#fresh off of fighting solas

[wanderingknights]

Loved veilguard truly did but they seriously expect me to believe Josephine has waited 10 years for a wedding??? Hell, a proposal? Josephine Montilyet????? Like what are we talking about!!!!! Her and my inquisitor should have kids at this point guys

[extravagantliar]

Varric.

Varric?

We can run away! (No, we can’t; this is just a memory, Bianca… )

Tethras! 

Does it haunt you, Child of the Stone? ( yes, doesn’t it haunt you, chuckles? ) @hoboblaidd

Varric? 

Hey, Varric! 

I’ll stay, you know that. ( But we never get it right, Hawke, do we? )

Varric?

Are you just going to sleep it all away? ( No, I’m coming, I’ll never stop; there is somewhere to return to…home. ) 

Hey, Varric! Wake up!

He opens his eyes. 

The voices ring in his head, clattering and clamouring; blindly, he reaches for something not there, hand running through the air and knocking things off the table next to him, clattering to the floor and waking the aid in the room. Always someone with him, always someone to watch him - but he can’t finish that thought, his head aches and the room begins to spin. There is a deep sickness that stirs within him, and he lurches, much to the dismay of the healer who is now in the room with him. Sweat pours down his face, a bead pooling and matting in his beard. He feels coated in it, overwhelmed by it, and it makes his thoughts swirl. None of this makes sense - the visions, the dreams? 

Hallucinations. 

A body, rotting somewhere as the soul grappled with something - that’s what someone long ago would have summoned about this. He doesn’t know the thoughts to summon as his stomach turns, and now there are two healers and a shadow in the doorframe. A taller figure as the healers obscure the shadow, the long-drawn faceless shadow holds the same presence as the man who would once lean over his desk, paint his cards, and debate thought with him.

Solas? 

He blinks, and it is not him - someone else, another new face acting on behalf of Mae, Dorian, and the Inquisitor. He doesn’t know how many people are in the room; it’s too many whatever it is, and his voice is awash among them, him yelling at them, anger that has not been his since a time in the crossroads in the Winter Palace, maybe since he was Viscount. They don’t listen, he doesn’t recognise the faces, and the fever has settled in his head, half lucid from the terror and half caught by the resting world, never letting him fully into the waking; it’s as if he’s stuck in some limbo, some great magic half keeping him in two places.

It’s bullshit he settles on, no longer thrashing at them. It doesn’t matter that they are something that his brain summoned up as some comfort as he navigates some fresh hell, debating the things still rattling in his head, the dream currently playing out before him, if it was one. 

You are not dreaming, Varric. 

That shadow divulges in his head as someone else slips into the room, into his vision. Maybe it is a hallucination. If it was, why couldn’t it have been somewhere dry, somewhere with cards? The healers ignore him, but they choose to talk to this new figure, telling them that he is feverish, dream-deluded, and likely needs new sutures. 

Ah, the iron smell. That harsh smell of life, almost lost.

So he closes his eyes, and it calms the sick in the pit of his stomach. The clamouring in his head roars to life, summoning bits of his life. Rich, like earth, like the spot in his mind. Loam, like the house lost to the trees. Lime on the walls, acrid and followed by a hint of honey. There is Kirkwall, fry bread in the streets, the pale ale in the Hanged Man, the moment he makes a choice that puts him on this path. 

Kirkwall roars to existence, a bustle of people he remembers from twenty years ago. Yet, everything is the same, mostly the same. He’s outside himself, looking from the top down, watching himself preen and talk to a merchant, until someone slips past him and tries to put their hands on his belt - well, Varric remembers this story; he knows the next steps before the version of him in the below completes them. Varric turns the man away in one motion, pushing him without thought into another and causing a sudden shift in the square. 

Of course, the man above isn’t watching the fight he caused; he’s always causing one, and he’s watching the entrance on the west side. 

He’s looking for lightning to strike. He’s waiting, actually, as if he gives it thirty more seconds, Hawke will appear in his vision for the first time in ten years. If he waits thirty more moments, but his vision blurs and he only hears the laugh of Hawke, and he finds himself clawing at the edge of that memory, the edges of that top down, to only see them, to hear their voice one more time that’s not a memory. His eyes burn, and his voice is raw, screaming for it, just one last time - that’s all he begs. Yet his voice falls on deaf ears, blind eyes, and an empty throne. 

What is the point of dreaming if you can’t even see the things you want? Solas is an idiot, he decides, floating along and waiting for his body to respond. Instead, it is grey, a grey that bleeds over his body and saps the pain from his bones. 

Dwarves don’t dream. 

Yeah, yeah. He knows this. Half waving the thought away with a hand. He can move again; he’s no longer locked to the water; he’s just back flat on sand and gravel looking up, and there are no stars, no lyrium, just the pitch-dark black. 

Just the peppering black and grey and a presence he can feel but cannot see just yet. “Yeah, yeah, I know. We don’t dream. This is a hallucination.” 

“Correct. I am glad my words do not fall on deaf ears.”

“No, just myopic, I’m afraid; it came with age.” Like other things, bad knees, grey hair, the inability to scale a building like one once could. He doesn’t move; he remains on that shore, pinned somehow. “Hey, Chuckles…” 

“Varric?” 

“I wrote to you about Kirkwall, about everything.” There is silence that meets him here, just his body reacting to the memory of his friend. 

Maybe he is dead.

“Did you get any of them?” 

There is no answer; he knows that he won’t get one. He remembers a fire, and the world shifts, summoning that memory around them. He is no longer pinned to the shore, no longer pinned to some rock for someone to peck at him enterally. “I figured you didn’t. I sent them into the world, and nothing else.” Just a bird sent off, the same hope he had sending that raven out of Haven. “Told you how Kirkwall was doing, Sid, the girls. Two of them, by the way.” He doesn’t mention their names, doesn’t mention one is an elf, doesn’t mention that they’re the ones at stake with all of this. He doesn’t mention Rook; the other piece is played wide against his heart.

A fire pops in the middle of the Hinterlands, somewhere in Haven, somewhere in the middle of Crestwood, a fire pops, and he’s back on that stairwell, lying in the remains of Bianca and his own blood, lyrium taking over his body bit by bit. 

He’s hallucinating, after all. 

“Varric!” It’s the distant shout of Solas, mixed between the Approach and the Winter Palace. It is also Sid; it is also Hawke, Rook, Solas; it is also his mother…and Bianca. The song of the knife is everyone he’s ever loved, lost, ever had and ever found. 

He’s hallucinating, after all. 

He’s not alive after all. He died on those stairs; all of this is a chain reaction, his body trying to leave his family one last gift, a spirit trying not to leave its body. 

He is not allowed to leave his body, fuck fate. 

Fuck Solas, he decides. Fuck those words and what they stand for. He picks himself up out of the darkness, he forces it to. He makes himself. There is no try; there is only strength clawing its way past those words. He’s not hallucinating; he’s dreaming. 

He’s dreaming. 

As he’d heard Bartrand’s laugh, seen Hawke’s walk - the strut, but it’s a dream. He refuses it to be anything but. 

He’s dreaming, after all. 

He summons the words others had about dreams, how they could be moulded and crafted into the next; he’s a wordsmith, not a dreamer, and he ends back up on that stairwell, back at the bottom, looking from the top down as the him below shouts at Solas, a final plea for something that will not come. He curses his own idealism, being the advocate of the man holding the knife, not about the veil - but about the way one moves through the world and that people are always dying.

He laughs, dying by degrees. 

“You find this humorous?” Solas interjects, next to him, somehow. 

He’s long past the point of jumping, “Just starting to root for you this time.” 

“You always did have a sick sense of irony.”

“I still do; you’d know that if you’d been listening.” The dwarf states. 

“I have been, Varric.” 

“Sometimes I wonder.” Varric starts, half unfocused, “It’s like we only get this in pieces.” He expects some smarmy answer, about how he is a novice to all this and how it’s expected for someone so unpracticed in dreaming, but it does not come. Rather, they just stand there; they watch the great ugly thing play out, a great breath out of Varric and a look that he cannot place on Solas’s features - not of the one above and not of the one below. 

The scene fades, like a curtain over a play, and he’s not the one who dims it. There are only two of them, so he wonders if it could be real after all. It could be - could it be? And he is cast back wide into that floating ocean, where that green light beacons him home.

Is he hallucinating?

He’s dreaming. He’s already decided he’s alive, and he is dreaming. He has to be as a voice - another voice pulls at him; he doesn’t have to wallow; he can make his amends if he needs to. There are still grains in that hourglass. He can still follow that great light. 

Who cares what it is?

Who cares?

He does, clawing back towards the light.

He opens his eyes. He gasps for that breath, and his hand goes to his chest; the bandages are dry, but he’s met with concern from around the room. He thinks he’s still dreaming, half hallucinating as he moves. 

He is alive.

He reminds himself this as Sidri throws arms around him and tells him again he’s not allowed to leave. Those words barely sound like her; there’s an echo to them. There’s a shadow that looks a lot like Solas in the doorframe again. He blinks, and the man is gone.

Sidri remains.

