#i would love to hear him and wynne talk

[shift-shaping]

oh i see how it is. when wynne, beloved circle mage and hero of the fifth blight, talks about the value of spirits and the fade, everyone is cool. but when i, solas--

[image 1 text: The Fade contains spirits both benevolent and malicious. The benevolant spirits seldom make themselves known, because they want nothing from mortals, unlike the demons.]

[image 2 text: I have always had an affinity for the spirits of the Fade. As a child I never feared my dreams, because I knew they were there...]

[blimpintime]

a jar of wind part one

Wynnie Lara is a fairy that was saved from a jar from Amarantha's reign of terror, but is soon figuring out that her time of peace is coming to a end.

warnings: angst, azriel sucks :p and unedited

word count: 1.4k

eventual Eris x OC

“Rhys! You will never believe what I managed to do with my-” I bursted into the kitchen with a warm glow, my green dress flowing around me and headed towards where he was sitting with a cup of tea.

“Wynn, I have been up with Nyx for the past three nights and days with him teething. I would love some silence. Please.” He said with a low voice and eyes closed in annoyance. 

“Oh! Right, yes. Sorry.” I wince, I twirl my finger and use the wind to brush through the mellow sounding wind chimes I have placed around the River House. 

The tension seemed to leave his body, and I placed a sisterly kiss on the top of his head, my ginger bobbed hair layering over his black hair. In doing so I managed to remove the growing headache from him and take it on for myself.

“I didn’t ask you to do that, Wynn.” He said softly.

“I know, but that’s what family is for Rhys.” I respond with a light touch on his shoulder and whisper words of encouragement as I leave. 

As I walked out of the River House where the sun is setting, I ran into Azriel and Cassian. I smile and my subtle pink glow brightens.

“Hello you two!” I say with a wave and notice the grimm look on their body language and my face falls and my glow dims. “What happened, who's hurt?” 

Cassian winces and Azriel gives me a sharp look, “Stay out of it Wynn. You do enough damage as is.” 

I flinch back and the wind around me goes cold, “What is that supposed to mean?” 

He walks closer to me and leans over to get in my face, “It means that whatever magical experiment you tried this time back fired and hurt Elain.”

“What are you talking about?” I whisper back. My mind reels trying to remember if I left a magic trial unattended in the open, but I draw a blank. Unless… 

“She snuck into my cottage?” I question brows furrowing. There was only one trial I left at my house and that was my attempt of getting my wind to play instruments on its own, but wind is finicky and if interrupted incorrectly can cause a spiral of sharp and messy wind.

“Snuck? Wynn, you let everyone into your home all the time, there was no reason to lock your doors.” Cassian responded. I go hot with anger. 

“So just because I host all the time means my house is fair game? There are wards around it for a reason when I am not home. If that is your logic here then allow me to go into your guys home whenever I feel and do what I please.” I snap back.

“You’re being unreasonable Wynn.” Azriel says while rolling his eyes. “It was just Elain. She is harmless.” 

“I do not care who it was Azriel, it is my home. What did she need from me anyway? I just saw her this morning.” I ask him and he storms by me to go inside the house. Cassian and I follow him.

“Rhysand!” Azriel yells. Rhys walks out of the kitchen looking a little better than he did before. 

“Why are we yelling?” He asks.

“Wynn has caused more damage to this court.” Azriel says and I wince back. Rhys turns to look at me with an eyebrow raised. 

I raise my hands in defense.

“Wynn, was it another silly experiment?” Rhys asks. My heart tugs and I nod, and I feel as though I should defend myself. They’re not silly, they are fun.

“Did I do something to personally offend you Azriel?” I ask softly. 

“Yes! Since you’ve shown up to this court all you have done have been attached to the hip with Feyre, surprised she hasn’t told you that you are suffocating. You’re nothing more than an annoying weed.” He spat, “You buzz in and out loudly all the time, you cannot read a room to save your life, your experiments are juvenile and lack actual use, and whenever you shrink down to your pixie form is the only time you're tolerable because we can barely hear you.” He said like a weight has been lifted off his chest. 

I can only stare at him, shock and hurt cover my face. The glow of pink on my body fades down to a low humming blue, and suddenly I am back in that damn jar. 

The jar I am in is hot and stuffy. I do not remember how I got here but I do understand that this is cursed glass and I won’t be able to be let out unless the lid is opened by the one who placed the curse or is killed. 

The jar sits in the middle of a long dinner table as decor, with being alive I always have a glow to me. When I am neutral and healthy it's normally pinkish orange, right now it’s bluish purple relating to my mood and terror. It hasn’t changed in the past decade of being here.

Being small and trapped in a jar and treated as entertainment by those who are desperate to feel power again is something I would never wish upon anybody. They like to cover the oxygen holes on the top and force me to dance or create wind art. Which is borderline impossible with the lack of airflow in here anyway.

“Tell me pretty, what other colors can you turn?”

“Az-” Cassian whispered.

“Fuck you Azriel. You know why I don’t go into that size very often and you of all people should understand why.” I spit at him, and he for just a moment looks guilty. 

“What? You all say this behind her back anyway. Now that I tell her to her face it’s a problem?” He looks at his two brothers. And they both won’t look me in the eye.

“Is that true?” I choke out with silent tears running down my face. Rhys looks at me and takes a breath, “There could have been more tact to how we said this but to put it bluntly yes.”

My wispy iridescent wings pop out of my back. And I start walking backwards towards the door, “I will see myself out then.” 

“Wynn, wait please let's discuss this more maturely.” Rhys says. Azriel scoffs in the background. 

“If it wasn’t for her, Elain wouldn’t be hurt again.” I flinch again feeling sick to my stomach. 

“I am sorry.” I choke out. Cassian reaches for me and I step back curling into myself feeling betrayed by those I called family. 

“No, that was completely uncalled for.” A new voice responds. I turn around to say Nesta and Elain. I look over Elain and all I notice is a few wind burns on her arms. She gives me a soft smile and I look down with a frown.

“Azriel, what is the actual problem here? Because I am fine. I went into her cottage because I forgot my tea recipe book there and completely forgot she was running an experiment.” Elain comes up to me softly and puts her hand on my shoulder. I lean into her warmth. Nesta stares at him with a cold hard glare. 

“He’s jealous.” She observes. Azriel looks shocked for just a moment before he stalks closer into Nesta’s face. To which signals me and Elain to step back and Cassian to intervene. 

“Enough.” Rhys says rubbing his temples again. “Azriel you were out of line with the way you approached this situation and Wynn maybe just be a little less, you.” 

All three girls flinch with the wording. 

“Have you lost your fucking mind Rhysand?” Nesta barks. “Wait until I tell Feyre.” 

By the time the two of them are arguing I shrink down to my pixie size and fly home to my cottage. I arrive at the front stoop back to normal size, and burst into tears against my front door barely making it inside before I collapse into a pile on the floor. 

In a panic I start shoving some of my emergency belongings in a satchel; clothes, my hygiene products, and my magic trials notebook. 

Frantically rushing around my small cottage I see a teacup Elain painted for me, with little orange and pink flowers all over it. I wrap it in one of my shirts and stuff it into my satchel.

By now the sun has completely set, and I take off my porch, my holographic wings sparkling in the moonlight and head towards some place I know will bring me some comfort. 

The Autumn Court. 

a/n: please enjoy! I have been thinking about this idea for a while! Leave comments, like, and share. if you have any questions plz let me know!

I do not own any of the characters that Sarah J Mass has created. but I do own miss Wynnie Lara :p

[amourningcrow]

some thoughts on the lucanis romance. caution! spoilers

you know, i've seen a lot of people complaining about how lucanis's romance is somewhat lacking and i agree, at least a little - i can't say i enjoy the scene where you lock in his romance (could have been a banter) and i honestly didn't get that it was supposed to be a 'i'm scared of wanting you' kind of romance until the end where he actually said that (i was constantly sleep deprived while playing though, so maybe that one's on me) - but i don't really think more scenes were really necessary. i loved the last one and the one in the middle was also pretty good, even though i didn't like how scripted it was.

what i really, really miss in this are the party banters. you know, like the one with alistair and wynne, where she teases him about checking out the warden?

imagine for a moment: davrin and lucanis

'they're fine.'

'i- what?'

'they're fine. you keep staring at their legs, but the venatori barely even graced them. you can stop checking every time they climb up a rock or bend to pick something up.'

'of course! i was checking on their injury! that damn venatori, nearly got them, huh?'

... (awkward silence)

'right.'

oooor maybe taash and lucanis?

'you're not being subtle, you know'

'excuse me?'

'saw you sneaking in with rook's favourite food yesterday.'

'so? i make everyone's favourite every once in a while.'

'not in the middle of the night just after they tell you, you don't'

... (stony silence)

'yeah'

ooooor i dunno, harding and lucanis?

'lucanis?'

'hmmm?'

'it would be okay, you know. if you liked someone and told them how you feel. hypothetically.'

'what? what are you talking about?'

'nothing. i just... thought someone should tell you.'

'mierda, harding, there's no one like that. so this is completely irrelevant.'

'hmhm, sure. but in theory, if there was... i'm pretty sure they like you, too. and you both deserve to be happy.'

i'm obviously not a writer, but i really think some stuff like that would have helped to set up the romance more. i tried so desperately to look through the game and find something, and maybe i just haven't discovered it yet! but the few banters i did find were all after the relationship was officially established. i don't know. i'm really disappointed because i think the potential was there, it could have been such a sweet, angsty slow-burn but they just.. didn't set it up right? the yearning™ feeds on other people seeing exactly what is going on and rolling their eyes at the idiots involved not getting on with it (/getting it on lmao). maybe something like that was planned but they had to cut it because all the companions had to get their 'making it official' chat at the same time? and pretty late in the game, too. that would sort of explain why his relationship with neve was more fleshed out as well. idk. that and my added frustration that i can't really roleplay my rook the way i want (in my roleplaying game) probably means i'll just have to write some stuff myself. and wait for someone to search through the audio files so i can get my grubby raccoon hands on all the banter i didn't hear yet 🤞

[musicfeedsmysoul12]

The fact I have to use multiple headcanons for some characters to make them palatable is bullshit.

Sorry this is a 3am rant as I am doing nights and am the half awake type.

But this specifically is about Cullen Rutherford and how in canon he’s a bitch ass. And Oghren to actually. Also a bitch ass.

But these characters have so much damn potential I wanna SCREAM.

Cullen is a character who is set up to be a creep in the first game. He has a crush on one of his prisoners and when the tower is taken by magic and he is tormented we see him break. In DA2, he’s a magic hating asshole who stands up in the final second against his boss. In DAI he’s the commander who gives lip service to changing but hasn’t.

This entire saga has me going; BUT WHAT IF?!

I think I ranted about this before but Cullen in DA2 could have been so much cooler if we saw him slowly have a come to Andraste sort of story. In the beginning he’s running on his trauma. Hates magic. Can’t see mages as people because it means then people hurt him and he can’t do it.

But then he begins looking around. Maybe Meredith says something or he sees how his men flinch when he’s around. He begins actually seeing things in the Circle that kind of go: wait. The Ferelden Circle tower wasn’t as bad as Kirkwall. Not good no, but Kirkwall is hell.

Cullen seeing the trauma of a young girl being made tranquil. Seeing a Templar abuse her. Stepping in and then… Meredith does nothing. Denotes the man but doesn’t care. Cullen, who was at mercy of demons for days, who was taunted with an image of a woman he fancied himself in love with… he watches and can’t understand it.

He hears of the Tranquil solution. Hears someone whisper of Alrik after and he… he can’t. He can’t do that. Talks to Meredith who dismisses it. Whose insanity sparks in her eyes. Who talks of mages are vermin.

Cullen wonders if he was like that.

I want an actual damn redemption arch for Cullen, and I would love to explore more of ‘the Chantry abuses the Templars to’ with their purposeful forced addiction and how awful it is to come off it. Having Cullen see how Samson is, seeing him so sick… it should be a moment where we see this man truly question things.

Then DAI. I want Cullen to have earned his position. I want him to talk about how he knows he has biases due to the tower and the demons. I want him to tell the Herald ‘I sometimes relapse. Just tell me’

I still want a voice to argue for the Templars but I want Cullen to argue about Tevinter and that dealing with slavers is never wise. I want us to see Cullen terrified of magic and him having to combat the feelings.

I want Cullen to have a slow horrific retaliation of the Chantry as he comes off lyrium but still can use his Templar powers. I want him to choke it out, shaking, that he has been lied to.

I want an actual redemption and him truly trying to redeem himself. I headcanon it all the time when playing because it is the only way I can put up with him. Even then I only have romances him with a non-mage human, because I can’t see him able to do anything else.

Then OGHREN. I don’t know if I talked about this but his entire relationship with Felssi never interested me because it feels like he’s repeating Branka. They insult each other and she talks to him like dirt. Exploring the idea he left not because he didn’t want to be a dad/is a bad dad but because he recognized he was in the same damn cycle would have been so cool. Plus having him actually change.

In origins, have him stop drinking as much. Have him talking not about sex or being gross but have him holding intelligent conversations with Sten on battle tactics. Have him argue with Shale about dwarves. Have him discuss withdrawal with Wynne.

