#it’s Varlen’s last name

[jibberjibbsart]

Mock up poster for the webcomic that I want to make one day 💖

[phoenixmakeswords]

A couple years ago, I started writing a sci-fi story. I haven’t finished the original story, but I decided to turn the idea into a short story collection. The first story is finished and I would love readers for it. The second story follows a different main character, an Antarian(think Thane from Mass Effect but more amphibious)named Varlen. It’s a story of choices: freedom, love, societal expectations; and self and love over duty. This is one of my favorite scenes from it. Also! The dialogue being entirely passive tense and using a lot of instances of ‘be’ and ‘being’ is intentional on my part.

Asar kisses me beneath the blue light of S’dara, our moon. The soft grasses behind his home make the perfect place for a moonlit meal. We’ve not had our conversation yet. I’ll do anything to avoid it.

“I am being nervous for tomorrow,” he confesses, lying next to me in the grass. His skin gives off a subtle gold and blue glow beneath the moon’s light. My own blue-and-green glow feels boring in comparison to his.

“It will be being fine.” I rub my thumb over his hip.

“Your father is being displeased by our pairing. What if he is being unwilling? I am being in love with you.”

And everything just became infinitely more complicated.

“I am loving you too.” I speak the truth. “Father said he is not caring as long as I am being happy.”

“Being honest with me. If he is being unwilling, what will be being your decision? I am being knowing how things are being working here. I am being understanding your father’s opinion is being important to you and his word is being law as far as you are being concerned.”

Why did he ask something I can’t answer?

“I am not knowing.” I want Asar. I want Father to be pleased with me. I do not wish for him to disown me; if he disowns me, I lose hope of any sort of future.

Do I love Asar enough to gamble my future?

“I am wanting you. I am loving you,” I murmur. I want Asar enough it takes my breath away. “I am not having an answer. I am being sorry.”

“If this is being our last night, I am being wanting to be entirely yours. At least for tonight.”

Desire bubbles hot under my skin, reminiscent of Goli’s heat, as I clamber on top of him. I finally get what I’ve longed for. I can’t promise forever. I can’t promise him two more days. I can promise him tonight.

Making love to him in the soft grass is the closest I’ve ever felt to holy. Hearing his soft sounds of pleasure, the way he gasps my name, I feel like a king. It’s home. Holy. Sacred as Mori’s temple. I want to stay in this moment with him forever. I want him. I want to do this with him a hundred times over. I want to promise him I’ll choose him. I want promises I know I might not be able to keep.

[sceptilemasterr]

Defenders of the Flame (TE Rewrite) Act 1, Scene 4 - The Test of Attunement

Title: Defenders of the Flame (A CIU Screenplay)

Main Pairings: Shreya x F!MC, Beckett x F!Atlas

Other Pairings: N/A

Genre: Full Rewrite (The Elementalists, Book 1)

Rating: PG-13 for violence, blood, swearing, alcohol, and sexuality

Summary: Fiora faces some unique challenges in the Test of Attunement.

Previous Scene: “You’re One Of Us”

Masterlist: Link

INT. PENDERGHAST GRAND VAULT - MORNING

The Grand Vault is a room so massive it could easily be mistaken for the outdoors. Glowing multicolored letters float in midair overhead, reading “TEST OF ATTUNEMENT,” with other similar signs floating around below, pointing students in various directions as they file into the room. Several areas at the far end of the Vault have been marked off, with a single professor standing within each area, holding a stack of metal sheets not unlike the one Shreya had shown Fiora the night before. Griffin stands in the middle of the crowd of first-years, helping direct them to the proper places.

GRIFFIN (shouting): Clear Awakenings, this way! Uncertains, Varrah will take you over by the far wall! Watch your step, please, and-- HEY!

His sudden shout comes in response to one student suddenly levitating himself up above the crowd with a gust of air.

GRIFFIN (muttering): Somebody’s an Air-Att... (shouting) I know it’s a big room, but we’re still indoors! Rules still apply!

The levitating student lets himself fall, and a group of other first-years quickly rush out of the way to make space for him. Behind all of this, Shreya and Fiora enter the room.

FIORA: Okay, so... whoa. This room is big.

SHREYA: Yep! It’s the Grand Vault! I keep forgetting you never got to tour this place.

She looks around, and Griffin repeats his earlier directions. Fiora lights up at his voice.

FIORA: Hey, I know him! That’s the guy who helped me yesterday! Griffin, I think?

SHREYA: Oh? Does somebody have a crush?

Fiora shakes her head and laughs.

FIORA: Ha. No, not my type.

SHREYA (curiously): And what is your ‘type?’

FIORA (blushing): Uhh...

Looking around for a distraction, Fiora spots the line of Clear Awakened students forming up near one wall of the massive room.

FIORA: Oh! There, looks like that’s my line. Guess I’ll see you when I’m done! Bye!