He’s alive, he states, broken in a voice that doesn’t sound like his. 

“You’re alive.” She confirms. The same voice she used to silence court, Cullen, and other clowns. 

He’s alive.

Just haunted.

[ar-ghilas-vir-banal]

Can you just imagine for a second?

The gang enters The Hinterlands. This is going to take a while. Everyone knows it. Solas, Varric, Cassandra and the Inquisitor. They’re all still strangers a bit.

Cassandra isn’t 100% sure Arsulahn didn’t kill The Most Holy.

Varric isn’t sure Cassandra isn’t gonna murder him.

Solas isn’t sure about anything. Neither is Arsulahn.

But they fight hard and they work hard. Every day. It’s day in and day out. They reach The Crossroads and it’s in the middle of an attack from both Templars and Mages. It’s absolute chaos. Everyone for themself.

Solas finds himself separated and quickly overwhelmed. There’s just too many. Something cold slices down his side under his arm and he feels hot blood pour down his leg. But he keeps fighting. And then in a blast of pale energy, the arrows heading straight for his face dissolve. The spear aiming for his underarm snaps in half. A sword glances off his tunic.

And there she stands. The so-called Herald of Andraste. The elf woman with the key to the Fade in her palm. Protecting him. Just like she said she would.

When it’s over, Solas hobbles to a boulder and sits down. He’s very tired but he can heal his injuries. Except the elf woman returns. She carries a jug of fresh, icy water and bandages.

“I know you can heal that cut but let me clean it first. You don’t want to catch a fever from it. Off with the tunic.”

She orders him about like an older woman. And Solas finds himself obeying. The cut isn’t deep. His ribs did their job. But it hurts and he winces when his skin stretches.

Arsulahn’s touch is gentle. He can barely feel it. Her fingers are cold from washing her hands in well water. And the cloth she bathes away the blood with is even more so. But Solas is just so warm. He hasn’t been this warm in so long. Was he ever?

“Alright. I can heal it now. If you like.”

“You’ve been fighting hard. I can.”

“Alright… here. Recover your strength.” She gives him some tack and some fresh water mixed with a healing potion from her own waterskin. Lets him keep it. It’s not much. But it’s all she has. And it’s for him.

And Solas keeps his hand over his side. She isn’t touching him anymore. She’s gone, busy helping others now. But she came to him first. And he can still feel those delicate, cool fingers.

[teamdilf]

I'd love to know a little more about the Solavellan Time Travel AU from the WIP Ask Game!

This fic is going to be a long and bleak one! The basic premise is that, 20 years post-Veilguard, the Executors (who are the Forgotten Ones - at least according to the theory I'm going off of for this fic) have arrived in Thedas in full force, and Solas, realizing he is unlikely to escape them, prepares Iris to travel back to the moment of the breach at the Conclave as soon as he dies and the Veil falls.

Iris watches Solas fall to them and she swears her vengeance, uses an amulet based off of the one Dorian had, and travels back, arriving in her body at the moment of the breach, but with 30 years of knowledge/life experience. She's deeply, deeply traumatized - her husband was just killed in front of her shortly before all of this, and now she's encountering a Solas who is a stranger to her, but with the awareness of who he is/what he's planning/what his fate will be if she cannot stop the Forgotten Ones.

Here's a snippet:

Grief looks enough like defiance to those who do not wish to see their prisoner as an innocent, and so her silence accomplishes the same as it did her first time through, freeing her into Cassandra’s custody to hike through the mountains in search of Solas, Varric and the fade rift that will prove her usefulness to the fledgling inquisition.  While they trudge through fresh snow, she focuses on maintaining a mask of defiant disinterest, despite her stomach twisting with terror at the prospect of meeting Solas again. Meeting her Solas was an ordinary affair - the two of them were Elven apostates and instantly had common ground. That remains true, yet Solas does not know that, in another world, he had been her husband for 20 years and that she returned to the past to prevent his death. He cannot know - not right away, but when the time is right, she will reveal that she knows who he is, that there is a better path before him, and that if they work together, they may be able to stop the Executors before they arrive in Thedosian waters.   They do have a fresh commonality this time around: they’re both lying about their identities. Whether that will help or hinder her efforts to get to know Solas once more remains to be seen.  Solas is but an hour dead in her mind, having woken up with no memory of the explosion or her jaunt in the Fade this second time around, and she’s yet to weep for her husband. Her head swims, as if she’s looking at herself from a distance.  “You seem distracted,” Cassandra says after leaping between her and a demon, raising her shield to spare her from a heavy blow and finishing it with a swing of her sword. “My would-be executioner is forcing me to fight through a sea of demons. Would your head be clear in my circumstances?”  “It would not,” Cassandra acknowledges. “Your cooperation, however reluctant, does you credit. Know that much.” “I’m sure I’ll find that a great comfort when you snap my neck.” Cassandra frowns at her but trudges forward and she takes a moment to catch her breath; to force down the panic building. Your husband is dead yet you will see him in minutes, a perfect stranger. It won’t be him. He won’t have the scar over his right eye or the ones on his neck and the top of his head. He’ll be more distant, looking upon her as a science experiment and not as his wife. 

[deilmo]

The first freed elvhen

"He did not want a body. But she asked him to come. He left a scar when he burned her off his face."

The recent discoveries made about ancient Elvhenan revealed a story painted with much more gray areas than was first believed. Some of these new historical documents depicts Fen'Harel as a liberator of enslaved elvhen, removing their markings and welcoming them at his side to fight the Elvhen gods' seemingly tyranical and crazed leadership.

While the veracity of these discoveries are yet to be proven, it has irremediably changed the field of Elvhen studies moving forward. Some historians hope to find written records to link to this new discovery. While unlikely, as the Elvhen seemed to favor frescoes to teach the illeterate masses, a record of the freed slaves could help historians draw a tangible timeline of the late days of the empire. Similarly, crawling back up those same records to the first freed elf could help scholars to single out the trigger that launched Fen'Harel into action.

Professor Bram Kenric - 9:49

-

Useless details to throw at you:

Solas is wearing an archer's armor, hence the gloves, the forearm brace, half plate and single shoulder pad concentrating on one side. Legends in game describe him as a warrior, an archer, and Inquisition as a mage so i picked an archer. Though I picture him more like those veil jumpers archers we've seen in DA4 multiple trailers that seem to use a mix of archery and magic.

His hair ornament is inspired by Mythal's statue in Trespasser having a reversed moon instead of her head

Yes, his scars are there, and they're fresh!

I tried to recreate a lonely and isolated feeling that I think would illustrate the sadness of Solas freeing himself. Alone. As the trailblazer, no one would have been there for him except himself

There's two version of this drawing but I'm posting this one first because it's closer to the vision I had

This idea is at least a year old, I remember making a thumb-sized sketch in a corner of a work sheet when I had it, then promptly forgot about it until this week-end. I ended up drawing it while watching the XBOX Showcase live.

[dracocheesecake]

A Week To Be A Dorcean

The eyasses crawled out of the open front door of their house and scurried across one of the bridges that spanned the expanse of the nest-shaped city. Halcyonus fishermen waved at them as the little balls of fluff dodged and weaved their way around their long backward-bending legs, and the occasional human stopped to watch them; young Dorceans were a rare sight, especially as they belonged to one of the only Dorceans in all of Lacus: the Dorcean they were on their way to see now.

Disturbed turnfins flew away as they ran onto another rope bridge, making it sway underneath them. They hopped off of this onto one of the lower levels of the city, then rushed down the pathway, again weaving their way past carts and the market people, spilled goods and coils of ropes. There was an archway leading into the main tower on which the city stood. They rushed down the spiral stairs, squeaking and chittering to each other excitedly, and then turned out another archway that led onto a wide pier leading between this city-tower and another. More fishermen were out with their turnfins and nets and fishing poles, bringing in fresh catches for the day; their father would be among them.

Not seeing him on the pier, they went down a set of stairs leading to another one, lower on the water and further out from the first. Boats were tied here, as well as crates full of goods and supplies for trading across the lake in Solas. The eyasses looked around, searching for a familiar shape. Dorcy squeaked and poked her sister, and then pointed towards the distant end of the pier, where, past a few stalls and piles of cargo, could be seen the familiar gray back with spots and stripes. Besteen let out a small cry of excitement, and the two began to barrel towards him.

As they approached, another surprise greeted them: their father moved a little, and they could see that he was talking to another Dorcean: his brother, their uncle Besteel. Both eyasses squeaked in excitement and increased their pace.

But as they came closer, weaving their way between massive piles of crates, they realized something was wrong. Besteen paused, then turned and looked at her sister. Dorcy tilted her head, and then she heard it too: muffled arguing. They crept closer, and the voices grew louder, and then they knew for certain that Uncle Besteel and their father were fighting again. They hid behind a pile of crates, peeking around the corner to watch and listen.

The brothers had clearly chosen this spot because it was somewhat private, with the large piles of crates concealing them from watchful eyes, and the crowded, busy sounds all around them helped to dull the conversation- an apparently heated one. Redimus had a large net between two of his talons, giving him an appearance of a giant spider as his other claws worked to weave and repair it. He was glaring at his brother, but he kept his voice somewhat low.