Then Awakenings. Like I said, I think the discussion that his relationship with Felssi is toxic on both sides would be fun. Have him confess he realized he was right back where he’d started, have him drinking again… I’m not saying blame everything on the woman. I am saying that toxic relationships are hard to break and the idea of Oghren honestly being at a loss when he realizes where he is would be so much fun.

This is a headcanon I built to be able to stand the man.

And the fact I have to do so makes me want to beg on bended knee to BioWare: please don’t do this to me in DA:D.

[mahiiimahiiii]

Ok hear me out: once the crew gets to bauldurs gate they have mini funerals ala good place.

(part 1)

I'll give you a taster (+ my beautiful redeemed bhaalspawn):

Gale:

Gales "funeral" would be at a library. He would pile books together as a makeshift coffin and wear a bright pink night robe with fuzzy slippers and curlers in his hair, as well as a dusty pink eye mask. Everyone would be wearing some sort of robe, his flowers of choice for the event would be lilly of the valley.

"gale died doing what he loved, learning."

"some might say this would be the ultimate fate for gale"

He would interject, eating the cucumber on his eye, "I do not think the best outcome for me would be turning into an ilithid. But I must admit- it is fitting."

Later events would be a wine tasting and going shopping for new books.

Shadowheart:

I feel like hers would be a moonlight bonfire, lots of ring dancing and setting her old sharran armor on fire.

"I think-" karlach would start up "a lot of us would be dead if we didn't have our cleric. So shadowheart has earned her props.. not only is she reliable- she is resilient, she is strong."

"despite our quarrels, I am glad to fight with you. I have watched you bloom into a magnificent warrior, for what force? We will see soon enough. May your death be glorious." La'zel quipped.

Her flowers of choice would be night orchids. she would then insist on learning how to swim and manage a doggie paddle.

Karlach:

I feel like hers would be on the beach with a fruity drink in hand as she floats around in the water. The fish around her have probably boiled, which is more incentive for a fish fry.

Everyone gets like a back breaking hug. Lots of physical activities party games wise, be drunk and merry. Most likely people get a bit sunburnt and burnt burnt.

There is no speeches as Karlach is too busy expressing her gratitude about everyone else.

She gets withers to do limbo with her

Her choice of flower is sunflowers.

La'zel:

She would like to opt out of this. a simple "thank you la'zel, may you die horribly in battle. May your wounds bleed out and may you suffer immensely" will suffice.

(her choice of flower is snap dragons)

Jaheria:

Hers would be a touristy walk of bauldurs gate.

She talks about her life, a sense of oral history to pass onto others. The night ends with root veggies chips and cheese, and a generous donation to animal sanctuaries within the cities from the Harpers.

Her idea of fun is bastardizing the ballads that volo wrote via mad libs. Which immature humor ensues.

The mighty _____ o' noble _____ (noun *x2)

Found ___ and sent them back to ____ and ____ (noun, adj*x2)

She would rest in a fainting couch in a puddle of sun in the wildshape form of a big cat, tail swishing idily as people read off their bastardized poems.

Her choice of flowers are jasmine blooms.

Wyll:

His would be a picnic in the park, as people read their speeches to him in comfortable sun dresses and loose cotton clothing, he would hold a little bouquet of daisies resting on a soft gingham sheet with a crown of flowers.

He would insist of going to his favorite pastry shops in the city. Sweet wine, tarts and small cakes. A day of sweets to remember the sweetest person in the camp.

His whole funeral was about allowing everyone to experience the childhood he knew, which wasn't much, but was something he knew they needed.

The look of pure joy in everyone's faces was enough to sustain him for the rest of his days.

The goals were, teach karlach hopscotch, double dutch with Wynne, climb a tree with astarion, and show la'zel some human dances. The older people in the group were less inclined to indulge, taking the roll of the gossiping parents to the 20 something aged other members in the band.

The night ended with dances and fiddle music.

His choice of flowers are thistle blooms

[bluerose5]

You know what would be hilarious? Zevran post faerûn back in Thedas doing magic in front of Morrigan just to watch her lose her fucking mind trying to figure out how she did it

But for an actual prompt, I’d love to see Astarion’s reaction to Zevran being downed in battle

Alternatively, Fenris, Astarion, and Araj Oblodra in Moonrise

Zevran would troll the hell out of Morrigan and anyone else willing to watch. I feel Wynne would have hated this new development more than anyone, though. 💀

For the prompts, I actually have a WIP similar to the first one. It's just more of a Zevran gets injured while Astarion isn't in the party, but I feel they would be similar enough that I'm going with the alternate prompt if that's okay. 👀👀👀

...

Fenris’s blood boiled with rage.

Not only did he despise the necessity of having to infiltrate Moonrise Towers, but he also despised having to play nice with the cultists until they could figure out how to proceed.

Araj Oblodra was no exception. If anything, she was one of the worst ones they happened across throughout their journey, entitled and condescending.

The instant she asked for his blood, Fenris bristled, and his answer rang with a note of finality.

"Ask that of me again," he snarled, "and I'll cut you down for even suggesting it. You will not be conducting any 'research' on my blood."

"Hmph." She all but pouted, yet she was apparently wise enough to know not to push her luck. "Fine, but perhaps we could turn to another matter at hand: your friend."

When her eyes slid towards Astarion, Fenris could hear his own heartbeat pounding behind his ears. His fingers twitched at his side, itching to unsheathe his greatsword. For a moment, he could barely hear her words over the racing of his pulse. He narrowed his eyes at her, his lips curled into a sneer.

Then, as clear as day, she asked a question of Fenris, one that pierced straight through the haze that clouded his mind.

"I assume he belongs to you?"

Behind him, Astarion sputtered, "Ex–Excuse me?"

Fenris felt the air around himself start to shift.

"He doesn't belong to anyone," Fenris snapped. He stepped forward until he loomed over Araj, his gaze dark. "Now, I advise you to think very carefully about your next words." The clawed fingers of his gauntlets glinted in the room's low lighting. "Because they might just be your last. You will show him respect. Understand?"

They were hardly to be compared to one another, since Fenris didn't know a thing about Araj beyond this encounter, but so much about her already rubbed him the wrong way, reminded him of Hadriana. They thought their lives valuable enough that they were invincible in their minds, untouchable, and that all others were merely pawns in their games, to be used and discarded as they saw fit.

Araj scoffed at his threat, tried to act undeterred, but the slight quiver of her voice —the more deliberate delivery of her words— exposed her fear for what it was.

She made an offer, and Astarion declined.

How easy it was for her to fall back into old habits, even with her life on the line.

She glanced at Fenris as soon as she didn't get her way, wrinkling her nose in disdain.

"Can't you talk some sense into your obstinate cha—"

Fenris was blinded by a sea of red.

Her words choked off.

He didn't even have to think about it. Before he knew what was happening, his hand sank deep within the confines of her chest, her still-beating heart nestled within his palm.

Right before he crushed it.

And as he freed his hand, he watched her body collapse to the ground.

"Good riddance," he muttered.

Lae'zel noticed another cultist gaping from the corner of the room, quick to cover for them in the best way she knew how.

"Take her death as a lesson. Question us, and you'll meet your end as she did. Understood?"

They nodded.

"Good," she said, then jerked her head in the direction of the door. "Now, scram."

She didn't have to tell them twice.

While Fenris stood over Araj's body, blood dripping onto the floor from his fingertips, Karlach leaned in to whisper to Astarion.

"Remind me not to piss him off."

"No kidding," Astarion said, but he braced himself before approaching, reaching out to rest a hand upon his shoulder. "Fenris..."

In a flash, Fenris shrugged off his touch, turning on him with a fire still raging within him, teeth bared.

However, at the sight of the others, Fenris felt those flames die down, their presence drawing him back into reality.

Astarion was fine.

He was safe.

Even in the belly of the beast, Fenris would see to that.

[astraphone]

every angle of unfair advantage

1.4k, alistair/surana. set immediately before the battle of denerim. She wants them both to survive this, and if that makes her a bad Grey Warden that’s a price she’s more than willing to pay.

The hour is late, tomorrow she marches to Denerim, and Aislyn Surana should be asleep. Instead, she finds herself pacing the expanse of Redcliffe Castle, ostensibly triple-checking that the forces she’s gathered are as ready as they can be, but mostly trying very hard not to think about what Alistair and Morrigan are doing right now.

Trying not to think about that, or about much of the past few hours at all. Not the pit of dread in her stomach when she learned that a Grey Warden had to die to end the Blight. Not the warring feelings of betrayal and relief when Morrigan told her she’d known all along, and knew another way. Certainly not the look Alistair had given her as she explained what, exactly, she wanted him to do.

She gives up haunting the corridors when Wynne gently but firmly suggests that Aislyn’s obvious and uncharacteristic anxiety might start rubbing off on the soldiers, and resorts to walking circles around her guest room instead. She tells herself she isn’t expecting Alistair, even though they’ve been sharing tents and beds every night for months now.

When the knock on the door does come, it’s more of a relief than Aislyn cares to admit. She pauses a moment to make it seem like she hasn’t been anxiously waiting for him—old habits die hard, and a lifetime of careful poise and restraint doesn’t vanish just because she’s in love—before answering. Alistair is waiting, his expression more blank than she’s seen it in a long time.

“It’s done?” She steps aside to let him in, biting down the bizarre and deeply unhelpful urge to ask him how it was.

“Would it shock you to learn Morrigan isn’t one for pillow talk?” There had been yelling, on both their parts, as she’d talked him into the ritual, but Alistair’s voice is toneless now. He looks as exhausted as she feels, and she wants desperately to reach for him, but the fear that he wants nothing to do with her after what she’s just asked of him keeps her hands at her sides. 

“Are you alright?” She asks instead.

Alistair snorts, that bitter half-laugh he gives when he’s not actually amused at all. “What do you think?”

She thinks that she doesn’t know how to fix this in the few hours before they march to Denerim. “I’m sorry, Alistair.”

(She is, and also she isn’t. She’s sorry there was no better way, that it had to be him, that she’s certain he’ll take on any consequences down the line as his own responsibility. She’s not sorry at all that she doesn’t want them to die, that she was offered a loophole and she took it.)

Alistair sighs and flops down on Aislyn’s bed, covering his face with a hand. “I don’t really want to talk about it. Not tonight.”

“We might not get another night.” Aislyn remains standing by the door, unsure what to do with herself. Over these past few months she’s gotten used to the two of them comfortably existing in each other's spaces; a kiss on her cheek after a battle, a hand finding hers as they trek through the wilderness, an arm around her shoulder as they sit beside the campfire at night. She doesn’t know what to do with distance anymore, nor is she sure in this moment how to close it.

“We might. That’s what this whole plan was for, wasn’t it?”

“We’re about to fight an Archdemon, ritual or no,” she points out. “We don’t know what’s going to happen.”

“Don’t try to tell me that was for nothing, Aislyn.” A bit of heat creeps into Alistair’s voice, which is almost a relief after his uncharacteristically blank tone.

“Not for nothing,” she says, taking a tentative step forward into the room. “You gave us a chance. But I don’t want to go into this with anything unsaid.”

“What do you want to hear? That it was awful? That I think I’m a terrible person for doing it? That I wanted to spend what might be one of the last nights of my life with the woman I love, and instead I spent it having sex with Morrigan?” Alistair spits out the end of the last question, then seems to deflate. "It’s over with, at least."

“You’re not a terrible person,” Aislyn says quietly. “It wasn’t even your idea.”

“Then why won’t you come near me?”

Aislyn startles. “I wasn’t—I didn’t want to force anything on you. Not after—you know.” 

Alistair’s voice softens again. “You’ve never forced anything on me, ever. Can you come here, please?”

Aislyn obliges silently, curling up next to him on the bed. With a sigh, he presses a kiss to her forehead, and they both lie there silently for a few moments.

“Why do you think you’re a terrible person for doing it?” She asks finally. “Because of the magic? Because it was Morrigan?”

“Well, there is that. But no, not really." Alistair is quiet again for long enough that Aislyn isn't sure he's going to continue, but he takes a deep breath and presses onwards. "The rest of the Grey Wardens died trying to end this Blight. In some ways this has all been for them, you know? It would've been an honor to die for them. And I suppose I feel like I'm spitting in the face of everything they were—everything we are—by finding another way out." 

“Would you rather I have kept it from you?” Aislyn challenges, pushing herself back up on one elbow so she can look him in the eyes. “Told Morrigan no and doomed one of us to die?”

She’d thought briefly about not telling him, actually. Aislyn’s journey as a Grey Warden began with the betrayal of her best friend. She ruined Jowan’s life to get here, and for all the excuses she’s made it still keeps her up at night sometimes. When she’d heard Morrigan’s proposal, a voice in the back of her head had told her spare Alistair this burden. Do right by someone you love, for once, and don’t put this on him.

But Aislyn has spent far too long wanting only what she’s supposed to want. She’s had a taste of life this year—real life, not the shadow of it that she’s come to realize the Circle was—and she wants more. She wants them both to survive this, and if that makes her a bad Grey Warden that’s a price she’s more than willing to pay.

“It wouldn’t have been you,” Alistair says sharply, which Aislyn thinks is rather missing the point. “I wouldn’t have let that happen.”

“It wouldn’t have been only your call, Alistair. What if I’d died killing the Archdemon, and you’d learned later there had been another way?”

Aislyn feels a twinge of guilt at Alistair’s flinch, but she’s made her point and they both know it. “I never would’ve forgiven myself,” he mutters.