She rushes off as Shreya stares after her, puzzled. As Fiora approaches the line, Shreya turns and heads over in the opposite direction, toward the Uncertain Awakening line. Fiora approaches the student standing at the head of the Clear Awakening area.

FIORA: Uh, excuse me? I’m here for-

The student turns around, looking over at her. This is BART NGUYEN, a third-year Water-Att student.

BART: You’re Clear Awakened?

FIORA: Uh, yes?

Bart waits expectantly.

BART: ...Are you gonna tell me your Attunement, then, or is this a guessing game?

FIORA: Oh! Right, sorry. I’m a... Fire-Att? I think?

BART: Fire, right. You’ll be that way, with Dr. Swan.

He points to one of the marked-off areas, where a middle-aged woman with dark frizzy hair and a colorful scarf stands in front of a small group of students.

FIORA: Got it. Great. Thanks!

She heads toward the woman, who fixes her with a curious gaze as she approaches. This is DR. SWAN, one of the professors at Penderghast. Fiora can’t help but stare at her as she approaches, and one of the students, SHINELLE YORK, laughs at her expression.

SHINELLE: Oh my God, don’t you know it’s rude to stare? Even if it is Dr. Swan...

Fiora snaps out of it and stops staring. Dr. Swan looks down at her as she approaches.

DR. SWAN: Ah, another Fire-Att? And you are?

FIORA: I... I’m Fiora Luxen?

DR. SWAN: Fiora... Luxen, did you say? Interesting.

She looks up at Fiora with an expression of surprised recognition before composing herself back to her usual neutral expression.

FIORA: Sorry, is everything, uh, okay?

DR. SWAN: Yes, yes, that will be all. Let’s just wait for the remaining students to be sorted out, and then we shall begin. Okay?

There is a murmur from the crowd as Fiora steps back to join the other students. She looks around, watching as the last bunch of first-years from the Clear Awakening section are sorted between the various Attunement groups. After the last student, a dark-haired boy with an infectious smile, is directed to the Water-Att group, Dr. Swan claps her hands together and gestures. When she speaks, her voice is suddenly amplified as though she were speaking through a microphone, startling the assembled students.

DR. SWAN: Right! Now that that’s finished, I will call you one at a time. When your name has been called, step up behind the desk here and your test will begin. Remember, under no circumstances is there to be sharing any details about what transpires within the test until all of you have finished. Is that clear?

The students mumble a halfhearted “yes.”

DR. SWAN: Good. Now, this part of the test may be essentially a formality, but that does not mean we should not take it seriously! You may already know your Attunement, but there is still much to be learned about yourselves within this test.

She pauses, but no one reacts. She sighs and picks up a sheet from her desk, reading out the first name on the list.

DR. SWAN: Varlen Bo?

VARLEN BO, a boy with spiky blonde hair, approaches the desk. Dr. Swan gestures, turning off the voice amplification, and she converses with Varlen too quietly for Fiora to hear. Then, Dr. Swan makes a pair of strange hand gestures toward Varlen, who becomes surrounded in a cocoon of stoicheal energy. Fiora jumps in surprise.

FIORA: What the--

A brief montage follows of Dr. Swan calling out a variety of names in alphabetical order. Finally, she calls “Jonathan Koss,” and Fiora begins to get nervous again.

FIORA (to herself): I’m probably next...

Several moments pass. Shinelle notices her nervousness and smiles reassuringly.

SHINELLE: First time jitters? Hey, don’t worry. Both my brothers went through this already; they said it was a piece of cake.

Fiora nods gratefully.

FIORA: Thanks. That makes me-

DR. SWAN: Fiora Luxen?

Fiora nervously approaches Dr. Swan’s desk.

SHINELLE (whispering): Good luck!

Dr. Swan shuts off her voice amplification yet again as Fiora approaches. The professor gazes curiously at her, and once again that flicker of surprise crosses her face.

DR. SWAN: Ms. Luxen... hm. You’ve had a Clear Awakening, correct? Describe it for me.

FIORA: Uh, well... I basically shot fire out of my hands? Lit a couch on fire, and my friend had to put it out with a cup of water--

Dr. Swan nods.

DR. SWAN: Yes, very Clear, then. Fascinating...

She stops talking for a moment, and Fiora waits restlessly until Dr. Swan suddenly seems to notice her again.

DR. SWAN: Right... Let us begin. The rules are simple. One: absolutely no stoichi is to be used during the test at any time. Two: treat everything you encounter as though it were really happening. Though you cannot die within the Dreamcase, any attempts to exploit the system will only mean the test must be retaken.

Fiora gulps audibly as Dr. Swan continues.

DR. SWAN: And Three: the things you will experience can sometimes be emotionally overwhelming. If at any time you feel it is too much, stomp the ground three times with your feet. The test will immediately be ended.