“I would sooner leave them with a hungry sand-sniper,” Redimus snapped.

Besteel scoffed. “Oh, please! They’re my nieces!”

“And they are my daughters.”

The twin eyasses glanced at each other worriedly. This was about them?

“And that means they are Dorceans.” Besteel spread a few of his arms. “Does this look like a place where they can grow right?”

“Yes,” Redimus said.

Besteel growled in frustration. He moved, and Redimus dropped his net and moved with him, and they were circling each other, hackles raised as if they were about to fight- not an uncommon occurrence, when they got together. Besteen and Dorcy made to retreat, but then they stopped. Besteel dropped the tension in his shoulders and spread some of his talons out, in a peaceful gesture.

“I’m just saying: leave them with me, and they’ll come back as real Dorceans.”

Dorcy and Besteen looked at each other again. Real Dorceans? Weren’t they already real Dorceans? And why did Uncle Besteel want to take them away to turn them into some?

Redimus sighed and dragged his net back towards himself. He sorted through its coils, searching for where he left off in its repairs. “We’ve been over this a hundred times. My answer remains the same.”

“Well, it needs to change. How old are they? Two? And have you taken them hunting at all?”

“There is no need. We have enough to eat.”

Besteel then turned and looked directly at his nieces. “He doesn’t give you any meat, does he?” He asked them accusatorially.

The sisters jumped at being addressed so suddenly.

“Yes!” Dorcy said, “Papa gives us lots of fish.”

“Lots!” Besteen agreed. “He’s good at fishing.”

Besteel snorted. “Fish is hardly meat! I mean real meat- something you can hunt. Come on, what have you had that I haven’t sent you?”

“They’ve had turnfin,” Redimus said, “and jackknife, shellfish, thatchtail, munt-runner-”

“But have they hunted? Have either of them made their first kill yet?”

“Dorcy already made hers at three months old-”

“That was a fish!” Besteel groaned. “That hardly counts!”

He dragged a talon down his face in exasperation. “Gabu! It’s like you don’t want them to be Dorceans at all! Has my namesake even killed anything yet?”

Besteen ducked her head. She scratched at the planks under her with her little claws. “...I smushed a bug,” she offered, murmuring.

“Lots of bugs!” Dorcy supplied. “And you also help with gutting the spiderfish.”

Besteen perked up. “Oh, yeah!”

Besteel looked at them, clearly devastated. He shook his head, then shot a look of disgust at his brother. “You should be ashamed of yourself! You’re supposed to teach them about their heritage! Their family pride!”

“It should be their choice,” Redimus said, firmly.

Besteel snorted again. “It should! But it seems you’ve already decided for them. How are they supposed to choose what they want for themselves if you won’t even let them learn?”

“Learn what?” Dorcy peeped.

Redimus sighed. “What are you two even doing here?” He asked gently, ignoring the question, “Shouldn’t you be with your mother?”

“Mommy went back to sleep,” Besteen said. “So we came to see the fishies.”

Redimus gestured up with one of his free talons. “Alright. Go back up on the boardwalk. I’ll be there in a moment.”

“Uncle Besteel-?”

“Is not staying to visit.” Besteel said. Redimus nodded.

The eyasses seemed disappointed, but turned and slowly crawled their way back to the “usual” spot on the higher boardwalk, looking down into the water below. They watched the other fishermen and the shoals of spiderfish that swirled under the waves; but that wasn’t what was on their minds.

“We’re real Dorceans, aren’t we?” Besteen asked her sister.

“Of course!” Dorcy said, “Uncle Besteel is being silly because he wants to make Papa mad. What else could we be?”

Besteen looked at her sister for a moment, and then down at her claws. She wiggled them, as if she wasn’t sure they were really what they appeared to be.

“...You don’t think…”

The sisters looked at each other for a moment in silence. Then they both started laughing.

“What else could we be?” Dorcy said again, nudging her sister in the shoulder. Besteen giggled and nudged her back.

“Maybe marticks. Or bayries. That’s what uncle Huxie calls us.”

“No, I don’t want to be a bayrie! I prefer a martick. Marticks are fierce, and can spit acid!”

“That sounds like it hurts, though.”

“No, or else they wouldn’t always be doing it. I bet it's fun! I want acid spit!”

“I want acid spit, too! And horns!”

“I want horns, too! And-”

The two eyasses went on chittering, while unbeknownst to them, they were being watched from below. Redimus looked up at his twins, finishing the repairs on his net. Besteel shook his head.

“Look at them. That’s sad.”

“There is nothing wrong with them,” Redimus said in a low growl: a warning.

Besteel scoffed. “You would think so. You’re…you. It’s not fair to them, for you to try to mold them into your image, just because you think you know best.”

“I’m not trying to mold them into my image,” Redimus said. “They can hunt if they choose to. I’m not stopping them. There just hasn't been any need.”

“What about for their honor? Have you thought of that? They’re going to grow older. What male will ever want to join their harems if they can’t court him with a trophy display? No tribe leader would allow a male from his tribe to join with a female without blood honor.”

“It’s too early to think of that.”

“It’s never too early to earn honor.”

“There are other ways to get it. Ways that don’t involve blood.”

Besteel crinkled his nose in disgust. “You would believe something like that. You’re barely a Dorcean at all.”

Redimus didn’t respond. He continued furiously fixing his net, his gaze on his work. Besteel watched him and scoffed, though in truth, he regretted his choice of words; he had said something similar once, and it had gotten them both into trouble they almost couldn't come back from; no, a shaming approach wasn’t working. He had to attack this argument at a different angle.

An idea came to him. He glanced at his brother from the corner of his eye. A smirk formed on his features.

“...I bet they would have more fun hunting with me than fishing with you,” Besteel sneered.

Redimus tensed. His hackles began to rise.

Besteel chuckled. “You know it’s true. That’s why you don’t want them to visit me. Because you know that they’ll enjoy living like true Dorceans rather than Halcyonuses, and won’t want to come back to fishing nets and turnfins.”

Redimus felt his teeth grinding. A competitive streak, a long-held grudge, began to rise in him, though he tried to suppress it; but that tone, that sneer, was bringing it back out. He shook his net, trying to untangle it.

In a moment the grudge was suppressed. “I’m not going to make a bet with you over my eyasses.” He said.

“It’s not a bet,” Besteel said, “it’s a fact. You know they’re going to have more fun in one week with me than in two years of life with you.”

“But will it be safe?”

“Of course. It’s the edge of the forest, near the lake, not too dangerous. We grew up in the worst part of the forest and turned out fine.”

Redimus looked at him skeptically. Besteel shrugged.

“...I turned out fine.”

Redimus looked at him even more skeptically. Besteel waved his claws at him.

“Bah! You know what I mean; the point is- I think you just don’t want them to see how much better hunting is than fishing.”

Redimus glared at him. “Do you really think that’s going to work on me?”

“I know it is. You know you're going to lose. As always.”

“I don't always lose. I can think of quite a few times-”

“But I was talking about now.”

There was a tense stillness between them for a moment. Redimus grit his teeth, considering. He would never make a bet involving his eyasses- no matter how much Besteel teased and taunted- no, that wasn't what irked him. It was his words.

“Decided for them”

“Mold them into your image”

“Real Dorceans”

Expectations. Redimus had no expectations for his daughters. He knew, first hand, what that would do to them. But was he really choosing for them? What if they enjoyed the traditional lifestyle?

The thoughts swirled in his mind, gnawing into a long-held sense of guilt. Finally he growled and threw his net down. He pushed past his brother, towards the ramp leading to the higher boardwalk. Besteel watched him, smirking.

Redimus found his daughters playing with a bird feather they had found. Besteen caught it, then blew on it, and then they went scrambling around trying to catch it again. They only stopped when they noticed their father watching them. The feather blew away.

“Pack anything you’ll need for a week,” Redimus said, “You two are going to go stay with my brother.”

The twins squeaked in excitement and rushed off back towards their home, no questions asked. Redimus felt his brother's presence behind him.

“Don't be self-satisfied yet,” he warned. “I'm not agreeing to this to get at you.”

Besteel chuckled. “I know. But I win, all the same.”

“No. You don’t.” Redimus turned to look at him. His mechanical eyepatch caught the light, shining directly into Besteel's eye, and Besteel covered them with a grunt.

When he recovered, Redimus drew his claws down gingerly through the gouges of the scars on his face. The scars over his missing eye.

“Nothing,” he said, “is to happen to them. I know they’re like me. Just ensure they don't make my mistakes.”

Besteel snorted and slapped one of Redimus’ shoulders. “I know they're not as stupid as you were, at least. They'll be fine. And if they aren't, I'll shape them up.”

“What does that mean?” Redimus snapped.

Besteel smirked at him, but if he was going to reply he couldn't; the twins came back, hopping around Besteel’s feet and chirping questions. Redimus scooped them up and carried them down, from the tower down the stairs and onto a boardwalk to the beach, where Besteel's glider was parked.