“Then you understand that I couldn’t have gone into this without you knowing all our options.”

Alistair sighs again, pulling Aislyn back down and closer to him. “I know. I know, and I… don’t regret it. I wouldn’t have agreed if I hadn’t been willing. I want a future with you, truly. I just want to do right by the Wardens too.”

“You do,” Aislyn says firmly. “Every day. Victory and vigilance as well as sacrifice, remember? We’ll both die for them eventually. But we have decades before our Callings, and I’d like us to live in the meantime.”

Alistsir quirks half a smile at her, and Aislyn knows she’s won. “You’re infuriatingly persuasive, do you know that?”

“I do, actually.”

“Alright, so let’s say we do stop the Blight,” Alistair muses. “We both survive. We have decades ahead of us. What then?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Aislyn says. Before leaving the Circle, she knew more or less exactly what the rest of her life would look like, and this year has been a straightforward kill the Archdemon or die trying. The thought of an uncertain future is sort of exhilarating, when she lets herself imagine it. “Fight more darkspawn, rebuild the Grey Wardens, maybe have a little cottage?”

“A cottage?” Alistair laughs, sounding lighter than he has since the conversation started. “Could we have a garden?”

“Of course. With roses, and all sorts of herbs, and anything else we want.”

“You know, I’m not actually very good with plants.”

“I’ll teach you.”

“I look forward to it, my dear.” With that, Alistair’s lips find hers, and neither of them find there’s much more that needs to be said.

An Archdemon and an army of darkspawn still stand in the way of any imagined future. But whatever tomorrow brings, tonight they still have a chance, and Aislyn will cling to that with everything she has.

[shivunin]

A Good Fight

(Arianwen Tabris/Zevran Arainai | 2,440 Words | AO3 Link | CW: Mild sexual references/sexual tension)

Summary: Things that annoy Tabris: frivolous conversation and being the butt of a joke. Why, then, can she not get the insufferable Crow out of her mind?

“May I rest my head on your bosom?” the Crow asked somewhere behind Tabris. “I might cry.”

Tabris grimaced, casting a look at Alistair. He echoed her glance, nose wrinkled. It galled her to agree with him, but plainly they were in accord when it came to this.

“You can cry well away from my bosom, I’m certain,” the mage said severely. 

“Reconsidering keeping him around yet?” Alistair asked in a low voice, bending closer. 

Wen pressed her lips together, eyes narrowed, and glanced behind her at the other two. Zevran gazed at Wynne soulfully, one hand pressed to his chest. Wynne was grimacing, staff thumping into the dust of the road as they climbed the hill. 

“Did I tell you I was an orphan?” the former Crow went on, his voice sorrowful. “I never knew my mother.”

“Egad,” Wynne said, disgust as plain in her voice as it was in the lines of her body. “I give up.” 

She sped up, outstripping Zevran and both Wardens. Arianwen watched the mage go, shaking her head, and glanced behind her again. 

Zevran caught her eyes at once and winked. Wen stared back, lips still pressed into a tight line. 

“Maybe I am,” she told Alistair, and turned away again. 

Before them, the harried mage left small clouds of dust above the road. The late afternoon light diffused there, giving the road an odd sort of dreamlike quality. 

“Could still give killing him a shot,” Alistair muttered. 

“What was that? I could not hear you over the sound of all that armor,” Zevran said, abruptly behind them. Arianwen took a large step to the left and carried on. 

“Oh, nothing,” Alistair said. Wen could feel him looking at her, but she ignored the desperate glance. “We, ah…thought your conversation was interesting. That’s all.”

“Ah—so I suppose you also have an opinion about murder, then?” 

There was something under the words. Some sort of…double meaning, hidden undercurrent. Ugh. Wen hated plenty of things, but trying to understand what someone meant when it wasn’t what they actually said ranked highly on the list. 

“Let’s not,” she said. 

“Not what? I am afraid I do not understand you.”

If he started talking about her bosom, she’d just stab him, Wen decided. When she sped up, the assassin matched her. 

“Talk.”

“Pardon? I did not catch what you said.”

“I, ah—wouldn’t push your luck, there,” Alistair said, jogging for several steps until he drew even with the pair of them. “She’s got a short temper.”

“Yes, I had determined as much,” Zevran said. “And how lovely she looks when she is thinking of death.”

Wen stepped directly into his path and stopped moving, forcing the assassin to stop in his tracks or dodge to the side. He chose the former, still smiling broadly, though he stopped only an inch or two away. Arianwen met his eyes squarely, thinking. 

She didn’t think she wanted to kill him. The man was decent enough at what he did. Fighting him had been the best part of fighting any of the Crows. Actually, he’d been her favorite person to fight since they’d left Ostagar. There was something fluid about the way he moved that—well. Fascinated her, actually. She liked watching him. 

No—no, she didn’t want to kill him. What would be the point now? It certainly wasn’t as if she cared that Wynne, of all people, was annoyed. Actually, she should be thanking him. For once, the mage hadn’t been hovering over her shoulder and asking questions. 

“I don’t think so,” she said, to the dust in the air as much as she was speaking to either man, and turned to continue up the hill without any additional elaboration. 

“Yes, I see what you mean,” Zevran said behind her. 

“We aren’t friends, assassin,” Alistair said stiffly, but added in a quieter voice: “Best to avoid prodding at her when she’s already tired.”

“Mmm,” Zevran allowed. Wen gritted her teeth, irritated again, but he went on a moment later. “I shall take your advice very seriously, Warden.” 

Wen glanced behind her one more time, expecting the same cocky grin or perhaps another wink. Instead, she found a flash of something she didn’t expect: 

Exhaustion. Hiding in the corner of his eyes, in the subtle roll of his shoulders.

Ah. That was harder to ignore. 

Wen closed her eyes, willing herself to keep walking. It would be easy. It would be better. He was so annoying; maybe he’d stop talking if he was too tired to manage. 

As soon as she reached the top of the hill, she swung her pack from her shoulder and sat back against a fence. 

Not for him. Obviously not. 

But—maybe it was time for a break. That was all. Redcliffe was almost in sight and they’d probably be busy as soon as they got there. Best they sit and rest now before they no longer had the choice. 

She certainly, pointedly did not breathe easier when the Crow sat to her left with an audible sigh of relief. 

|

“Are you quite certain you are ready for this?” the assassin asked. 

Wen, who’d deposited the last of her armor to the side of the clearing, nodded curtly. She’d have to be a fool to think he had nothing to teach her. Whenever possible, she did try not to be a fool.

“I need to know all I can. Show me, if you want to.”

The outskirts of the Brecilian rose around them, trees already towering higher than she’d ever seen them before. This place was odd and old, breaking the monotony of carefully planted fields and abandoned villages. She didn’t feel like herself here. It was as if she’d slipped off her skin and found it ill-fitting upon its return. Or—perhaps something hung watching in the air here. Something that saw her, that waited and knew. 

She couldn’t say she liked it. 

“If I want to?” Zevran flipped the knife in his hand once, neatly. “And here you have been asking so politely, Warden. How could I say no?”

“You’ve just said it,” Wen replied, taking a slow, smooth step to the side. “Obviously you know how.” 

“Tch,” he began to circle with her—taking her measure, she thought. Some of the glossy humor fell away, baring the steel beneath. “So literal.”

Wen huffed, refusing to be dragged into a conversation. She’d get distracted by talking and then he’d strike. She knew exactly how this worked. 

“First and foremost,” he said, “I have seen you fight. You are very skilled, yes? But you are not careful.”

Wen felt her eyebrows climb. Zevran feinted, she sidestepped, and they resumed pacing each other. 

“Are you suggesting I get thicker armor?” she asked. 

He laughed, a deeper thing than his usual chuckle. Wen narrowed her eyes. 

“You have been spending too much time with Alistair. No—I am suggesting you learn to be quieter,” he said, and moved—it was like his body had become liquid for a moment, flowing so close that she was forced onto her back foot. A blow in the right spot and she was stumbling back, struggling to halt her momentum enough to guard herself. 

To her surprise, he did not press his advantage. He took a step back instead, watching her with an odd look on his face. Wen scowled and rolled her shoulders, loosening the muscles that had gone taut. 

“I’m plenty quiet.”

“Not quiet enough to be an assassin—and that is what you asked me to teach you, yes?”

Wen pursed her lips. She had asked him. She’d wanted to know how he moved the way he did, but she certainly couldn’t ask him for that. It had been plenty easy to imagine what he’d say in response. 

“Fight me, then,” she said, and dropped her knife. It sank into the soft earth point-down, which meant she’d have to be very thorough when she cleaned and oiled it later. At the moment, she didn’t really care. 

Zevran cocked an eyebrow at her, but stepped back to set his knife aside. 

“Are you quite certain? Surely you would like some sort of explanation first.”

“No,” she told him. “I’m too literal for that.”

Zevran tipped his head back and laughed. 

As soon as his eyes were closed, she struck. It ought to have been a glancing blow, only a soft slap to his shoulder to get his attention. The strike never landed. Instead, he flowed away from her and spun, planting a hand on her back and pushing. Wen was ready for it this time. Her weight shifted hard to her back foot, but she did not waver.  

“Good,” he said from behind her, but when she reached back to grasp his arm Zevran was already gone. 

Arianwen spun slowly, listening. He must have gone up; there was nothing closer than the branches to hide behind. Her heart thudded in her ears, distracting her. Where was he? That rustle in the bushes had the rhythm of a squirrel, the scratching at the bark to her right was certainly a bird, and the crunch in the leaves behind her—

Zevran dropped from above and locked her into his arms before she had a chance to strike back. 

“As I was saying,” he told her. “Not very careful.”

Arianwen tried to kick him to little avail. Zevran laughed into her ear, his mouth briefly brushing against the point of it. An odd tingling sensation spread from that point to her cheeks, burning as it went. What was this? Some sort of poison?

Arianwen planted her feet, gripped his arms where they wrapped around her, and flipped Zevran over her head. His eyes were wide when she straddled his chest, a knife already pressed against the hollow of his throat. She could feel his pulse against her knuckles, could feel his breath whenever his ribs expanded between her thighs, and—what was this? 

“What did you just do?” she snarled. Zevran’s brows lifted. 

“I caught you,” he said. 

“Not that. You—” 

She pressed her lips together all at once, her face hot, and climbed off of him. If there had been some way for Arianwen to scratch the sensation from her skin with bared nails, she would have done it immediately. It lived somewhere deeper than her skin, entirely beyond the reach of fingertips or knives. 

Had he ever touched her skin to skin before? She could not think. 

“Well? Teach me,” she demanded, taking several steps away from him. The distance, such as it was, did not help.

Zevran rose more slowly, dusting himself off. She didn’t like the way he was looking at her. It was—speculative. Like he was weighing her against something in his mind. 

“Or was that it?” she asked. 

“No, no—I was merely thinking how best to show you what I mean,” he said. There was some hidden meaning to his words. She could feel it. 

Wen frowned at him, eyes narrowing. What was he actually saying? 

“Let us begin again,” he said, spreading his arms. Wen took a deep breath, wishing away the odd burning at the back of her neck and the tips of her ears. 

“Let’s,” she gritted out, her heart beating curiously fast, and raised her fists.

|

“Are you awake yet?” Zevran murmured. 

“No,” Wen told him, hand skimming over his loose, night-rumpled hair. Zevran grunted and pressed his face more firmly against her bare chest. 

“It should not surprise me when you make jokes,” he said. His lips pressed against the skin over her heart. “And yet…”

“Oh, ha ha,” Wen said, rolling her eyes. “If you’re going to be a pest, you can get off.”

“Oh?” he angled his head until he could look at her, morning light glinting across one golden eye. “Can I?” 

“Andraste’s tits,” she muttered, squirming without any real effort to dislodge him. 

“Yours are finer by far, I assure you,” he informed her solemnly, pressing a kiss to the nearest of them. 

Arianwen rolled her eyes, but threaded her hand through his hair again. Some of the tangles smoothed under her touch, but not enough. He’d still need to comb it when he rose for the day. 

She tried very, very hard to pretend that she couldn’t hear the army moving outside their tent. 

“Zevran,” she began, her voice soft, and he lifted his head to look at her. 

What could she tell him? That there were even odds she would die today? That she was grateful? What more could she possibly tell him now? 

“It will be a very good fight, yes?” he said, as if he knew what she was thinking. “Your favorite thing.”

Tabris pressed her mouth closed, searching his face for meaning. She found none. There was only the warmth of his eyes, the comfort of his body pressed to hers. The clamor of steel rose beyond their flimsy canvas walls. Time was almost up. It would be a good fight, yes. If there was anything she loved, it was a good fight. 

Arianwen loved Zevran more.

She’d planned to leave him behind, where the fighting was less heavy, but she already knew she wouldn’t be able to bear it. How could she fight through the city, never knowing if he’d been struck by a stray arrow or felled by an ogre? She could not protect him and seek the archdemon both. At least if they were together—at least they would both know. At least neither of them would have to wonder.

Until the end, then, and perhaps whatever came next. At least she knew she wouldn’t be alone. 

“Yes,” she said, passing her fingers through his hair one last time. Her hand fell to a stop at his cheek, thumb tracing the bottom point of his tattoo. 

“You will remember what I taught you, yes?” 

