fear in her heart when she saw the bloody ruin of his back from where the dragonling’s claws racked him from near his neck down the length, all torn flesh and pulsing blood, strips of scarlet and peeled pink and white across deep olive skin. She remembered the azure glow of Wynne’s magic, the trickles of sweat crawling down her temple, falling between the deeply creased furrow of her eyebrows. She remembered the shallow breaths of his shoulders and chest, the slickness of his hair drenched in sweat, the small lines as flashes of pain crawled over his features. And the heat. She remembered the heat, worse of all. Living fire was his skin, scorching the palm of Leliana’s skin that she nearly feared her skin would slough off and leave her bones cracked and shattered. For days and nights she sat by his side, offering him to drink, feeding him only the smallest pieces of meat and bread that he could keep down, all while the pain slithered across features, as if a thousand arrows struck him over and over again. 

But in time, the pain receded and the strength returned to him, slowly and surely. A truly slow progress, but progress nevertheless. And I never once left his side. The anger striked out with the hissing snap of a viper. Leliana gave him water to drink and food he could keep down, tiny chunks of bread softened in carrot and vegetable soup, sprinkled with small slivers of meat hunted by Sten—and Sten had seemed more determined than in any hunt to find something for him to eat. The softie. Still, she stayed by his side, when only fears could give her comfort as no other words could. 

And how angry she had been when she had awoken one night to see him sitting up from his bed roll, staring down at her with those quiet fiery eyes, a warm copper, the soft fire of a hearth within the white storm of winter. And he had apologized for waking her, and that her nose crinkled and she would release a small whenever he shifted away from her cuddles. And though anger stirred twisted in her heart, relief swarmed her limbs like swelling streams of music, light and warm and leaping. And my arms had wrapped around him. Words were spoken too, bitter and cracking with the lingering fear scratching at her throat and wettening her eyes. But Leliana could not recall the exact words, all gray blurs and distant murmurs in her mind. The only thing she could recall, between those long stretches of mist, was her lips against his face, leaving countless kisses upon his skin, and his questions of, “Were you harmed?”

Always concerned for others, she thought, lips thinning even as a flicker of a smile threatened to break across her face. And when I asked if he was okay, all that concern melted out of him, filled with excuses. That the wounds would heal—they always do. Or the pain has receded to a small thrumming along his back, but he can still fight if need be. Whatever was required for us. But never for him. And still, he drew her in, and things sped beyond either of their controls, fueled by the worries in their hearts. He had been unaware, inexperienced, but always ready to learn. Whenever there was a task ahead, all things were fixated upon that alone. And it had Amayian who pressed eagerly against her body, slipping Leliana slipped on his lap, cradling his face in her hands, rubbing at the line of his cheekbones, capturing the sculpture of his features with her fingers and palms. And she recalled his words, slicing like an arrow piercing the air, unlike any other. Allow me to ease your worry.