Besteel strapped them onto a passenger seat on his glider and their luggage (two small bags, so at least they knew how to pack light) was strapped to each of the wings. The twins put their flight goggles on, and Redimus leaned over the glider to nuzzle beaks with each of them.

“Be good,” he said to them, “and be careful. The forest isn't like the lake, and it's much more dangerous. Keep an eye on your uncle for me.”

“We will,” Dorcy said, squeezing one of Redimus’ claws. Besteen took longer to let go, only relenting after her father gave her another nuzzle.

Besteel snorted. “For the last time, they're going to be fine. Finish with your goodbyes and let's go.” He put his helmet on and started the engine.

The glider began to lift with a loud hum. Redimus stepped back, waving.

“Goodbye,” he said, “stay safe.”

“We will, papa! Goodbye!”

Redimus watched them fly away, until the glider disappeared over the treeline in the distance. He sighed and began the trek back to the pier where he had left his net. He picked it back up and began to finish his repairs; for a while, his mind was empty.

But now that the confrontation had passed, and his blood cooled, he realized exactly what he had done- and realized, even worse, he now had to tell their mother. He sighed, folded up the net, and headed for his home.

The house was dark, and grew more so as he neared the room at its center, winding his way down a circular hall. As he went, the temperature also dropped, so that soon he could see his own breath. The refrigeration unit Hailey had repurposed for them was working well- extremely well, to be producing this temperature in the middle of Summer.

The hall ended at an arched doorway, and he stood at the threshold.

Doshika was lying on the floor of Redimus’ room- their room, when she was present- and she took up most of it. She had most of her limbs tucked under her, save for her her main pair of arms. They were propping up her chin on talons neatly folded. She opened her eyes as he came in.

“You are sending our eyasses to live with Besteel for a week.” She said.

Redimus ducked his head. He fiddled with his talons. “...Ah. You know already.”

Doshika's dark eyelids lowered halfway. “Dorcy and Besteen told me as they were kissing me goodbye.”

Redimus looked down at the carpet, picking at a few frosted threads with his claws. He cleared his throat a few times.

“...I'm sorry,” he said, after a moment.

“I understand. Your brother knows exactly how to get under your hide. Besides, it may be good for them to explore the world a little, to get fresh air that doesn't smell of the lake.”

He looked up at her. “If you're worried about Besteel-”

“He knows what I will do to him,” Doshika said. Her talons tightened on her knuckles. The dark black sickle claws shone in the dim light of the globular lanterns above.

Redimus nodded. He looked at the carpet again, then shivered a little in the cold.

“Still, I wish I had been consulted before I lost a week with my daughters,” there was a pointed inflection that sharpened at the end of the sentence, like an icicle.

Redimus ducked his head in shame again.

“I know. I am sorry.”

“Yes,” Doshika agreed.

There was another silence. Redimus rubbed one of his legs with another one, trying to warm it. He glanced at her, then away again.

He began shuffling back. “...So, I'm guessing you don't want me to-”

“Oh, no,” she said. “Perhaps the only good thing about this is I finally get you to myself. By all means, come here.”

***

Besteel landed the glider on the edge of his campsite. He turned it off, then took off his helmet and gestured to the glade with one arm.

“Well, here it is,” he said, “the Wandering Forest, my campsite.”

His nieces looked around at all of the trees and plants, the moss-strewn ground, and the many things Besteel had in his camp: lanterns hung on hooks, hunting implements, snares and cages and a tent for the rain.

Dorcy sniffed the air. “Oooh,” she said, “it smells alive here- not like the lake, in a different way! Very…planty!”

“So many trees,” Besteen murmured, “not like the garden.”

Besteel chuckled. “The forest is no garden, that's for certain. This is only the edge of it.”

He unstrapped them and the two eyasses hopped down onto the moss, sniffing it and squishing it between their talons. Besteel took their bags and placed them in a small mossy hollow in the center of his camp. His nieces rushed over and began to unpack their things, neatly laying out two small bedrolls and a dingy, chewed-up stuffed waterbear each.

Besteel blinked at them. “You still have those?”

Besteen hugged hers. “Mm-hm!”

Besteel narrowed his eyes. “Why? You're too old for baby toys.”

“We are?” Dorcy held hers tighter to herself protectively.

“You should be. Why hasn’t your sire taken them from you yet?”

The twins held their toys closer, as if afraid Besteel would take them away from them that instant; but he just snorted and shook his head.

“That's sad. Oh, well. His problem.”

He shrugged and then began using his multiple talons to brush dirt off himself.

“First thing's first. You need to learn the basics. What do you know about hunting? Nothing?”

“We know a little,” Besteen said.

“Not enough, I bet,” Besteel scoffed. “He's never taken you hunting. That changes now. But the first things must come first. That means we work on camp basics: location, set up, tool handling, weapons. After that I'm going to teach you about tracking, and if your instincts kick in by then, maybe I'll take you to make your first kills. You're both way behind for your age.”

He smirked. “But of course, with Orbona’s best hunter as your teacher, you'll be taking trophies by the end of the week.”

Dorcy and Besteen glanced at each other. They hugged their stuffed waterbears even closer.

“Then we'll be ‘real’ Dorceans?” Dorcy peeped.

Besteel nodded. “After you make your first kill, yes.”

“...But..what are we now?”

Besteel didn’t respond for a moment. There came a few expressions across his face, subtle twitches around his eyes and in the lines near his beak; but then he smiled again.

“Eyasses,” he said.

“What about papa?” Besteen chirped.

Besteel paused. He clicked his beak.

“Hm? What about him?”

“He's a real Dorcean too.”

Again, Besteel fell into that strange silence, save his face wasn’t a rippling pool of emotions like the first time- this time he seemed more solemn. His beak clicked together again.

“...Are you hungry?- Of course you are, you're still growing. I have some real meat in my stores. You seem to like water bear,” he said in a slightly jesting tone, gesturing to the plushes they held onto.

He rose and headed for another area of his camp, opening a latch that covered a hole in the ground. He began sorting through containers that were in there, something that smelled to the girls like spices the fishermen used to preserve fish- and there were other things they had never smelled before. Bloody things. Tasty smelling things.

But he hadn't answered their question; Besteen and Dorcy were too old to be so easily distracted. They noticed how their uncle had avoided it. They looked at each other again, and only more questions began to form in their little minds- questions they would seek the answers to in the coming week, whether Besteel wanted it or not.

[bearlytolerant]

Fandom: Dragon Age

Pairing: Solas x Cadash

Chapter Rating: T

AO3

start at the beginning

Chapter 3 Excerpt: Arlathan

Evening two of three celebratory festivities before the end of week peace talks, and tonight he dons a mask over his eyes. It is of simple make and an opaque teal with rose golden thread rimming the outer edge. It matches his robe of the same color, rose gold accents an artistic representation of sunset reflected on water. For tonight, the theme is tidal.

Combing fingers through his loose auburn strands, Solas weaves his way around the outskirts of the dance floor, exchanging pleasantries and smiles where they are due.

“Ah, Solas!” Anaris calls to him, a wispy vine of a man with a half mask made of broken fish bones. It barely covers his right eye, curving along the angle of his high and sallow cheekbone, making it obvious who he is. He’s always been one to barely comply with the festivity requirements, but never be boring about it. Wine sloshing over the edge of his glass as he lifts it in a purposely clumsy manner, Solas side-steps. With a subtle flash of magic, brief in his eyes, the wine returns to the glass. “I see the years have not dulled your senses. Still so sharp of mind and quick reflexes.”

“And I see that you have carved out some time from your verdant life to join us tonight.” A floating frozen wave passes by them, the cusp lined with perfectly balanced drinks and hors d'oeuvres. Solas helps himself to a flute of champagne. Raising the glass to his lips, he eyes Anaris curiously while sipping.

The grey haired mage spins a glossy spider-silk-like strand around his ashen finger and speaks in his hypnotic rasp of a cadence. “Oh, you know me. I love parties.” He sips from his wine glass, palest blue eyes darting around the ballroom. “The food, the wine, the melodies.” His knicked left ear twitches, making the shark teeth mixed with golden bells on the chains of his earrings faintly clink and chime. The soothing sound is lost in the rising forte of ballroom strings.

Solas quirks a brow and briefly lifts his fluted glass in acknowledgement. “I do know you, and deeds you’ve done. Reveal the real reason you’ve come.”

He clucks his forked tongue, the ball piercings shimmering briefly. “Oh Solas.” His voice dips lower, almost singing the last syllable of his name, a mirthless chuckle escaping his lips. “Do you not take pride in your cleverness? You can’t expect me to spill my secrets.” He wags a finger at Solas and continues. “For that would spoil all of the fun. And I daresay, it’s hardly begun.”

He downs the remainder of his wine, clacking one of his long lacquered nails against the glass before passing it off to Solas. He circles his mouth with thumb and forefinger, then pulls his pocket square from his black vested robes that swirl in a faint whirlpool pattern. The longer Solas stares into the center, the more he must fight back the feeling of drowning. He averts his gaze and gulps in air. One flick of Anaris’ wrist and the napkin unfurls, twisting and transforming into a crystal cane. He offers a slow and slight bow of his head, a crooked smile plastered on his lips, eyes staring at something across the room.