He lifted himself onto an elbow and leaned forward to kiss her. It had been meant as a glancing thing, she thought. It ran deeper than that in the end, desperate hands on shoulders and teeth and tongues and heat. She didn’t want to lose him. She raged at the world, for giving them to each other right on the doorstep of ruin. 

“Always,” Wen told Zevran, and clutched him to her when he would have risen to go. He endured this for several moments longer, his breathing uneven, before he pressed a kiss to her cheek and moved away. 

When she pushed the blankets aside to stand, his was the hand that pulled her to her feet.

(For Zevwarden Week Day 6: Favorite Things and Pet Peeves. Thanks again @zevraholics!)

[aricr0cs]

So I'm getting ready to go rescue Anora and something occurred to me.....

Here me out ghgbg

HEAR ME OUT GBGBGBGG

I've always wondered this entire time.... I watched my gf play dao (see pinned post). And I've always wondered....

Morrigan is antisocial. She sleeps away from everyone else in camp.

Shale too. She's off a bit. Near Bodahn and Sandal.

Zevran Oghren leliana Wynne and Alistair are far more social and are all grouped near the fire. It just makes sense.

So why? Tell me why Sten is so close?? It would make sense for him to be distant too. Even if for no other reason than not wanting to talk and a barasaad compulsion to check camp fortification.

I've ALWAYS wondered why he chose to stand so close to that little social circle.

But seeing him here in the warden's room in Denerim......

Yall I'm swooning so hard. I'm grasping at straws with unmitigated joy.

"It is not every warden that can say she has her own Barasaad."

"What is your wish, kadan?"

Yall I find this big grumpy man choosing.... of his own volition, to lump grump in the warden's room in Denerim (side note but Morrigan is there too and don't think for a second that another distant person in camp choosing to lounge so near to the warden isn't every bit just as meaningful to me.....)

You go to speak to him and the first thing he does is complain about Denerim's fortification.

"But they will do." Said by this giant grump that's choosing to spend his time essentially watching over where the warden sleeps as he has since he became a companion.

After my gfs Dalish warden's first dream of the archdemon she woke up near the campfire. That was my first taste of camp. And there he was. Not off being distant as I'd expect him to be. And not right next to her like Alistair. But still only a short distance away.....

And you know he heard her tossing and crying out every night with those dreams.

As pissy as he is..... the warden took him out of his prison in Lothering. She found his Asala. He called himself "her own Barasaad." He called her kadan. In my playthru he did not fight her in Haven. Merely said his piece and moved on. He's the most vulnerable in fights and still my warden drags him everywhere and painstakingly shoves the majority of healing potions down his reluctant gullet (he really does sometimes curse when you select a poultice for him ynhnhh).

And now he's here. In my warden's room. Worried about fortifications and choosing to spend his time watching over the warden's dreams as he has since the beginning. As steadfast and routine as any good soldier in the Barasaad.

My dwarf warden is in a romance with Alistair. And he's over with the Arl. Nothing wrong with that. The fate of the world and his own obligations to the throne and to Ferelden make this an understandable necessity.

Simping aside I find it so so meaningful that the two most socially distant companions have chosen to spend their Denerim time near the warden. Literally more close to her than any other companion.

I've seen people saying that Sten is a wooden character. Or put in to ignite interest in the qun and begin that part of game lore. And this he certainly does do at least for me.

But this man isn't wooden at all imo. Just because he doesn't talk much doesn't mean he doesn't have thoughts and opinions and reasons for the choices he makes.

And I friggin love him to pieces gnybgbg

BIOWARE YOU KNOW WHAT YOU DID

[mydysfunctionalvampirefamily]

Now that my secret identity has been revealed (by me) I shall bravely soldier on like nothing has changed and scream into the void.

Wynn! I know subtlety is not your strong suit, but damn.

Look at them! They're actually just talking and not arguing! I'm so proud.

Guys, I'm gonna be real honest. They've been talking for like 10/15 minutes now and I don't really know whats going on, my brain is so tired. I tried relistening. Absolutely nothing was retained. I might have to do this episode again, or maybe just not and see how big of a issue this will be.

So far I know that the sabat is attacking and they are debating what to do.

Johnny asking Miles to be his date. 👀 We all. Know Miles is saying hard to get.

😂😂😂Britta idk what you were expecting they'd say, but I know you didn't expect them to go oh okay no problem, because you're smarter than that.

Britta you cannot stay with Eden, there are people who would be upset. Here in the real world.

I mean Britta or someone needs to reach down deep inside her, if you know what I mean. 😏

This is hard though, because I totally get what Johnny is saying, but my social anxiety is agreeing with Britta. Tbh I'm surprised she hasn't just walked into the sun.

Neil, sweetheart, baby, love of my life. What is going on with you and the obsession with Britta? Like you are grilling her way too hard, and this is not the first time. Is this because she was kidnapped? Idk it's very strange, I can't place it.

Poor Britta, so much has happened to her that I had completely forgotten that Shaw had promised to 'give' her to some Bruja.

Johnny you don't know the half of Britta and Pendragon.

Wynn, you're a goddess for offering to go with Pendragon.

NEIL?!??! WHAT THE FUCK???? Idk if this is confirmation bias or what but you're being so weird about Britta!

Wynn: can we let Britta choose how she comes (to this). 😏 I'm so sorry, I am Really tired.

Neil: Britta, how do you wanna come?😂

Omg Wynn: I like mouth stuff. 😂😂 Thank god I am not alone on this train.

Do aunts and uncles usually talk about sex at thanksgiving???? That feels very unamerican.

Aw Britta I get you, being scared is the absolute worst. And having to do smth you're scared of sucks.

Wynn being her guidance councillor self.

Wow look at Johnny being all tactful and doing this dividing the invitation.

Neil, goddamn that is so sad. Why would Johnny just tell you good luck?? Dude you are a part of this coterie! When will you get that into your thick skull?

Wynn immediately catching it. She had a full time psychologist job with this coterie damn.

Miles just being a shithead: I heard you got invited to a ball recently.

Miles: I am used to being hated. (😭 what is going on you guys??? Youre the best!)

Miles actually thought that Wynn hated him now. Goddamn Wynn, I hope you charge by the hour.

Hell yeah, Britta!! I know this is all under duress, but if you can stop yourself from fleeing the scene when Pendragon shows up (which I wouldn't blame you for, let me be clear) the you're going to do a great job at this rave!

What if Delgado brings Carmen and Britta is going to get sucked into some bisexual maelstrom.

Neil!!! Sweet lord, why does it sound like you exactly know what's going on and yiu just want to hear her say it. Calm down.

Johnny getting a new jacket for Britta without question. 🥰

Neil omg are you seriously going to steal that jacket back??? Is this a weird Britta thing? Or a weird ownership of stuff thing? Or both or neither?

We all knew it, but it's still gratifying to see Miles being a great boy toy.

I don't think anyone has called a Bruja rave a soiree before. Lmao

Lmao Neil being pulled around by Jane.

Okay say what you want but this Rave is making everyone look good!!

Lmaooo Jane just collaring Neil without explanation. 😂

Wait what diablerist?? Ohh because of the trial??

Jane is the best, I love her.

I know it's such a small thing overall, but I love the mount of detail we always get clothes wise. It really helps me visualise, even though my visualisations are often wrong and offend people (see: Johnny's shaved head and Britta's light blonde curls)

Whethers is such a dream boat!

Johnny doing his iron heart thing. 🥰 I know he has done it a few times alrwady but it always warms my heart.

[honeysmokedham]

[pm] I know you think this place is meant for you. I get that, kid, I do. But it isn't. Maybe Wicked's Rest isn't, either. That's okay. You don't have to come back hom here. You don't have to tell me where you're going. You just have to get out of that place. I don't care where you go as long as it's somewhere safe, okay? If you don't want to hear from me, you won't. As long as you're safe, that's fine. That's okay.

You think these people care about you, and I wish you were right. You deserve that. But these people have no idea who you are. They care about someone who doesn't exist. Isn't that what you were trying to get away from before? I know you. And I care about you. I love you, the person you are. The bear, all of it. I know I'm not good at it. fuck knows I know that. If I were good at it, my kid would be But that doesn't change anything. I care about you, and I'm shit at it, but I still care about you. All I want is for you to be all right. And I know you don't believe me, but I know for a fact that you won't be if you stay there.

All I'm asking is for you to trust me, kid. Just one more time, trust me. After that [...] you can do whatever you need to do. You can disappear again if that's what you need. As long as you're away from that place. As long as you're okay.

[pm] [user finally reads Emilio's messages] I talked to Declan. He told me everything. This place isn't for me, it's just Declan. They want to kill him, that's all they want him for. Kill him so someone else can shine brighter. He's the brightest thing in this world. We're coming home. Both of us. I keep trying to force myself into new places. I think I was looking for something picture-perfect. Something that doesn't exist. But I'm laying here in Declan's arms, because he loves me, Mimi, and he's not afraid of me and he's sleeping. And I've learned something. There doesn't need to be a place full of people like me, they don't need to be scary like me to not be afraid of me. Because I have a place with people who love me and want me, and learned not to be scared of me for who I am. And it took me a long time to realize that. I've already found what I need in Wicked's Rest. With you and Teddy and Wynne and Van and Thea and Regan and everyone else who cares about me. It's not going to be a hallmark movie where I find this place full of my long-lost family. I found the family I've always wanted.

Mimi, I do trust you. I always have. But if I hadn't come here I would have never met him. Meeting him was important. Like meeting you was important. We're going to figure out how to escape. We'll be back soon. I love you too. Thank you for always being there.

[whiskawaybelf]

Little bit of the next chapter of Ink and Water, easing into some backstory and some silly childhood chats.

Ao3 link

“So you’re a wine connoisseur out of spite?”

Éomer dried his hands and came back to sit, Éowyn beat him to the couch and sent him to the armchair. 

“Out of necessity. Rohirrim would have gone under if we didn’t retain our staff.”

“I didn’t realise you helped too. I thought it was just Théodred manning the fort.”

“It was both of them,” Éowyn sighed, she reached for the joint and came to standing, not happy to talk about her family without a little assistance, “They were gone all the time, never talked about anything else. It was the worst three years of my life.”

Lottie saw Éomer’s face. He was very still and his lips pressed together. He looked like someone bracing himself for a crash. 

“Boys and their cars. I can’t believe you sell cars for six figures. You’re basically the bourgeoisie.”

“I’m not the fucking bourgousie,” Wynn snapped, resisting the distraction for only a fraction of a second.

“You are the nouveau riche, coming to topple my aristocracy of old money.”

“It doesn’t help that you’re a duchess. You’re just asking for the guillotine.”

Éomer frowned as he watched them speak a language he didn’t know. Something to ease the transition from dangerous to here. She redirected naturally, she gave Éowyn a path to follow that didn’t lead to those three years. He was incredibly grateful. 

Lottie came back to him. Or rather she invited him back in, “My dad always wanted a Rohirrim car, the one with the... leather? Do they all have leather interiors?" brother and sister nodded like she might be an alien, learning the very basics of luxury cars on earth, she huffed, "They are shockingly expensive. Entirely impractical.” 

“How much practicality do you need? Your dad makes instruments. That's inherently impractical,” Éomer tried to start and she was protesting before he even finished.

“No. My dad manufactures the best instruments. And music is practical. It’s one of the very first things humans did together.”

“Don’t argue with her. You’re already in danger of getting kicked out,” Éowyn wore a fondly pained expression, this was a conversation they’d had a lot and she couldn’t seem to tell Lottie enough times how boring she found it. Each time Lottie would begin and Éowyn would refuse to listen, she wouldn’t believe her roommate roped another person into talking about her father’s instruments and the essential humanity of music. 

“We will continue this later,” Éomer said with his hands up, “When I’m in less danger.”

Wynn sat on their front step and lit up the joint, “I hope you love learning about the history of music. I sure did.”

Lottie ignored them both, she was right and they all knew it. Music was a heartbeat, everyone also knew that, “You know, if we could fit a piano, we would have a piano.”

“A six figure piano?”

“To make up for the zeros I lost on my paycheck. It seems fair,” she took the smoke and tried to make a ring. She didn’t know why she tried, she’d never made one before, but it would have been very cool if this was her first time, “I have us sorted for munchies.”

“A famous croissant?”

“Not practical but delicious.”

Éowyn cheers-ed to that and they began their second pass, the neighbours must be fuming. 

“Tell me about Wynn,” she turned to Éomer, “I want to hear all the childhood stories. The embarrassing ones first.”

“There’s nothing embarrassing to say,” he said and Wynn began to laugh at the smoothly bullshit tone he used, “She was pretty perfect. The perfect sister.”

“I can tell you all sorts of embarrassing things, if Éomer can’t think of anything,” Éowyn drank out of her nice wine. Lottie could see Éomer watching her, wishing she wouldn’t ruin the nice wine with weed smoke. Now it was just alcohol juice. 

“Actually, I’ve remembered some now. Do you know why she doesn’t drive?”

“Because she’s shit at it.”

“Yes, but no. She took one of the cars out for a joyride when she got her licence-”

“Fuck off, Éomer!”

“-and crashed it. A hundred k, gone. And all she got was a few stitches and whiplash.”

[sundogsandrainbows]

Of Elves And Humans: Redux, WIP-Saturday snippet.