He waltzes away without another word.

Solas watches as Anaris’ long black sleeves sweep the floor as he retreats, disappearing from view once he slips in amidst the dancers. It is most likely a mistake to let him out of his sight but there are plenty others like him who could prevent Anaris’ mischief from becoming too great a burden. Sighing, he casually leans against the marbled pillar nearest him and sips some more of his champagne. It’s sharp and pops in his mouth like candy he would sometimes indulge in from the stalls in the market square. But it goes down his throat in liquid ice, and leaves an aftertaste like summer rain smells. Strange and saccharinely sublime.

Spying the floating refreshments, he delivers his empty glass and heads up the stairs, desperate for a breath of fresh air from the balcony.

He hides his smile when he catches sight of Lady Cadash. She wears a dress of pastels, the asymmetrical, layered ruffles shifting in the cool night’s breeze. As he studies her, he thinks of coral and her long blue locks are loose and spilling over her shoulders like low tide waves. She is radiant under the moonlight, leaning over the glass railing.

“Good evening, Solas,” she says without turning around.

“How did you know?” He inches closer to her.

“You have a distinctive shadow. Too plain for the other elves.”

“Too plain?”

She gestures offhandedly. “You are gorgeous of course. It isn’t a flaw. I just noticed your attire’s beauty lies in the subtler, simpler details. The others are more—how do I say this—loud. Also, you’re too tall to be a dwarf.”

“You think I’m gorgeous?”

“Do not make me rescind my statement…”

Continue Here

[biserker-kadan]

13, 33 and 43 from fifty more rook qs?

Thank you!!! Receiving this made my day and I love getting the chance to just lore drop my Rooks 🤗 I'm gonna do this for my main 2 Rooks because they are both fresh in my lil obsessed brain.

Questions and answers underneath!

13. What would Rooks LI(s) say are their flaws?

Ev'lyn isn't a very forthcoming person, I can imagine that would cause a lot of issues with communication. Lucanis wouldn't necessarily give her any grief for taking her time with opening up about certain topics or thoughts but it's something that has caused problems (post-game, also post-prison) because she just bottles. At least, in a way, Lucanis does have Spite to bounce off of but Ev'lyn will just shut herself away and not only is it terrifying for Lucanis to watch, he also has to deal with Spite loosing their goddamn mind because why is she not answering them?

Whether Axel is with Neve or Davrin, either of them would not appreciate Axel's ability to completely forget that he is a living breathing person and if he gets stabbed, it will hurt. The man knows they all know how to fight and yet is always getting himself hurt doing stupid shit like throwing himself in front of the team or taking on way too many Venatori when Neve is right there. She knows it comes from a place of love but by god does she rip into him for it. Davrin would be so pissed to see Rook act as though he doesn't matter after everything they went through. It's the one thing that causes the most issues in their relationship(s).

33. What does the Inquisitor think when they first meet Rook?

Cassius was impressed with Ev'lyn. She's smart and precise, has her head on straight and isn't afraid to question things. He's more than happy to offer her anything she needs and step back when required, he has other responsibilities after all.

Val thought Axel was a fucking moron kid. Hated him. Hated that he was the one going after Solas when Solas fucking lied to him for so long and he doesn't even get to deal with it? It takes him a while (and probably a couple of conversations with Dorian and Morrigan) to actually see the bigger picture and appreciate Axel for his skills and abilities.

43. What does Rook do if they can't sleep?

Ev'lyn trains. She runs obstacle courses she memorized as a child or she reads medical journals until her eyes feel like they're going to fall out of her head or her body is about to collapse from exhaustion. Healthy? Probably not. Works? Yes.

Axel knows he shouldn't but he will go looking for a fight. He's usually a pretty deep sleeper so the only times that he does have problems with that is nightmares and his emotional response requires action. In the lighthouse it was harder to sneak out but not impossible, there were many a moments where Neve or one of the others followed him into the crossroads and watched his back.

[rock-teh-elf]

what happened in dragon age vows and vengeance

in the prologue we follow elio through a tavern, he finishes a drink and a tale and heads home, there he finds a shadowy figure, it is nadia. she forces him to share a drink together, very obviously mad at him. olen tries to get her to leave but ultimately agrees. nadia poisons him, and asks for answears, after she tells him what happened.

nadia and elio are in a relationship. episode starts with elio throwing nadia a surprise birthday party, nadia says she doesn't know when her bday is but elio insists on the party. Elio gives nadia a gift, at first she is confused as to why he would give her such a gift, he hopefully asks to star anew with her, that gift is a wedding ring. she storms off angry cause she does not want to get married, she doesn't belive a magister and a liberati can get married. they fight about the wedding nadia argues that they live in different worlds, elio tries to argue but ultimately backs away disappointed, he tries to comfort her but she leaves.

nadia goes outside to catch some fresh air and think, she goes to the docks. A fishmonger gives her some info about a sketchy person and nadia decides to follow the lead. the person is a guy names vik, says she owes olen a favour, at first she plays hard but gives in. vik and nadia are friends, they talk about the job, it is revealed its a simple job that needs a theif. olen reveals its on the contrary a rough job and offers nadia a lot of golf for getting it done. she has to break into the archives, she agrees without a fight, olen is delighted. they have a drink and discuss details, olen wants nadia to steal a relic called the eye of kethisca.

elio goes after nadia, he searches for her on the dock. someone followed him, the figure is revealed to be neve gallus. neve tells elio that she is looking for nadia, neve heard about the mission nadia is about to go on and wants to stop her. she asks elio to go after her but elio says theres no way to stop her, neve insists telling him that if she does steal the artifact a lot of people are going to die. elio seems confused.

nadia and vik attempt to break into the archives. they run around the building tring to find the way in. vik is left behind as they almost got caught and nadia has to do the mission alone. she climbs through a window.

elio goes to the archives himself, at first he is denied entrance but manages to talk himself in.

nadia breaks in the archives and elio catches her. they fight about nadia breaking in, they fight about their relationship when a magical sound caughts their attention. its the eye, elio tells her to not go through with it, nadia is hesitant when elio tells her the relic is dangerous and to just leave it. nadia agrees and leaves it behind. templars come to arrest them, tipped off.

nadia wants to fight, elio wants to surrender. nadia initiates a fight and the relics begin to break in the fight. they begin to runway. they fight their way out the building. they get stopped right before they escape and elio casts firestorm, the templars retreat. they escape to docktown.

nadia stole the eye, elio is mad. nadia promises to explain, neve stops them. neve wants to stop them, elio believes she tips off the templars, she explains she did not but suspects to know who did: the dreadwolf.

vik finds them, he is fatally injured, he dies, informing them that assasins are coming after them. they fight them off. the eye glows, the eye feeds on power from the fade. the eye goes boom and they escape, leaving neve behind. they escape on boat.

neve yells at them to return, she tries to stop them but they manage to escape. they go to find olen's buyer.

fastforward to them on land, nadia and elio have a heart to heart about the situation they found themselves in and their relationship. they get stopped by a cloaked figure, they decide to investigate and ask if he is a agent of olen. the cloaked figure is solas, he is the buyer. they exchange gold for the eye, elio is hesitant but gives it to him.

solas calms the eye's power, he explains that the relic is connected to the fade, the pair is confused about solas' intentions and solas persuades them to join him if they wish to find answers.

he leads them to a cave, insert some solas bs about magic. nadia asks for answers about the eye. solas explains about the relics connection to the fade, nadia doesn't buy it and threatens solas, holding him at knife point. she asks to reveal his true intentions, asks to know how he knew who and where they were. solas stays calm, while elio ask nadia to stop, she does. solas explains that the venatori where after the eye, he says the power of the eye, and elio, are beyond their understanding. he asks for elio's help since he bores a special connection to the relic, he not only is a powerful rift mage, but his bloodline is connected to the relic, since it was created by his ancector.

they are hesitant, solas tells elio that he wants to use the eye to mend the world. nadia doesn't buy it and prompts them to leave, elio agrees. nadia and elio fight about it, elio says its his last time to do good, nadia agrees to help.

fast forward to an ancient chamber, a place where the veil is weak. nadia is hesitant, elio seems confident. solas prompts elio to use the relic. they cast a spell together. nadia gets a bad feeling from the ritual and asks them to stop, they do not. magic magic magic. elio feels something off and asks solas to stop, solas does not. elio begins to lose control. solas prompts them to flee the ritual;, elio is lost and nadia flees with solas

now outside, nadia wakes up and looks for elio, he is nowhere, neither is solas.

fastforward, nadia demands answers from olen, olen knows nothing of solas, he only knows the dreadwolf, nadia asks where to find him, olen doesn't know, he only knows solas had plans to find a place to perform a ritual in the hinterlands. nadia leaves after giving olen the antidote.

nadia gets a vision of elio in the fade. elio tells her he cant get out without her help but the connection cuts before he manages to tell her how.

end

[starrose17]

Meet Kartok. 53 year old Grey Warden warrior. He's old, he's tired, he's grumpy, he's covered in scars and tattoos that tell the story of his very interesting life, and now he just wants peace. Maybe it's something to do with being Qunari but his Calling just hasn't called him yet, and after spending his entire life fighting he just wants to be still, and quiet.

And the gentleness he finds in his Antivan Crow, will give him the rest he deserves.

Though trust me he will fuck Lucanis into the ground and deeper when they get to that stage in their relationship.

Off duty from saving the world he'll spend most of his time reading everything there is in Solas' library, often falling asleep on the couch in the communal area. He'll always wake up to find a certain someone has put a blanket over him, and there'll be a fresh tray of churros sitting on the table beside him.

Taash will help rub ointments into his aching bones (they're the only one who can reach his shoulder blades), he'll spend hours quite contently listening to Bellara ramble on, and will help Harding dig up the earth for new flowers.

Anything that's peaceful and relaxing. It's all he wants.

(I've created so many pretty elves I wanted to make a Rook who's...got character, shall we say).

[starrylothcat]

Starry could I get

7. cuddling and eventually falling asleep

Author's choice on OC but I think Sola would be really cute for this one

(With much love, @dickarchivist )

Peace

Pairing: Hunter x OC (Sola info here)

Summary: Hunter and Sola cuddling.

Warnings: None. Fluff.

WC: ~500

A/N: Thanks for the ask, friend! This is my first time posting anything Hunter x Sola related and I am soft for them. 🥹

Sola lay on her bunk, the steady sound of rain pelting The Marauder oddly comforting. They had just returned from a mission and were back on Ord Mantell for a few rotations, a nice break amidst the back-to-back jobs she and 99 were sent on by Cid.

She was trying to research their next assignment, but her eyelids were heavy in the rare tranquility of The Marauder. The boys and Omega were still at Cid’s parlor, having a drink and decompressing. Sola had her drink and retreated to the ship, wanting to take this opportunity to hit the refresher and relax.

Sola perked up when she heard footsteps up the gangplank, Hunter stepping aboard the ship.

Sola smiled, knowing he probably wouldn’t be far behind her.

“Mind if I join you?” Hunter took off his helmet and began undoing his armor.

Sola sat up more in her bunk.

“Only if you hit the ‘fresher first.” She lightly teased, watching as he meticulously stacked his armor near his bunk.

Hunter let out a low chuckle, now just in his blacks. “If that’s what it takes.”

Sola hummed in response, laying back down on her bunk.

Hunter stepped into the refresher and emerged not too long after in a fresh pair of blacks.

Sola scooted over in her bunk, Hunter settling in next to her. There wasn’t much room, but neither of them minded. Sola tucked herself into Hunter’s side, his arm keeping her close to him. She rested her head on his chest, and she heard and felt him let out a long breath.

They sat in comfortable silence for a while, the rain the only sound in the ship as Hunter’s fingers drew gentle circles on her arm, letting himself unwind.

Sola’s eyelids were fatigued again, Hunter’s warm body and steady breaths lulling her further into a state of relaxation, something they both realized they hadn’t had in some time.

Hunter could hear Sola’s heartbeat slow as she melted against him. Her scent enveloped him as he pressed his lips to the top of her head, feeling her snuggle even closer up against his body.

“How long do you think we have until they come back?” Sola mumbled, barely fighting off sleep.

“Not long.” Hunter’s own eyes were falling heavy, his body and mind begging for rest.

“Then we better enjoy the quiet while it lasts.” Sola murmured, threading her fingers with his across his chest.

Sola felt safe, unworried as Hunter’s hand gently squeezed hers. Feelings she thought she’d never feel again before being in Hunter’s arms.

Soon, Hunter’s soft snores joined the sound of the rain. Sola faded into a serene slumber shortly after, entwined in one another, content and at peace, at least for a little while.

Taglist: @crosshairlovebot @sev-on-kamino @kimiheartblade @wizardofrozz @clonemedickix @sunshinesdaydream @kashasenpai @freesia-writes @multi-fan-dom-madness @aconstructofamind @dreamie411 @dystopicjumpsuit @wings-and-beskar @starqueensthings @idontgetanysleep @secretthegriffin @anxiouspineapple99 @sinfulsalutations @secondaryrealm @littlemissmanga @maybethatfanfictionwriter @pb-jellybeans @wanderer-six @king-chaos-world @wolffegirlsunite @dukeoftheblackstar @523rdrebel @lune-de-miel-au-paradis @sleepingsun501 @cw80831 @dangraccoon @din-miller @mythical-illustrator @eternal-transcience

Divider by @dystopicjumpsuit

I will be tagging my OC posts as OC:Sola if you aren’t interested in OC stuff!

[dragonologist-writings]

Title: That Which Is Lost Fandom: Dragon Age: Inquisition Rating: G Status: One-Shot Characters: Inquisitor Adaar, Josephine Montilyet Ships: F!Adaar/Josephine Additional Notes: Hurt/Comfort, Post-Trespasser, Injury Recovery Word Count: 1.3k Summary: Meraad mourns what has been lost, and Josephine reminds her of what has not.

read below or here on AO3

For the first time, it occurs to Meraad that she might have to cut her hair.

She takes a deep breath- steady and barely shaking, because even in the privacy of her own quarters she must stay strong- as she fixes her eyes on the reflection in the mirror. Long, loose strands of un-tethered silver hair obscure her expression. That’s fine; honestly, she prefers not to look herself in the eyes when she finally admits defeat.

In those first few days, she barely spared a thought for things such as this. Her mind was reeling over revelations and war plans and betrayal. When even walking felt wrong and unbalanced, her hair didn’t matter; she left it loose and tangled and didn’t care.

But now she’s recovering, isn’t she? She’s sleeping through the night. With a bit of twisting and stretching she can secure the buckles on her own clothing. Dagna wants to show her a new prosthetic design today, and it’s not as if Meraad has ever needed two hands to wield a dagger anyway.

Even the pain is not so bad anymore. True, she still feels the occasional phantom shocks, as if the Anchor were still fixed onto a nonexistent palm… but it happens far less often and with far less intensity than it did when the wound was fresh.

Meraad can handle the remnants of pain. She can handle the adjustments to her fighting style and her new center of balance. She doesn’t need help to live her own life, and she certainly doesn’t- shouldn’t- need help to braid her own damn hair.

Maybe she should have cut it long ago. It’s always been an effort to care for, and she rarely indulges in silly luxuries. But when it’s loose it flows nearly to her hips, a soft cascading curtain of silver- the only thing about herself Meraad might truthfully call beautiful. She wonders what the others will think, when she shows up with her long, intricate braid chopped off. If she can’t even save this small thing- if she can’t do this simple task she’s been doing since she was old enough to walk- how is she supposed to re-learn everything she knows about combat in time to face Solas once again? How is she supposed to be strong enough to lead her people to victory if she can’t even take care of herself? How-

In a burst of willpower, Meraad grabs a long strand of hair and make one more attempt. Keep this strand between these fingers, tuck another between these, twist the elbow this way to grab a third from the back-

Her lone hand fumbles as she tries to reach around her horns, and her fistful of hair falls from her grasp once more. Meraad slams her palm on the dresser in frustration, screwing her eyes shut against the traitorous tears that threaten to fall.

This is all silly. She hasn’t cried over the pain or the nightmares, and she will certainly not cry over this of all things. She will cut her hair and that will be that. Meraad moves to wipe her eyes and out of habit moves the wrong arm, exposing herself to the disorientation of sending commands to a hand that is not there, and the boiling frustration that has been building inside her all morning finally escapes in a choked sob.

“My love?”

Meraad jolts upright, realizing with a pang of guilt and embarrassment that she has woken Josephine. She hurriedly wipes away her tears- with the correct arm, this time- and turns to assure Josephine that everything is fine.

But before she can say a word, Jospehine appears behind her, taking in the scene, and without a word reaches out to run her fingers through Meraad’s hair. She stands there for a moment, neither woman speaking, and then Josephine begins to braid.

At first Meraad wants to protest, but the feel of Josephine’s fingers, methodical and steady in their task, is soothing. Besides, she still doesn’t trust her voice not to shake. So she lets Josephine work, and as she does Meraad studies the other woman’s reflection in the mirror.

Josephine is still in her long nightdress, her hair own tousled from sleep. But her eyes are as alert and perceptive as always. It is her eyes that Meraad watches; they are lovely, deep and intelligent and always so expressive. Meraad searches those eyes now, certain she will find pity- or worse, disappointment. Josephine has always been the strongest believer in Meraad’s strength. She has always been the last person Meraad wants to let down.

But in this moment, Josephine’s emotions are unreadable, even to Meraad. She simply continues her work silently until she has gathered all of Meraad’s hair into a long braid, which she then tucks over her shoulder. It is only then that she speaks, her voice heavy with sorrow and worry. “You have been through a great deal in a very short time. Do not demand so much of yourself.”

So much, she says. As if fixing her hair is the equivalent of leading a battalion.

Meraad frowns and stands, brushing past Josephine to collect her daggers from the other side of the room. “Why not? Everybody else does.” She is aware of how bitter her words are, but she can do nothing to sweeten them. “And I can’t afford to let them down.”