I love to write scenes of Alistair/Warden like the next person, but sometimes you need just scenes of the group interacting with each other, and i love how this came together here, using the canon party banter in between 😁

-------------------------

The tavern’s main hall was a lot livelier than when Lenya left it hours age. The durgen’len was playing cards with the bard and assassin, who accused them of cheating with their successive wins. Sten methodically cleaned and polished his armor parts while Wynne held up her large, knitted piece of yarn in his direction, as if measuring up the size of the Qunari with it. 

“I don’t think I have enough wool…” she grumbled under her breath, not destined for her ears and yet amusing. And Shale observed it all so quietly from a shadowed corner that one could mistake her for the tavern’s inventory. Lenya gave the golem a wave when passing by, but she was fully in her ‘I don’t care’ mode, and did not react. Fitting somehow, since there was not much to do, other than waiting out the storm raging outside. Lenya still had to tend to her own equipment, but meh, later. She steered toward the card-playing trio and acknowledged them with a nod. 

“Lenya, hi!” Leliana said brightly. “Are you feeling better?”

She sat down on the bench opposite of them. “No more headaches, if this is what you are asking.”

"Good, I’m glad to hear this! Let me finish this round and… then there is something I need to talk with you about, if that’s alright?” 

Ah, always leaving her an out, always cautious. Given their tenuous relationship, it wasn’t a surprise, but perhaps no longer needed. The bard wasn’t as obnoxious as she’d been, or appeared to be, in the beginning. Quite the opposite, she was helpful and very skilled with the bow, at that. Which reminded her… “Sure. There is something I need you to ask too.” Odd that Alistair wasn’t around, though. Was he sleep– 

“Wynne?” Oh. He was coming down the stairs just moments after her. Lenya smiled. Speak of the Dread Wolf. 

“Yes, Alistair?” the mage replied to him with the patience and tone of a mother.

“My shirt has a hole in it.” To make his very whiny point, he steered directly toward the old rocking chair she occupied at the fireplace. He bunched up the torn fabric at his side and poked his finger through it. “Look!”

Wynne was unimpressed. “I see. And?”

“Can you mend it?” 

“Can't you mend your own clothes? Why do I have to do it?”

“Sometimes I pick up too much fabric and it ends up all puckered and the entire garment hangs wrong afterward. And you're... you know, grandmotherly. Grandmothers do that sort of thing, don't they?“

And people wondered why Lenya gave him the puppy nickname and used it for months. This man was taking all his cues from Revas when he was begging for scraps and even Morrigan couldn’t say no to, then. Kinda adorable, though.

“Darning socks and whatnot. You don't want me to have to fight darkspawn in a shirt with a hole, do you? It might get bigger. I might catch a cooooold.” 

There was a pout in his voice, no need to see his expression to know of its existence. 

“Oh, all right.  Give it to me then,” Wynne gave in, had never any chance than to do so. Perhaps he should use that technique to ask the archdemon to leave Ferelden the fuck alone. It would actually work. “But first, fetch me my darning satchel placed next to the fireplace, young man.”

“What is it that amuses you so, my dear Warden?” Lenya flinched, clasped her ear as hot breath grazed it. Shivers ran down her spine, but not of the good kind.

“Eww, don’t whisper into my ear, you weirdo!”

“Apologies. Enraptured as you were, I had to do that to get your attention.” Zevran chuckled, leaned in even closer to look past her. “What is it that made you smile so, I wonder…”

“I didn’t –”

“Oh, I see.” Lenya turned toward the assassin who drew away with another warm, if very irritating laughter. Sitting back down, he continued his card match as if he’d never been a cryptic weirdo to her just now.

“See, what exactly?”

He only glanced up for a second from his stack of cards before playing a pair of eight. “Ah, this is for you to figure out, my dear.”

Ugh, why did this elf have to be —

“Hah, I won!” Oghren banged the table, hard. “Nug suckers! Round is mine!”

Zevran grabbed the table’s edge with both hands to stop it from shaking and possibly toppling over. “Yes. I have to admit, you bested me after all, my stout friend!” he said in an even tone that revealed he’d let him win, so he’d stop complaining. Well, whatever.  

“Lenya!” Leliana lay down her set of cards and looked at her. “Can you… come with me?”

“Nel?” Alistair’s version of her name was shrill on his lips and he crossed his arms over his chest to cover himself. Huh, why was he not wearing… ah. Right. The hole in his shirt that – 

“Lenya… hello?” She nearly jumped out of her seat as the bard appeared in her vision and waved in front of her face. “I have been calling you twice now…did you not –” She turned around and back right after with a particular smug smile. Ugh. “Ah, I see. Enjoying the view, hmm?”  [...] 

[canis-or-cannotis-lycaon]

TIMING: Early August LOCATION: A Latte to Love PARTIES: Gael (@lithium-argon-wo-l-f and Wynne (@ohwynne SUMMARY: Back to work perhaps a little sooner than they should considering everything that happened at the barn, Wynne struggles with overloading emotions and unreasonable customers. Fortunately, Gael picks up on this and offers to help. CONTENT WARNINGS: Nnnnone, I don't think

It was absurd to be back here. To stand behind the till and take people’s orders and write them on cups and then to hand the cup to their colleague and to then ring the order up and then ask cash or card? and then wait until they chose and then click the right button and let them pay and tell them to have a good day. Again, and again, and again. Wynne had once liked this monotonous rhythm, had liked the small talk, the breeziness of it all — but now they felt like they were going to collapse if one more person very expressly said they wanted that with oat, you hear me, not cow’s milk.

Admittedly, they had messed that up a few times this week. But it was hard to care, when they had nearly been transformed into what others called a spawn, when they had almost died of blood loss. Wynne kept retreating to the backroom, trying to do breathing exercises and failing at them. They were afraid they were going to get fired and then thought so what?

But the day went on. A quiet stretch of time followed. Janeen went to take stock in the back, telling them to call if things got busy. Wynne stared into space. They dug an icecube from the freezer and let it melt in their hand, because that too was an exercise they’d read about. And then the door opened and they dropped the thing, sure to make the ground wet, eyes flicking up at the new patron. They had liked predicting what drinks customers would like, and with this man? They’d been almost right the first time he’d entered. His face wasn’t wholly unfamiliar, but his features were the only thing they remembered about him at present. “Hi, welcome to a Latte to Love,” they said, trying not to drone the words. “What can I get ready for you today?”

—

Ahhh he felt full of life. Between his progress with Ren, hanging out with Alan on the full moon and the conversation with Regan, this was the best Gael had felt since… well, the accident would be too long, but definitely in the last month or so. It was always one of Gael’s goals to let his expression and demeanor betray the sunken features on his face, the stylishly-disheveled hair that flopped over his forehead and his loose-fitting clothes that accentuated comfort over professionalism. He was in hobo mode right now, satisfied with where he was in life and committed to wandering through town with his aching bones, sore body . Gael had werewolf friends, that was fine and he’d do everything in his power to empower them, make them feel safe from murderers who ran around calling themselves ‘hunters’. He didn’t doubt their capability and strength and he certainly didn’t disparage them for their strange quirks and what they called themselves. He tried to be that way with everyone. Including today, where Gael decided to visit a Latte to Love, the place that already held memories, both good and bad - he’d talked to Cass in the corner where he looked as he entered the establishment about her interest in rocks and good vs. evil. It was also where he’d gotten drinks with Leticia before that night where he carelessly put her and the jaguar in danger. Right now was a chance to make another hopefully good memory and he approached the counter, his dark eyes dancing over a young - out of habit, his eyes darted over the pins on their vest - individual with exciting hair and eyes that seemed like normally they should’ve been much more full of youthful vigor. Nevertheless, he gave them a warm smile that easily reached the corners of his eyes; he treated retail and food service workers with a special kind of care. “Hi.” Gael said softly, giving the employee a soft look. “How are you doing today?” This part was a toss-up; half the time, they gave him a look like they really didn’t want to engage in small talk but he always took that risk just in case that wasn’t what happened.

—

He was just being polite, they told themself. He was just asking out of habit. And it was a good habit, a kind habit, one that could make a difference in someone’s day — but it was still habit, wasn’t it? He didn’t want the full answer, the ugly and gritty. He surely didn’t want them to open their mouth and let out a sound rather than a verbal response, because some mangled noise might be the best answer to that question. But Wynne didn’t do such a thing.

No, even if this was a customer who was generally kind and patient, they knew that he wouldn’t want them to be truthful. There was no room for it. And yet, their mind got stuck on it, that question and their answer. Bad, their mind answered, I’m doing really bad. I wish I hadn’t dropped my ice cube. I wish I knew how to do this thing called life. I’m questioning existence itself. I almost died! I am not doing great today and we are out of oat milk and people keep being mad about it. Someone spat out their almond croissant on a plate and I had to clean it. I almost died. I have to wear this scarf because having my wound on display will upset customers, or so my manager says, and I don’t want questions to be asked but it’s so hot! But I’m also very cold at the same time. I almost died I almost died I almost died I almost died, I’m not doing okay.

They said none of it, though.

Why couldn’t he just tell them his coffee order, so they could punch it in and let themself fall into the rhythmic and familiar movements of making the coffee. Wynne blinked at the customer, realizing that they’d been quiet for far too long. They wiped their wet hand on their apron. “Oh, haha, you know, fine,” they said, lacking conviction. “Little tired, maybe? How are you?” Their gaze turned to the cash register, then back to the other. “What can I get started for you? Um, just so we know, we are out of oat milk.

—

The employee was quiet for a long moment, longer than someone who wasn’t thinking about something somewhere else, a different time, place, person. They weren’t daydreaming though, Gael could also tell. Something was on their mind, obviously. The professor inhaled, letting his dark eyes dance over their figure, their hair, the exhaustion under their eyes; he was familiar with that. He was also familiar with wearing articles of clothing that were unusual for the weather, as he eyed the scarf around their neck when it was hot outside and comfortable in the shop, not to mention he knew how uncomfortably warm it could get behind the counter when business picked up; they were hiding something. An injury, maybe, or a deformity. So, perhaps in an attempt to resonate with them, Gael adjusted his position on the counter, reaching into his pocket, pulling out a small paper hat made from a shiny silver gum wrapper. He placed it on the counter with his left hand, the hand that had the snakelike trail of scarring that wrapped around his wrist, the back of his palm and a couple of his fingers. “It’s a little hot to be wearing a scarf,” He muttered, giving the employee a look that implied that he’d been there, done that. With that, he leaned back casually and glanced up at the menu. “What do you recommend? That doesn’t have oat milk, of course.” He laughed. “I’ll only bother you for a little while longer, I pizza with toppings.”

—

They misinterpreted that. This was a fault Wynne had, though it was something they were often unaware of — there were so many nuances in the way people spoke and acted that were lost upon them that it was hard to keep track of all they missed. Especially now. Especially at work. When the customer pointed out the scarf they just thought he was trying to ask why they were wearing it. Thinking it suspicious or strange. The look in his eyes meant nothing to them, because they didn’t even want to think about people being able to relate to this.

They looked at him for a moment. “It’s fine, it’s pretty cool in here with the air conditioning. I have a little throat issue.” It wasn’t even a lie, but it became one when they added: “It’s scratchy. A summer cold, maybe?” Wynne lifted their shoulders, nervously playing with the frills at the end of the scarf. It wasn’t thick. It could just be a fashion statement. Underneath it, muscles moved with nervousness and threatening upset, skin pulling at that ugly wound. There was a glassy quality to their eyes now.

“Uh, any iced latte. Elderflower syrup goes nice with the weather,” they said, a recommendation given to plenty of people. Their voice jumped an octave, trembling as they continued, “Pizza … we don’t have pizza, sir. Just like the oat milk. But … well, we never have pizza.”

—

He shouldn’t have pushed, he was being too nosy again. Of course it was their business what they wanted to wear, regardless of the superficial medication Gael could smell under the scarf. Something was on their mind but it wasn’t his business; for all the help he could try to supply, it didn’t do anything if whoever he was talking to just… didn’t want to talk about it. “Uh, yeah. An… iced latte with elderflower syrup sounds nice.” Gael offered a smile after he stuttered out the first syllables of the sentence. What kind of iced latte? It didn’t really matter. Then he scoffed, looking down and tracing the scarring on his hand absently. “Sorry, that’s… a phrase I came up with with a good friend of mine. She doesn’t like ‘promise’ so we say ‘pizza with toppings’.” He glanced at them, easily picking up the wavering in their voice. “Like this: I don’t know what you’re going through, but I pizza with toppings that you’ll be okay.”

—

Maybe if they were more fashionable this would be something they could pull off without raising eyebrows. It did seem somewhat of a personal failure all of the sudden and Wynne was trying really hard not to be frustrated with themself at the moment. “O-okay, and what kind of milk would like like with that?” Reiterating that they didn’t have oat seemed rude, so they didn’t.

They had half-punched in the order, not able to finish it as the options of almond, regular, rice, soy and whatever-else still blinked at them. Wynne looked at the man as they started preparing the shot of espresso that was fundamental in near every drink, his story an anecdote that made them think he was kind. And that he had to know about fae, or at least know someone who knew about them. “And that makes sense, for you, that’s cute.” 

And there he went, promising they’d be okay because it was the simple and kind thing to do. Wynne watched the coffee machine finish its shot of espresso and then promptly burst into tears when it did. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry – I – I’ll get it done. I'm just – you're really perceptive and kind and — well, the coffee, I'll get it done.” The tears kept flowing, and their shoulders shook as the smell of fresh coffee filled the air.

—

While he was anticipating some form of emotional release - indeed, they had it practically written all over their face - he wasn’t expecting them to abruptly start crying. “Ah, there we go.” Gael breathed deeply, inhaling the scent of the espresso and he motioned for the barista to at least go off to the side of the counter, casting a quick glance over his shoulder to make sure that there wasn’t anyone immediately behind him. Fortunately there wasn’t. “Don’t worry about the coffee.” He said gently, softening his voice and reaching into his messenger bag that hung comfortably around his shoulder. “Okay, how can I help?” He asked, pulling out a travel pack of tissues and placing them on the counter for them. “What’s your name?” Gael asked, keeping himself from thinking too far ahead - he didn’t want to get up on a pedestal and start preaching, not to this poor worker who obviously had something pressing on their mind. Instead, he focused on them entirely, almost giving the impression that the rest of the coffee shop didn’t even exist at that moment and he was ready to snipe at anyone who thought about giving them a remotely hard time.

—

It seemed like something had snapped, ever since the barn. Wynne had been struggling with emotional control since settling in Wicked’s Rest. There were bouts of what they figured to be depression, nights where they wept themself to sleep — but at work, they had usually been their contained self. But then their throat had been ripped open, and the floodgates had opened.

So they wept, shaking with it. They wept when a woman yelled at them, a week ago, because her pastry was too sweet. They wept when the machine burned their hand. They wept even harder as the customer offered kindness and gentleness. They followed his gesture, stepping away from the coffee machine, glad there were instructions of sort. They took the tissues, unfolding one of them and pressing the paper against their nose. “I’m Wynne. I’m — really sorry.” 

They looked up, all glistening eyes and increasing puffiness. They wanted the ice cubes, to press them against their wrist and eyes and become less of a red, snotty thing. “I don’t know, you’re already helping by — by not getting mad.” They let out a laugh that wasn’t humorous at all. It sounded like a sob. “And the tissues. Thank you. And I — well, it’s not your fault, okay? I just have … been very stressed.”

—

“Hi, Wynne.” Gael said softly as he adjusted himself to be placed between them and the rest of the cafe in some effort to preserve their pride. He recognized their name as well, the one who was talking about the jello from the hospital then they started talking about soup. He realized with a small pang of guilt that he never actually responded to them. “It’s nice to meet you in person.” He opted to say instead. They laughed, a wet, humorless thing that was more of an emotional burst of sorrow than anything and Gael gently reached out and placed a hand on their trembling arm for a few moments; they were warm. He heard their heartbeat in his ears though it was slightly better now that they were actually allowed to express themselves - he’d been around long enough to know that emotions were like a pressure valve, which was probably why he was always so open about his. “Don’t apologize, you’re okay.” He encouraged removing his hand and placing it back on the counter in front of them, not wanting to crowd them too much. “And yeah, I can tell!” Gael chuckled this time, not mocking but in an attempt of his own to show them that he was listening to them and empathizing with them without joining them in their despair. Sometimes, in his experience, it really helped to have some levity. “You shouldn’t be here, you should be at home healing. Eating jello or something even better. Spending time with loved ones. That sort of thing! Not here dealing with me and everyone else.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet. “If it’s money, I gotcha covered for the rest of your shift.” He offered, looking at her with his eyes - the same offer he made for Van, the same offer he’d make for anyone else.

—

The other was broad in a way that was, in this situation, not imposing but rather comforting. Wynne was able to use the other as a shield of sorts, where their tears were only reserved for them, the customer and the little corner they were in. “What’s your name?,” they wondered, realizing they hadn’t asked for it yet and trying not to chastise themself for it. “It’s nice to meet you too.” It was, in a way. Even if they were crying.

There was an arm on their shoulder, a warm and comforting touch that they didn’t respond to with a flinch or distrust. Maybe if they weren’t crying, they would have done so, but right now Wynne was craving comfort of any kind. They wanted to believe him, this kind professor who told them that they were okay but even that sheer concept of being okay seemed foreign. Like something fictional that people spoke about, just another pop culture reference they would never fully get.

He mentioned jello, so they must have spoken online. They assumed as much anyway, not wanting to overthink on that kind of thing when there was already so much else to overthink on. “I’m … fine, they say it’s good to get back to work and daily routine,” they murmured. Wynne had heard that said. But they also worked as a barista, which was probably not good for anyone’s mental health. Being with Ariadne would be better. “You …” They looked at his wallet, blinking teary-eyes at it and then looking at him. “Why would you do that? I don’t – I mean, I know you because you come in here for coffee, but we don’t really know each other.” It was about the money, though. With Zack gone, rent had gone up, and Wynne was terrified of pissing off their landlord.

—

Wynne. They might’ve had it on a name tag but Gael was never the type to read ahead and use it to someone’s advantage, even though he understood that asking something as innocuous as ‘what’s your name’ carried negative connotations nowadays. He did it because a name felt more personal coming from the mouth of whoever owned it; he liked hearing how people said their own names, even now when they said it between cries. “That’s a pretty name.” He smiled. “I’m Gael. The pleasure is mine, Wynne.” Yes, even that day, even as they had a breakdown at work because of some imperceptible weight that crashed onto their small shoulders. Speaking of work… “Yeah, they also ask if you can come into work if you tell them you’ve broken your leg.” Gael replied gently, keeping his dark eyes with their perpetual dark circles under them on them studiously. He’d also been there and done that, choosing to work even though he really wasn’t in the mood or didn’t feel like he could truly handle it. He was a workaholic but he’d been around the block enough times to know that that certainly wasn’t how most people were. “That’s how I heard it told to me before; treat a hurting mind like you would a hurting leg; both are important and need to be tended to. “And… I’m offering because I understand what it’s like.” He gave a light shrug. “I obviously don’t know whatever you’re going through specifically - everyone’s scenario is different and I don’t wanna pry - but I do understand just… wanting to go home. Knowing you need to work, stressing about the things you can’t control.” He removed a twenty and ten-dollar bill from the wallet and placed it on the counter, sliding the money towards them. “I also like to help. A stranger is just a friend you haven’t met.” He leaned back and placed a hand on his lower spine briefly as he straightened up. “That’s what I like to think, anyway.”

—

The compliment to their name was strange, if not kind. Wynne liked their name, but it was intrinsically and undeniably connected to their former life, to that person they had been supposed to be. Welsh heritage carried through in their name. “Oh, I think we talked online, maybe?” About their love for the jello, and the fact that they’d been to hospital. Suddenly the lies about their scarf seemed even less convincing, and their stomach sunk. It was one thing to have an injury, it was a whole other to have it look the way this one did. 

Their face revealed their confusion at that statement, and even as Gael went on to explain it they didn’t get it. “But you can’t stand on a broken leg, most of the time.” Sometimes you could. Wynne pushed their lips together. “I’ve always believed that it’s best to keep your head up and keep going.” People had looked to them, before, and they’d not allowed themself to look weak, scared or saddened — but clearly they lacked the strength they had had back at the commune, now. “Which is easier said than done, I guess.” They laughed humorlessly again.

He was pulling out money and they weren’t sure what to do, wanted to fold the notes up and push them back into his wallet. They didn’t want to owe people. They thought of Metzli, paying all those hospital bills, and their stomach sunk. “It’s okay, really. I’ll just … I can cope!” They added a smile to that. “And I get it, I like to help strangers too, but I’d just … feel bad if I left, we’re understaffed and it’s back to school, so my colleagues …” Wynne glanced at them, feeling bad about potentially leaving even if the thought made new tears jump to their eyes. They wanted home. Ariadne. “It’s alright.”

—

“I think we did, too.” He replied, keeping his dark eyes on them as he gauged what they were going to do with the money as they gave another empty laugh. Gael wasn’t sure if this was a case of forcing oneself through the pain out of necessity or if they took it literally, but he was reminded of Ariana and how he had to be very literal. Of course one couldn’t stand on a broken leg, but a lot of people, whether they were like Ariana or not, didn’t treat their brains like the important, tender organ that it was. He didn’t want to dwell on it, though; they weren’t here to get a lecture from him, regardless of the intent. They also didn’t want to seem to want his money, something that he found a lot more common around there; was this another case of pride? Gael wondered if maybe he was doing something wrong or if he should’ve gone about it a different way. Then again, it never seemed to be a problem before he moved to Wicked’s Rest. Reluctantly, catching their smile as well as the fresh tears that spiked the corners of their eyes in a conflict of incoming information, he tilted his head and retracted the twenty-dollar bill but kept the ten on the counter. “Well, take that one, at least. It’s a gift.” He lowered his head, glancing up at them with his best puppy dog impression he could, keeping his expression gentle. “And if you reeeeally don’t want it, then give it to someone you care about. Or spend it on someone you care about.” He paused. “Is there… anything else I can do to help, kiddo?” He asked.

—

“Well, it’s good to meet you! Sometimes people say you shouldn’t trust people online, but you seem like a real trustworthy … person,” they said, adding a smile to their statement. This was a true one, at least, contrary to them saying that they were quite alright, actually. Gael did seem like a really polite and kind man, just as he had online, and Wynne was glad for that at the very least. Even if some of that kindness was hard to accept.

They watched him leave one of the bills on the counter and hesitated a moment before taking it. “Okay. I’ll … get something nice for dinner, I think! So I can just relax when I get home. And not cook.” Or they would get Ariadne and themself a bunch of candy and eat that instead. Their appetite was still a little lopsided. “Thank you. You’re very kind.” 

What could he do to help, though? “I um, think you’ve done enough, just by being understanding.” Not everyone was. Some people just wanted their coffee and didn’t care who made it or how they felt, as long as it was done ASAP. “Maybe I can still make you your drink? I’d feel better if I at least helped you with what you wanted.” Wynne meant it, too. They didn’t want him to leave empty handed. And so they exhaled, moving back to the till. “What milk … did you want with your ….?” They paused, chuckled almost truly amusedly. “I don’t remember.”

—

Their smile, one that actually held positivity behind it, offered some relief to Gael who took that as his cue to straighten up once more. The feeling was only helped as they actually accepted the money he offered and he nodded. “Dinner, snacks. Just something to help relax.” He paused. “I’m a beef jerky fiend, myself. Sometimes with blue raspberry Air Heads. Love when they turn my tongue blue, it’s always so exciting.” He leaned back now, keeping his dark, sparkling eyes on Wynne’s diminutive frame. They looked almost doll-like and his gaze danced over their features for a moment before he smiled. “I’d love that.” Gael took a couple of side steps until he was over near the register once more and he glanced up at the menu. “Let’s see, what was it you said earlier… ah! An iced latte with elderflower syrup. Right. I remember.” He paused before giving her a slightly mischievous look. “Do you have any oat milk?” He could barely get the sentence out before his grin turned sheepish in spite of himself. “Sorry, too soon. Whole milk is fine.”

— “I think I can figure something like that out, yes,” they said, already thinking about sharing a nice snack with Ariadne while curled up. Of course, it would be their girlfriend’s presence that would relax them most of all, but a treat always helped. “I don’t know those, the Air Heads, but I will look for them. A blue tongue, that sounds like it would be funny.” Wynne wanted funny, mindless and stupid funny. Elderflower syrup, that was it. They nodded, putting the order into the till and waiting to hear what milk he wanted, only to gaze up with wide eyes at the mention of oat milk. Luckily, he was joking. “Oh!” They let out a breathy laugh, one that sounded like they were relieved. “Okay. An iced elderflower latte with whole milk.” They clicked the button for a 25% discount, then proceeded so that Gael could pay and they could start with the drink from scratch. It took a minute or two, but eventually they offered the cup to him (adorned with the name Gale, despite them having read his name online). “Thank you for stepping by. And for being a patient customer.” Wynne hoped to see a world one day filled with more people like that.