Josephine reaches an arm out to touch Meraad’s shoulder as she walks by. The touch is light and gentle, but it still stops Meraad in her tracks. “Do you know how many countries are completely self sufficient?” Josephine asks. “Do you know how many noble houses can sustain themselves with no allies or benefactors?”

She is using her ‘gentle reprimand’ voice, and even as the words make Meraad scowl, the familiar tone eases some of the tension in her chest. It is nice to know that some things don’t change, she supposes. And Josephine is talented enough to make even a lecture feel comforting. “I thought Ferelden was infamous for its independence.”

“Ferelden would not be standing if not for the Grey Wardens. And the Grey Wardens would have collapsed if not for the Inquisition. And the Inquisition would have failed a hundred times over if not for the people who believed in us and gave us their aid.” Josephine’s hand drops from Meraad’s arm, tracing down her forearm and wrist until their fingers are wrapped together. “Nobody stands alone.”

Meraad sighs, and she turns her gaze from the hand currently wrapped in Josephine’s to the hand that is not there. She doesn’t like looking at that empty space; it still feels so wrong, to expect to something there, even something unnatural and painful, and instead be reminded that there is nothing.

“The Inquisition may have had assistance,” Meraad replies, “But it was still built on a foundation. What will happen when that foundation is damaged?”

Josephine reaches out to cup Meraad’s cheek and turn her head so that they are facing each other. “I know it will not all be as simple as this,” she says, brushing a stray lock of hair from Meraad’s face and tucking it behind her ear. “But you are still Meraad Adaar. That is one of two things you can never lose.”

Meraad releases a deep breath, closing her eyes and letting herself be soothed by the touch. “And what is the other?”

“You are my love,” Josephine answers, and though Meraad’s eyes are still closed she can hear the soft smile in her voice. “And you will not be facing the future on your own.”

Meraad lets the words sink in over a long moment, and then she nods, and decides that perhaps she will not cut her hair just yet.

[fleshwerks]

Thoughts on new Dragon Age "teaser"? You have the best takes.

I'll be deadly honest, I didn't even realise it was out, that's how checked out I am, but I will always fall hook line and sinker for a delicious bait made of things I can chew on, so let's seeeeeee. I'll do first impressions for now. I'll warn you, I haven't done 'takes' in ages, I've seriously lost my edge and resemble someone yelling at a cloud more than someone with intelligent or at least entertaining takes. Proceed on your own volition. Note, I have not been keeping up with DA4 updates. At all. I am literally grasping at straws and screaming out of my arse.

I'll say this. I believe Mark Darrah who had retired from BioWare was brought back on to save this tattered ship that had failed to launch how many times now? If you were with DAI and Anthem especially, you know that when a vet of that calibre is being brought on board towards the end of production, you're fucked. The sheer scope of the regions visited in the trailer... I wouldn't blink an eye if it was a turn-based strategy game, but it is not.

I'm surprised how shit the game visually looks, but it's been my criticism with the thus far released art, and now, environment assets. And again, I'm coming off of Anthem, and Anthem was truly, truly gorgeous. Now someone might argue that every DA has had its distinctive visual style. Well I thought DA2, for what it was, sure did look inspired. I didn't enjoy the game or the characters, but I enjoyed looking at it. Dragon Age Inquisition kind of lost me aesthetically, but I see what they did there. It was more generic, certainly not attempting to be photorealistic, but I saw the idea and accepted it.

Now this though? What is this? The panning over what I presume is Treviso literally looks like a mobile game ad.

Ok, fine, I'll not go in on the visuals, I'm too fresh out of art college and I'm so anal-retentive that my o-ring's more pinched than a pinprick about this stuff. Moving on.

I believe the new PC is an Antivan Crow? Since when are they fighting for all of Antiva? Everyone??? Since when?! Zevran's canonically not returning, and even he was compassionately practical on his best days. The Crows are not good people. They buy kids to train for miserable jobs meeting miserable ends. Oh, so we had a whole character who gave the Crows a finger for being the shitshow they were, but now they're this resistance task force? What, why, because the 'Islamic Borg' invaded?

Then. I feel like I'm missing a fuckton of contest because I haven't read the preceding comics and stories, I have one comic book from the DAI-DA4 interim and it ended so disappointingly, I never bothered after that.

We're really retconning all the complex and complicated factions into freedom fighters, aren't we. I guess such is the state of our real world. Always a plucky band of people belonging to formerly shitty fucking organisations suddenly saving the day like heroes, possibly somewhere along the way ruminating for 2 seconds on whether they deserve to pat themselves on the back, landing on 'but we will change how we operate, and we will save the world, always!'

I'm into the Rivaini squid though. I've never been fond of Rivain, not just because parts of the fandom like to present this place that has barely been talked about in canon like some haven for... idk. I just didn't expect squids. And you people know I love marine invertebrates. You know what, fuck it, here's my 'best take': have squid, will travel!

But that port city ravaged recently by the dragons in ruins looks like it's been in ruins for the past 2000 years, only recently excavated. It's so clean. And here I go again with the aesthetics.

Anyway, Falon'din and/or dirthamen is fuckin' around in Rivain, aren't they. Because I believe that head shape, multi-hands etc were presented in many of the statues we saw in DAII, and given that Falon'din's proverbial crows, envy and nightmare were so prominently featured, and sexyman Solas' outright resentment for former master Dirthamen and the vain Falon'din, welll... risen gods. Dirthamen at the very least was associated with watery depths, but they're twins (or are they? Perhaps the facets of one person altogether)... Anyway, I'm more interested in what the fuck is happening in Weisshaupt. That part genuinely interests me. Circling back to Dirthamen, Razikale is the dragon of Mystery. Associated with Dirthamen, at least according to my theory, while Urthemiel was the Dragon of Beauty, and we keep getting indications that Falon'din was pretty, aggressive, and exceedingly vain. So Big Dirty's up next. Falon'din had the crows, right? Both defeated in DAI. He's out, more or less. And again, Solas most likely was Dirthamen's student before he decided that he himself didn't want to be but totally wanted to be revered. So my take is that Razikale, who got mentions in DAI is waking up as well.

The villain gods of this mess, the classic Dragon Age false gods we fight in every single game as end bosses, will be connected to Dirt. Eh. Same eagle, different liver.

Anyway I have a doubt that this kind of scope will end anywhere nice. The production's been fraught as fuck to the point where the panic button has been pressed many times. The art looks like a significant downgrade, the production has been filled with veterans just clocking the fuck out.

It doesn't sound interesting. I'm tired of saving the world as an Eastern European in late 2023. This kind of story does not speak to me at all anymore. Not after 2019, not after 2021. It looks dated and mediocre, the story is so old that if it goes where I think it will, it has no relevance or message for anybody but perhaps some American audiences (some). I'm just... I'm not.

The rah-rah I got from that clip leaves me ice cold. There is no rah-rah in such widespread misery. There are only curse words and the sound of grinding teeth, and everybody's a dick, and everybody's dick past is dredged up hard. No retcons.

I don't want it. It better receive insanely high marks for me to play it. And I loved this franchise, two of the PCs have gone on to be archetypal in my private works now.

The mystery is gone. The power creep... I don't want to hang out with gods. They should have never been brought into the story as characters you can extensively hang out with. Edit: basically the entire thing sounds about as exciting as a somewhat well-produced mobile game. Which is fun to fuck with while taking the metro, but...

[uchidachi]

Ok i have strong opinions on these polls 😂 but everyone voting for Solas does NOT understand how a battle royal works. Although there’s only one winner, that winner is not necessarily going to be the most powerful competitor.

Success in a battle royal is due to endurance first, then power, and a strong alliance can help overcome either of those factors. Quite often the rest of the field will team up briefly to put the big guy over the top rope.

That’s absolutely what happens to Solas the second the battle starts. His only possible defender is Velanna, but he would probably reject her help for being a warden, if she was inclined to offer it.

When it comes to thinking about who will ally with who, the new characters have the fewest connections, and one of them’s getting picked off early. None of them are winning against the big guns in the ring, though, even if they manage to hang out on the apron for a bit.

Merrill’s in second place in the poll right now and again, while her blood magic is powerful, I think she’s likely to suffer from a lack of alliances & endurance as well. She and Anders would probably be targeted eventually by the more chantry-minded mages, so ironically I think their success in this battle depends on their willingness to stick together.

If they manage not to turn on each other immediately, Velanna would be a natural third. This is definitely the powerhouse group, but Merrill and Anders both burn hot & fast, so Velanna better cut them loose so she doesn’t get weighed down by them once they run out of mana (and blood) (and Justice-juice)

The strongest alliance I see among the mages would be the Circle enchanters, especially if any of the newcomers are members. Vivienne and Wynne are also the ones most likely to win in a straight endurance contest, so I think their likelihood of getting Bethany and Dorian and at least one of the newbies onside is good. They’re also least likely to turn on each other because they’ve got the Actual Pope to lead them. I think they won’t have to face each other, but may lose members to the disaster bi trio. Wynne absolutely sacrifices herself nobly near the end, even though that’s literally not how a battle royal works omg Wynne…

Meanwhile, Morrigan has likely gone lone wolf, literally, and she might be the most powerful one left on the field if she drank from the Well. Her best bet is to lay low and let the field thin out, but I think Viv will lead the circle-aligned group to toss her out with priority. She might be able to take a few of the others out first, especially the squishiest glass canons, so I’m thinking Dire Bear beats out Bethany and both necromancers.