[vigilskeep]

sorry if you've gotten an ask like this before, but imagine your hawke and warden (any of your choice) got flipped, how do you think they would get along w the companions from the other game? and in general how would they do and feel in the position of the hof/champion, hypothetically?

i just love hearing about your characters ngl i really want to put them in situations

LOVE asks like this pls put my guys in situations

keir as the hero of ferelden... i guess not totally unreasonable, he did fight at ostagar, duncan could’ve picked him up (read: pried him away from his family with the right of conscription.) he’d get along with alistair well enough, though it might take him a minute to warm up to him for near-templar reasons. wouldn’t get along too well with leliana or wynne, and wynne would leave the party after he defiled the sacred ashes, leliana only staying via an intimidation check which is a thing you can do if she’s hardened iirc. fuck the chantry he’s gotta get them reaver powers. not much patience for oghren. would do well with sten, shale, zevran. would kill loghain, no doubt abt that. and honestly, i’ve said before that they maybe had a thing in lothering, keir would romance morrigan and do the dark ritual with her (suddenly just realised the hilarious implication that kieran’s name is loosely inspired by keir possibly in the normal worldstate as well). keir would be fairly bitter about the whole thing and abt the wardens, and his priority would still be finding his family and (if only by virtue of stopping the blight) keeping them safe. he would put alistair on the throne alone, not hardened

it’s harder to see how minerva would become the champion, but if she wasn’t the hero i guess she could end up as an apostate and maybe wind up in kirkwall fleeing the blight like everyone else. if she had the relationship hawke has w varric they’d get along like a house on fire, i’m trying to find a normal way to say she loves when people are obsessed with her AGHASJSKSKK. i cannot imagine her talking to sebastian. minerva and aveline in a room would not go well. she would rival fenris but like still a close important relationship but that means even more tension. friendship with anders but she wouldn’t distract the grand cleric for him even if she would support him in the end; she doesn’t act if she doesn’t know what’s going on and she doesn’t appreciate being asked to let alone what she sees as the attempted emotional blackmail. easily friends with isabela and definitely sleeps with her regardless of romance choice, that happens in dao anyway lmao. friends with merrill, would be such an interesting way to explore minerva’s growing confidence in blood magic. i’m honestly undecided on romance—isabela hits a lot of the same beats as zev’s and thus makes sense for her to go for, merrill would be incredible for her as dalish love interest for minerva makes me insane conceptually let alone a fellow blood mage, fenris would be kind of an unhinged choice for, you know, noted blood mage, but also it’s a different flavour on fen rivalmance because of the shared heritage and i know she’d be into him and like... the drama of it all... anyway minerva would love gaining power in kirkwall as the champion and would lean ambitious, maybe even try for viscount even if it was impossible because of who she is. and in the last straw would be mad at anders for going behind her back—significantly more mad than she is in the canon situation where she is generally highly supportive, actually, because she was right here anders we could have fucking talked abt this and planned ahead—but she’ll support him when it comes to it and she’d never let anyone lay a hand on him

[andrastesflamingknickers]

Jealousy Is A Bitter Flavor Pt. 1

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The blighted woman stared at him for a few moments longer before her red lips twisted into an all-too-familiar mocking smile. “My, my…” Morrigan purred with obvious delight. “You're jealous, aren’t you? Did I take your favorite Grey Warden away from you?”

Orzammar was a peculiar place. Impressive, certainly. Alistair was baffled just trying to figure out how people so small could make ceilings so grand, but the dwarves of old had always been unmatched in their architectural skills, or so the legends went, and the dwarves of now were just as impressive with their crafts work, so really, he shouldn’t try to question it too much.

They had been travelling for a good number of months, and after all their hard work, the only one left to call upon for their obligations to the Wardens were the dwarves. Personally, Alistair was looking forward to their help the most; they were more familiar with fighting the darkspawn than any of their allies. That, and dwarves were hardy fighters. He was liking their chances of ending this Blight more and more.

Outsiders were rare enough in the city that they were collecting stares and whispers as they trudged onward. Many recognized them as Wardens, but that knowledge did nothing to curb the suspicion and curiosity.

“Perhaps we should have dressed in the likeness of merchants or of the such,” Morrigan muttered as they walked. “We are gaining a following of onlookers.”

“Really? I can’t picture you in a merchant’s bland tunic,” Elio Tabris said with a short laugh that had a wheeze to it, yet sounded like bells to Alistair. He felt something in his stomach twist as the man sidled up to Morrigan to bump affectionately against her. “I’m sure they’ve just never seen someone quite as lovely as you. Perhaps if you hunched a little and added years to your face, their ogling will cease.”

Morrigan’s face twisted in distaste, “I’d rather not find out if I’ll grow to resemble my mother, thank you very much.”

Elio laughed again, and by all accounts his laugh wasn’t some harmonious, musical thing. Sten had even said one night that the young man’s laughter sounded more like a dying horse than anything else, and yet Alistair couldn’t help but enjoy it all the same. It always brought a smile to his face when he heard the long wheeze followed by several beating chuckles.

But that smile was quick to go away as he watched Elio push himself onto the tips of his toes for some extra height, all so he could give Morrigan a swift peck on the cheek. He was gone with several quick, long strides just as fast, joining Wynne a few paces ahead as the elder woman examined a rune carving of some kind on a wall, too far ahead now for him to hear what the elf was saying.

That twist in his stomach worsened, a bitter poison on his tongue as he watched Morrigan bring a hand to her cheek and smile softly as she watched Elio.

They had been like this for a while, now. Alistair hadn’t thought much of it at first, not when the flirting began. Elio was just like that; he flirted with pretty much everyone in their group, to a point that Alistair was sure that the man wasn’t even aware he came off as flirty. He was just trying to be nice and playful, and was just too charming for his own good.

So, when Elio and Morrigan began their playful back and forth banter, Alistair ignored it as his friend just being friendly, wanting to be on good terms with the maleficar. When Elio began spending more time at camp with her, lingering with Morrigan for talks that went on longer and longer, Alistair shrugged it off. Elio always made time to talk to everyone when they set up camp, Morrigan was hardly anything special in that regard. Their elf was just a considerate fellow.

Andraste’s blood! He even went out of his way to find gifts for everyone, he actually paid attention to their interests, to what they said, and would always find something to gift them. To try and make them all a little happier in these dismal times, he had put it.

He’d even found and returned to Alistair his mother’s amulet. Alistair had honestly never expected his friend to have even paid attention when he rambled on about his pathetic life and how he broke it during a childish fit of anger at Eamon. Yet Elio found it while exploring the castle for clues on what had happened to the boy, and for other way to save him and Eamon, and he had returned it to Alistair for no other reason than that it had been important to the older Warden.

Perhaps that was when Alistair started looking at Elio and seeing something more than a fellow Warden or a friend.

But then he started noticing the way Elio would blush, the way his ears would burn red at Morrigan’s teasing, and the almost loopy smile he’d have when returning to the campfire each night after talking with her. There was an obvious shift to the banter between them, what he had shrugged off as meaningless, idle flirtation becoming something real. Alistair felt the bitter taste return when he remembered the first morning he’d seen Elio returning to the rest of the camp from the tent Morrigan always kept away from the others, the way his hair was tousled more than it normally was in the morning, the way he glowed, and of the hint of love bites that covered his neck that his armor almost completely hid.

As the months progressed, their relationship, whatever it may be, had also progressed—and the bitter seed inside of Alistair, that burned worse than the darkspawn blood during the Joining, continued to grow.

Elio was his friend, and even though he was far from fond of Morrigan, he should be happy and supportive that Elio was able to find joy and love in whatever his relationship with the witch was, be it physical intimacy or something deeper. He should be happy for his friend. But he wasn’t, and Alistair wasn’t sure what bothered him more. That he had chosen Morrigan, out of everyone in their group, to be with.

Or that he chose Morrigan over Alistair.

Biting his tongue, the older warden tried to shake those thoughts of jealousy and bitterness from his mind. Tried to shrug off how much it hurt to see Elio getting so close and chummy and intimate with someone as cruel and vile as Morrigan. Surely the ache in his chest wouldn’t hurt half as much if his friend was wooing Leliana or Zevran. Maker knows the two rogues were both making cow eyes at the man when they thought no one was looking. Alistair was probably no better in that regard.

He watched as Elio began chatting with a young and rather excitable looking dwarven woman for a minute, before he gestured for Wynne to come over. Alistair only heard bits of the conversation, a word here and there, that made it clear the subject was of magic.

Leaving the two to their conversation, Alistair tried to busy himself with their surroundings. Tried to distract himself by marveling at the wonders that was the architecture of the thaig, of the light and warmth they had despite being so deep underground, and just how much more structurally sound everything down here felt in comparison to topside. He tried to keep his attention on everything but the pain in his chest and the source of the ache.

Yet it wasn’t enough. Eventually his gaze landed on Morrigan who was admiring the statue of one of the dwarven Paragons. Or, perhaps admiring wasn’t the right word. Knowing Morrigan, she was likely judging and mocking it, Alistair wasn’t even sure she had the capability to genuinely admire and praise something.

In spite of common sense, Alistair approached the witch. “So,” he started, keeping his voice quiet enough that it wouldn’t catch Elio’ attention, though he was sure he could be yelling, and his friend wouldn’t noticed. Too engrossed in whatever conversation he was having with Wynne and the dwarf. “Dare I ask? What’s the deal with you and him?”

Alistair knew better than to ask, knew that this topic was in dangerous waters. Leliana had tried to broach the subject not too long ago, while they were making the long hike up the Frostback Mountains just to get to Orzammar in the first place. She had asked Morrigan about her relationship with Elio, and while Alistair knew it was a private conversation, he had eavesdropped anyways. Morrigan had denied there being any love, claimed it was purely passion—and that that made it superior to one of love.

He didn’t agree with the sentiment.

He didn’t like the implications, either.

Elio was clearly head over heels for her, for reasons he would never understand. He had seen the looks he gave the witch, the soft expressions, the silly smiles, the look of pure adoration whenever she wasn’t paying attention. If Morrigan didn’t love him back, then she didn’t deserve to be with him. Disregarding Alistairs own feelings on the relationship, his friend didn’t deserve someone who didn’t love him back, someone only wanted him for the physicality of a relationship.

Morrigan looked at him with a look of disdain he was all too familiar with from her, a mutual animosity between them. “Him? Him, who?” she asked, her brow quirking and her tone taking on exasperated confusion. “Is this supposed to mean something to me?”

The worst part was that he couldn’t tell if she was mocking him by purposely pretending not to know, or truly didn’t get who he was referring to. “You know exactly who I’m talking about,” Alistair gestured to where Elio was, attention too engrossed with his own business to notice their own conversation. “You and Mister Let’s-Make-Kissy-Faces over there,” he said, and tried to ignore the following twist to his chest as he said it.

The blighted witch stared at him for a few moments longer before her red lips twisted into an all-too-familiar mocking smile. “My, my…” she purred with obvious delight. “You are jealous, aren’t you? Did I take your favorite Grey Warden away from you?”

He hated her so, so much. “I’m not jealous!” Alistair argued back, louder than he meant to, feeling his face flush at her teasing. What did Elio see in this wretched woman? “I’m horrified!” Horrified that his friend would ever find her likable to such a degree. She had a pretty face, sure, but a pretty face didn’t change the fact that she was a horrible woman who took pleasure from tormenting others.

“Those blushing cheeks of yours tell a different tale,” Morrigan smirked as she reached out, pointing at his face, a glimmer in her eyes that always told him there was trouble afoot.

Alistair took a step away from her, his blush worsened, and he hated that it was because she was right. “These blushing cheeks are terrified that you’ll suck all the blood out of them once you’re done with him,” he lied.

Morrigan laughed again, bringing a curled finger to hover over her smirk. “If I feel the need to suck on anything of yours, Alistair, you will be the first to know,” she said, and the flush in his face began to pale at the innuendo, at the thought of him and her together. “Though I am sure it is not me you would prefer to do the sucking. Perhaps you would rather join in the next time he and I share a bed, so that he might touch you the way he touches me?”

Just as fast the flush was back with an even greater intensity as Alistair stuttered and spluttered, his mind fraying at the seams, trying to find the words to respond to what she had said, trying to even comprehend what she had said. “I—no, that’s not—you know that’s not—” he started and stopped, verbally flailing pathetically like a drowning man.

It only served to amuse the witch even more as she turned her attention to Elio, who it had seemed had finished up whatever business he had with the dwarf and Wynne. “Or better yet, we should go and tell him together of your touching concerns,” she said, taking a step towards them as she said it, and looked back at him with a predatory smile. “Perhaps he will pay more attention to you if you ask him nicely.”

Alistair turned his back to her, “Uh-huh, I think we’re done here,” he said, and it was the only thing he could think of to end this wreck of a conversation before it got worst. The more she had spoken, the more he wanted to bury himself deeper into the ground. He knew he shouldn’t have talked to her, why, oh, why did he go ahead and do it anyway?

“Done before you started, in fact,” Morrigan added, just to rub salt into his wounds.

When he turned to look back, she had left and had joined Elio at his side, the two of them and Wynne discussing something between just them. The only comfort Alistair got from the sight was the look of annoyance that flashed across Morrigan’s face, telling him that she, at the very least, didn’t like the conversation.

For a moment, Elio looked up and their eyes met, and Alistair felt warmth blossom in his chest at the smile his fellow Warden gave him. But that warmth was gone just as quick when Elio turned his gaze to Morrigan—busy arguing with Wynne over something Circle-magic-mage related to even notice him—and his smile grew softer, lovelorn. Alistair wanted to throw up.

“Right,” Alistair said, pushing those feelings down deep inside of himself as he approached the rest of the group. “What now? By the sounds of everything, we’re not going to find much support from the dwarves until their whole kind debacle is solved. So, what’s our plan?” he asked, and tried not to think of how Orzammar’s civil war of succession hit a little too close to home with Ferelden’s civil war of succession.

Elio hummed, a hand to his chin as he thought about it. “I really hate being in this position,” he said after a long pause, moving his hand from his chin to his head, running it through his chestnut brown strands of hair. “We need the dwarves help in battling the darkspawn, but it’s as they told us over and over; the treaty only says the king is obligated to help us, not their Assembly or whatever. Until a new king is chosen, it’s unlikely we’ll be getting their help at all.”

“The dwarves are in a never-ending war with the darkspawn, is it little wonder that our Blight might seem inconsequential to their foolhardy Assembly?” Morrigan asked with a slight scoff. “I dare say they might be rather happy that the darkspawn have migrated to the surface. It makes for emptier tunnels, and an easier time for their own futile attempts to reclaim their ancient thaigs.”

“I’m sure they’re not celebrating Ferelden’s turmoil,” Elio said with a soft smile before shaking his head, “But, back on the topic at hand, she’s right. The Assembly isn’t obligated to help us, and right now the Blight is the least of their concerns.”

Alistair groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I really hate to say it, but since they’re in a deadlock on finding a new king, we might have to step in and put someone on the throne just so we can get the treaties fulfilled.” He hated saying it. The Grey Wardens weren’t supposed to be involved in politics; they weren’t supposed to get involved in matters of civil dispute. But… he supposed they were both rather piss poor wardens in that regard.

Elio just had a knack for getting involved in every little problem. It was like he was a bloodhound when it came to people in need, and Alistair had yet to see him actually turn down helping someone, no matter how out of his way it was. On one hand, Alistair admired that part of his friend—it showed that he truly did have a heart of gold. He wanted to make the world better, not just in protecting them from darkspawn, but in the little things, too. On the other hand, it got frustrating being dragged into every little problem that were really none of their concern.

Helping Orzammar get a new king was a massive overstep, one that Alistair knew Duncan would never have approved of. But it was necessary. Right now, it was the only way he could think of to get the dwarves aid in the Blight.

“You’re right,” Elio agreed, which soothed some of the guilt Alistair felt. “The downside is, we don’t actually know enough about either candidate or of Orzammar in general to be able to choose who would be best for us and the people.”

“In that case, just take a copper and flip it,” Morrigan said as she placed a hand on her hip, her other raised, drawing loops in the air with her finger. “It should make little difference to us whether tis the blood son or the advisor who sits on the throne, they will both be obligated by your precious treaties to aide you.”

Wynne had a disapproving frown at the notion. “Something like this is far too important and delicate of a matter to leave up to something as simplistic as a toss of a coin,” she scolded, though it was clear Morrigan wasn’t even listening to her. “I suggest we ask around, try to learn more about this Bhelen and Harrowmont before we make a decision one way or the other.”

And that was part of why Alistair liked Wynne. She was so sensible, far more than many of their companions were. Always a soothing voice of reason. “I agree with her,” he said, raising his hand up slightly. “I’d like to make sure that whoever we lend our support to isn’t anti-Grey Warden, that we can trust will actually follow through with their promise of aide.”

Another moment of silence filled the air around them, broken only by the sounds and chatters of Orzammar itself, before Elio broke it with another hum. “Okay, yeah, that sounds like a good idea,” he said, nodding his head. “We’ll split up, ask around, and meet up at the tavern after a while to put together everything we’ve learned. Then we can make a decision. That sound okay with everyone?”

With no one having any arguments, they all split off to investigate different parts for the next handful of hours, careful to avoid Dust Town on their own.

Alistair was a generally friendly person, but the dwarves weren’t necessarily as open to his friendship as most were, and he was hardly a pro at bargaining. But there were enough locals who seemed fascinated by him enough, whether by being human or by being a Warden, that he was able to get bits and pieces, much of it contradicting due to the nature of the ones telling him being biased to either Harrowmont or Bhelen. Nevertheless, he took what information he could find and stitched it together like a poorly made patchwork quilt until he could get some semblance of a picture of what was going on.

The old king was dead, that was a set-in stone fact.

What was heavily debated was the cause of his and his older two sons deaths. The oldest one was killed by fratricide, the middle son given the blame and without so much as a proper investigation or trial, was sent to the Deep Roads in exile to die. Harrowmont’s following believed Bhelen to have been involved, that he was the one who actually killed the eldest, and they claimed that even the old king had suspected his son’s involvement, and that was why he chose Harrowmont as his successor instead.

On the other hand, Bhelen’s supporters accused Harrowmont of weakening Orzammar. That he took advantage of the king’s failing health to plant the seeds of lies and doubt in his mind, and that he was never actually named successor—he was the only one in the room when the king died, no one could prove or disprove what Endrin said to him in his final moments. What Alistair found most concerning were the whispers that he’d further worsen the divide between nobles and casteless, and that he would rather cut the city off from the surface entirely, even at the cost of their own wellbeing.

Bhelen was called a reformist, which was good, that he wanted to strengthen their ties with the surface where Harrowmont wanted to weaken them. But he was possibly a murderer, possibly behind his brothers and fathers deaths. Harrowmont, for all that he could find, seemed like a man of strong morals, and seemed more politically savvy, but he seemed to cling dangerously tight to traditions.

Personally, the more he learned and listened, the more he wasn’t sure about either side. They were reasons to support and oppose in equal measures. Freaking politics, second only to the Darkspawn in his list of things he hated.

After a few hours, Alistair made his way back to the inn that Elio had chosen for them to stay at for the night. There was little else in terms of information he had been able to find, to the point he felt like he was just wandering around like an aimless idiot. He did, however, come across a merchant during his search, and even managed to buy something at a discount. Or the merchant told him it was a discount, for all Alistair knew, it could have been double the price. Which was fine, he was willing to pay triple the price for it.

It wasn’t anything especially fancy, but it was a necklace with a stone carved to look like a dog in the center. Elio liked dogs. He’d talked at lengths during the first few days after the mabari joined them about how he had always wanted one as a kid. But you don’t get dogs in the alienage unless they’re with the guards and dragging people out of their homes by the jaws.  Other than that, there was always the occasional starving stray that never stuck around for long. He’d been so happy when the mabari, named Garahel; after the hero of the last Blight, had chosen him as its new master.

It was stupid, Alistair knew this, and yet as soon as he’d seen the stone dog necklace, he had to buy it. Elio was always giving them gifts, and yet he wasn’t sure if any of them had ever gotten him something in return. There was a swell of guilt that rushed through him at the thought.

When he finally reached the tavern, after only getting lost once, he was unsurprised to find that Elio was already there. He was, however, surprised to find him in an argument with a drunken dwarf at one of the tables.

Or perhaps argument wasn’t the right word. The man was flushed in the face and yelling, and Elio was just standing there, arms crossed over his chest, staring the dwarf down as he was being yelled at. There was a tightness to his expression, and he kept gripping his own bicep between clenched fingers, all signs Alistair knew and recognized as his friend trying his hardest to stay calm, to not start yelling back at the dwarf—or worse.

For as much as he came off as cheerful, as easy to get along with, and was shown to be exceptionally kind; Alistair had met few who possessed the same level of rage that his fellow Warden harbored. Part of Alistair couldn’t blame him for the anger, he’d be angry too if he had gone through everything the other had. Regardless, Alistair had learned rather quickly that just because Elio was better at hiding his anger and better at controlling it than most, it didn’t mean the wrath was not there. When that anger came out; blood was spilled.

An angry Elio was a more terrifying foe to fight than the darkspawn.

Which was why he was immediately worried that a fight was about to break out, that Elio was about to do something that would, at the very best, get them exiled from Orzammar.

He quickly made his way to them.

“We need someone like Harrowmont leading us! Bhelen is nothing more than fatricidal scum! Tyrant in the mah-making!” the dwarf screamed, broken by a hiccup as he pointed at Elio with a glower. “If you’re gunna side with Bhelen, then you’d be better off dying. I don’t care Warden or not, you go against Harrowmont an’ I’ll kill ya myself! Right here!”

Elio said nothing, but his lip curled back with a wordless snarl.

Alistair shouldered his way between them with a wary laugh, “Hey, friends! What’s going on over here?” he asked, nervous energy biting at his words. “Getting rather worked up over here, I hope my friend here isn’t causing you any problems.”

“Causing problems?” The dwarf repeated with another hiccup. “Asking about Bhelen, and—and whether he’d be better—your friend’s askin’ for a knife is what he’s doing!”

He must have said something wrong when asking around, with such high tensions it was little wonder some might be a bit testy about the topic. Through in the excessive amount of alcohol the dwarf smelled of? More volatile than a puddle of oil. Still, this situation was still salvageable.

“I’m sure he meant nothing bad by it,” Alistair said, glancing to Elio who remained silent, wisely biting his tongue so he wouldn’t say something to make matters worse, though the fire in his eyes was burning intensely. Just as fast, Alistair turned his attention back to the dwarf before he could get trapped by his gaze. “We’re new to the city, as you can tell, we’re just trying to get a grasp of the situation, that’s all.”

The dwarf had the audacity to actually spit onto the floor, a big wet glob that just about hit Alistair’s boot. Absolutely disgusting. But he forced his expression not to show those thoughts. “Being new an’ dumb ain’t an excuse for being dumb,” the drunkard said, as if that made any sense. He looked them over once more before nodding to the bar counter. “Give me a few silvers for a few more rounds an’ we can call this dispute resolved. How’s that sound?”

Sounded like a scam as far as Alistair was concerned, but if it would keep the peace, then he was willing to give up a few silvers. Knowing their luck of being attacked, and of Morrigan and Elio’ questionable habit of ransacking the corpses, they’d make back whatever he gave up quickly enough in resold equipment and valuables.

So, he passed him twenty silvers, more than enough to keep him nice and drunk, and hopefully unconscious.

The man took it happily enough, stuffing the coins into his own coin purse, and made his way to the counter. Not before, of course, giving Elio one last nasty look. “Next time watch your fucking mouth. Keep saying that shit about Harrowmont, and next time I won’t be so nice. I’ll clip your damn tongue,” he threatened before staggering off.

Elio growled lowly once he was gone, but then let his shoulders slump as tension rolled off him. “Usually, I’m being threatened about my ears being cut. Tongue is a first,” he muttered before shaking his head. Just as fast that anger was stuffed deep into whatever internal locked box he had and a smile was on his face. “Thanks for the help, Alistair. Maker’s breath, your timing was miraculous.”

He felt his cheeks flush at the praise. “Well, I guess we were lucky I showed up when I did, aren’t we?” he puffed up his chest in pride.

It didn’t take long after that for Wynne and Morrigan to wander in, and once they had joined them, the four had taken a seat at the corner, furthest from any prying ears, to discuss what they had found.

For the most part, their information all seemed to be the same, if not worded differently here or there. Half of the public was in favor of Bhelen for his progressive stances and disproved of Harrowmont for his isolationist policies. The other half preferred Harrowmont for the stability he’d bring, while despising Bhelen for whispered involvement in his brothers’ deaths. Alistair wasn’t quite sure yet who was the better option.

In the end, however, after weighing everything they knew, Elio chose Bhelen. It was decided that they’d seek him out in the morning, figure out what they had to do to help put him on the throne so they could get the alliance sorted out and go back to dealing with the Blight. With any luck, they could get everything sorted out in a day or two, though Alistair knew better than to hope for something like that.

There was little else to do for the night. Their task for the day completed, their rooms paid for, and the rest of their party camped outside the gates informed of what was happening. The group had the rest of the night to do as they pleased.

Alistair allowed himself a single drink. For the confidence only alcohol could bring, before seeking Elio out. The necklace bounced about in his pocket with each step, and he felt giddy for the chance to give it to him, to see that same look of surprised joy that Alistair always felt receiving a gift from him mirrored on his friends face. Perhaps it was the buzz of ales coursing through him, but Alistair even felt bold enough to try and… well, he wasn’t sure what. Maybe flirt? Maybe ask for a kiss in return? He’d figure it out, he just knew he felt confident enough to try.

It took a little looking to even find where Elio had gone. He hadn’t been in the tavern, nor in the rented room. Alistair had thought for a moment perhaps he went to the surface to visit with the others. But, no, he found the man in question just outside the tavern.

Outside with Morrigan.

His stomach dropped.

Hiding around the corner, Alistair unashamedly spied on the two as they interacted. He watched as Elio pulled from his own bag a small, golden hand mirror. A lovely piece of craftsmanship that must have cost a pretty silver. Maybe even some gold. Even from where he hid, he could tell the mirror was clear and smooth, that it’s silver surface was as flawless as it could be.

He couldn’t hear what Morrigan had whispered, but he had seen the look of awe and amazement as she took the gift from Elio’s hands.

“A pretty mirror for a pretty woman,” Elio said with that all too familiar lovelorn look on his face. “I’d remembered you telling me about the mirror you had found—and I’m sure it’s not the same, but I thought of you when I saw it.”

Morrigan’s thin fingers traced the edges, her expression softer than anything Alistair had ever seen. A softness he suspected she only ever showed Elio. “Such a romantic,” she teased, her voice gentle, far from the haughty, sarcastic bite she generally had.

“You know me, a sappy romantic at heart, always looking for ways to woo you,” Elio joked back, and yet Alistair knew it wasn’t a joke.

Their voices dropped back to whispers, too quiet for him to hear. But he could read their body language and expression well enough that he didn’t need to heard the words they said. The touches and smiles spoke volumes. His chest burned worse than any wound he received as he watched the two draw closer and closer to each other, foreheads connecting before they went in for a kiss.

Alistair hated what he was seeing. He hated how happy Elio looked, how he melted and swooned to the woman’s every touch and word, and how gentle and soft Morrigan was to him when she was nothing but a viper to everyone else. He hated how happy they seemed to be with just the two of them.

Most of all, he hated the vile, wretched feeling of jealousy that ate away at him from the inside.

With the necklace heavy like lead in his pocket, Alistair turned on his heel and marched back into the tavern before he could see anything else. He ignored Wynne’s concerned look as he made straight for the bar, giving up silver and coppers for tankards of ale, hoping that the alcohol would make him forget, would make him numb to the ache in his chest.

Hoping that when Elio came back inside with Morrigan in tow, the sight of the two of them wouldn’t feel like a sword driven through his chest.