In the end, I’m seeing this coming down to perennial survivor Velanna and still-fresh-as-a-daisy Vivienne in a one-on-one fight. I put more points into Vivienne’s barrier skill, so I picked her to win.

Thank u for coming to my presentation.

[rustic-obsessive]

I'm going to go feral about the da:d leaks for a second look away if you don't want spoilers

1) i'm positively frothing at the mouth at the prospect of going to Weisshaupt. the way they describe it in The Last Flight sounds so fuckin cool

2) mayhaps we'll get to be a warden again??? i wonder if this means another warden protagonist (unlikely in my opinion) or that we're getting dao style origins (more likely based on the fact that tevinter nights focuses on so many different factions i think we might get to pick a faction to start as)

3) i know it's extremely far fetched but a group of junior wardens from Weisshaupt do find a bunch of griffon eggs hidden away nearish Weisshaupt in the last flight which takes place just before inqusition so mayhaps griffons??? (i will cry if bioware gives me a baby griffon i want one so bad)

4) based on what the reddit thread was saying one of the two companions they saw had a female dwarf model though the models weren't finished. we might have a female dwarf companion and potentially (really crossing my fingers here) a female dwarf romance option!

5) the combat didn't seem that different to inqusition combat to me personally so i'm not too worried about that though i am slightly sad that it seems like the thread is supporting the earlier insider gaming article saying that we won't be able to control party members. it's not essential to me because i prefer story to combat but i did kinda like that aspect of micromanaging you could do in DA games

6) you! can! see! the! hair! moving!!! it's clipping through the helmet but it's moving!!! (it's hard to see in the gif cos it's so dark but you can see it!!)

7) finally based on the whole focus on red lyrium we've seen in concept art, the focus on the red lyrium idol, meredith being some kind of talking red lyrium statue, and the red lyrium in these leaks i think there's a strong chance we're going to be finding out more about the origins of the blight. in the leaks the protagonist is fighting darkspawn corrupted by red lyrium (this could indicate a playable grey warden origin or it could be something related to fighting off red lyrium corrupted beings in general idk) which to me seems to further support the idea that we might be delving further into the origins of the blight, especially since Solas seemed to know something about the blight the grey wardens didn't in inqusition also the whole "black city corrupted the magisters and brought the blight down to thedas" thing

One slight worry i have is that they're going to pull a Corypheus on us and hype up the whole Solas confrontation and the bringing down the veil but then pivot to the red lyrium and blighted titans thing half way through. i hope they don't do that but my worry is they may be tempted to because it's a fresh plotline less connected to the previous games and it would make da:d more newbie friendly

[johaerys-writes]

Dorian Pavus/Trevelyan

A World With You, Chapter 49: Something to Prove

Where Tristan interrogates Gordian about Corypheus' plans, but learns more than what he bargained for.

Read on AO3 | Read from the beginning

The wine was cool when it glided down Dorian’s throat. The rain had finally stopped, yet the echoes of distant thunder from the west still drifted through the Plains. The muffled sounds that came from within the tent made Dorian’s stomach twist. He drank some more, trying to make it stop. 

“How’s your head?” came Bull’s question from behind him. 

“Never had any complaints,” Dorian quipped, without thinking. 

Bull chuckled softly, standing beside him with his arms crossed before his chest. “Good to know.”

“How’s the prisoner?”

“Well enough. Boss is currently rearranging his face. With his fists.”

Dorian winced. “I thought he was done with that,” he murmured. “How he deigns to get the man talking if he punches out all of his teeth is truly beyond me.”

“Gotta soften them up a bit first, before you get them talking,” Bull said in a pleasant tone. “Besides, Gordian should have known he had it coming, when he trapped you behind that barrier.”

“Yes,” Dorian sighed. “I suppose he should.” There was little that could be done to quell Tristan’s anger and loathing for the Venatori on the best of days, let alone now, that one of them had had the audacity to attack Dorian directly. Not that he’d been in any real danger, as Dorian had pointed out to him several times on their way back. There was hardly a lackey of Corypheus that could truly hold their own in a fight against him. But Tristan, if nothing else, did have a flair for the dramatic that could match Dorian’s own sometimes. 

“I think I’ve had enough fresh air for now,” he said, tucking his flask back into his pocket. “Let’s go back inside, and see if there’s anything left of our captive to have a conversation with.”

The inside of the tent they’d dragged Gordian in felt uncomfortably stuffy. The air smelled of blood and mud. Gordian was tied to a short wooden pole, with his hands behind his back, his head lolling forward. Tristan stood above him, wiping his knuckles on a piece of cloth; the fabric, once white, was now crimson.

Tristan’s eyes were dark when he glanced at Dorian and Bull over his shoulder. He tossed the bloody cloth to the side, then picked up the leather bag that Harding had brought him a little while before. Inside were health potions, their contents vibrantly red in the dreary half-darkness of the tent. 

“Give him this,” he said sharply as he tossed one vial at Sera. “Make sure he drinks it all.” 

The elf caught in the air, hopping off the barrel she’d been sitting on. “I say we leave him like this,” she huffed, yet strode to the man regardless. “He’s not worth wasting a good potion on, is he?”

“I want him talking,” Tristan said coldly, “and I have no time to spare to wait for him to recover.” His features were hard, the trembling shadows of the lamp in the corner carving stark shadows along his cheeks and the line of his jaw. He watched as Sera tipped Gordian’s head back, emptying the contents of the vial, little by little. From his corner of the tent, Solas watched too, leaning against his staff, his face an expressionless mask. 

“There, all done,” Sera said, clapping the man hard on the back when he started coughing. Gordian’s wounds started healing slowly, though the bruises remained, as did the puffiness around his left eye, which was almost swollen shut. “Ready for another round?”

Gordian scowled up at her, his eyes still hazy. “Get your hands off me, you filthy knife ear—”

“That’s enough of that. Sera, leave him.” 

Tristan crossed his arms before him, and Dorian almost let out a breath in relief. As much as Gordian disgusted him, he wasn’t sure he could stomach another round of watching the man’s face getting beaten to a pulp. There was a side of Tristan that frightened him at times: he couldn’t quite understand how the same man that was so soft and gentle with him, that treated him as if he was precious and fragile, could just as easily turn stone cold and ruthless with those that slighted him. Not always, not with everyone, but just the thought of what he could do when pressed made Dorian somewhat uneasy.  

“What is your purpose here?” Tristan asked Gordian. “What were you sent to do?”

Gordian glanced up at him, his eyes hazy. He said nothing, only kept staring at him with a scornful smile painted on his lips. Tristan’s gaze hardened, his fingers digging into his arms where his hands lay folded. 

“I asked you a question.”

Gordian’s expression didn’t shift. “I heard you the first time, Inquisitor.” He uttered the word with so much contempt, that even Dorian winced. 

Without a word, Tristan picked up the bucket of ice cold water that stood beside him, and threw it forcefully on Gordian. The Venatori gasped, blinking, crimson-tinted water dripping from his hair and his beard. His eyes were wide and focused now, the haze lifting, and Gordian stared at them all around him, his chest heaving with his panting breaths.

“Was that truly necessary?” Dorian muttered, to which Sera shrugged carelessly, perching herself on the barrell. 

“Serves him right,” the elf said, gathering her legs underneath her and boredly chewing on a wheat stem while Gordian gradually returned to his senses fully. 

Dorian sighed, then reached into his coat pocket and removed his small notebook, the one he always kept with him. Some of its pages had been soaked by rain and mud during his tumble with the Venatori, but his notes were blessedly intact. He'd hoped to find some time after the fight to make some notes on Gordian's magic, when his memories of the barriers and incantations he'd used were still fresh in his mind, and now was as good a time as any.

“Did that cool your head?” Tristan said pleasantly, setting the bucket down. "Ready to answer my questions now?"

Gordian coughed again, shivering and sputtering water and blood through his split lips. “You’ll pay for this,” he hissed, voice hoarse and trembling. “Do you hear me? Corypheus will know. Corypheus knows all. He will make you all pay! He—” Gordian stopped talking when Tristan took a slow step towards him, sliding a knife out of his pocket. Its edge was sharp, thin as a hair.

“One more word,” he said in a low, threatening tone, “one more word that I don’t care to hear, and I’m cutting your tongue out.” 

Gordian swallowed, glancing at the knife, then in Tristan’s face. “Curse you,” he tried again, “curse all of you—” He stopped again, when Tristan moved closer, brandishing the blade. “Alright, alright,” he said shakily. He shrunk back into himself, pressing against the pole he’d been tied to. “Have it your way.”

“Good.” Tristan leaned on his back leg, twirling the blade between his fingers. “If you value your life, you’ll tell me everything I need to know. Yes?”

The Venatori nodded, once, and with much reluctance. 

Read the rest on AO3!