Fiora takes a deep breath and steels herself.

DR. SWAN: That is all I can tell you for now. Good luck, Fiora. And remember: three stomps of the foot if things become too much for you.

FIORA (to herself): I can do this. I can do this.

Dr. Swan nods, then raises her arms above her head, tracing two lines of stoicheal energy in the air around Fiora. A cocoon begins to solidify around her, and she closes her eyes.

DR. SWAN (to herself): Let us discover what kind of person you’ve become, Ms. Luxen... (louder) Your Test of Attunement begins now.

Fiora closes her eyes... and when she opens them again, she finds herself somewhere else entirely. She stands in a deep, vast cavern, piled high with glimmering treasures of every kind. She stares, open-mouthed, at the sight around her.

FIORA: Whoa. Is this part of the test? Uh... now what?

She looks around her, but does not see any obvious exit. Unsure of what else to do, she approaches the piles of treasure, and as she draws closer, a few items in particular catch her eye: a beautiful silver necklace, an ornately decorated book, a gleaming steel sword, and a chest of golden coins. She looks down at the items for a moment, then reaches for the book.

FIORA: Hmm... Ian would probably pick this one-- AHH!

The moment she grabs the book, the world around her warps and shifts, until she finds herself now in a small grassy meadow. The book has vanished. She gazes around her, but sees nothing other than a variety of landscapes in the distance: a rocky mesa, a tropical beach, a vast desert, a peaceful forest, and a forlorn junkyard await her in different directions. She looks around, confused.

FIORA: Alright, now what? I don’t...

As she thinks for a moment, a memory crosses her mind of a conversation she’d once had with Diego.

DIEGO (V.O.): If I had to be stuck somewhere, I’d pick a desert. You’d see the monsters coming from miles away, y’know?

FIORA (to herself): It’s as good a reason as any, Diego.

She begins to sprint toward the desert. When she draws closer, the world shifts again.

FIORA: Whoa! Not again!

She now stands in a small room, empty save for a table in the center. Atop the table sit several vials of liquid, in different shapes and colors. She approaches it curiously.

FIORA: Weirdest test I’ve ever taken.

She stares at the vials with suspicion. Then she frowns.

FIORA (frustrated): Alright, that’s it. Time to channel my inner Alyssa... (shouting) Swan or whoever, you’d better not expect me to drink one of these!

Annoyed, she swipes all the vials off the table, where they fall to the floor with a crash.

FIORA: Seriously, enough! Is this test almost done or--

The world shifts again; Fiora stumbles but manages to catch her footing. Here, she stands in the middle of a bank of fog, too dense to see anything through it. She squints, trying to figure out what to do next, when she hears a familiar voice:

ALYSSA (O.S.): Fiora? I can’t see! What do we do?

FIORA: Wha-- Alyssa?

IAN (O.S.): Help! Fiora! Where are you?

FIORA: Alyssa? Guys? I--

ALYSSA (O.S.): Where are you? Please, please don’t abandon us!

FIORA (panicking): I didn’t-- I-- You abandoned me! You left and never even called!

ALYSSA (O.S.): That wasn’t our fault! This place-- we can’t leave!

IAN (O.S.): Help us, Fiora! Do something!

ALYSSA (O.S.): Please!

FIORA (frantically): Alyssa? Guys? ALYSSA!

Tears in her eyes, she starts sprinting blindly through the fog, desperately trying to push it away, as the voices continue:

IAN (O.S.): We’re trapped!

ALYSSA (O.S.): There’s no escape!

IAN (O.S.): Fiora!

ALYSSA (O.S.): Fiora!

FIORA (screaming): NO!

As she crashes blindly through the fog, the world shifts again, dropping her into the center of a dark forest. Fiora falls flat on her face, then shakily pulls herself to her feet.

FIORA: Ow! Alyssa? Guys? ...Hello?

But instead of a reply, a swarm of pixies erupts from behind the trees, headed straight for her and buzzing malevolently!

FIORA: Oh, come on! Stupid test... take this!

Angrily, she scoops up a branch from the ground and charges straight at the pixies.

FIORA: AAAAAAAAAAAHH!

Just as she and the pixies are about to collide, the world shifts yet again. This time, she stands at the bottom of a huge canyon, with a flowing river just in front of her. She looks down... and instead of her own reflection, she sees Shreya’s face.

FIORA: Shreya? Wait... huh?

As she watches, Shreya’s face morphs into into Ian’s, then Griffin’s, then Alyssa’s.

FIORA (weirded-out): ...Okay? I don’t get it. Next test, please!

But the world refuses to shift. Instead, the reflection morphs again, this time into the strange white-haired version of herself that had pulled her through the mirror.

FIORA: ...You again?

The reflection changes back to Alyssa’s face, then changes several more times, shifting faster and faster until it finally fades into nothing more than a blurry outline. A voice suddenly speaks from everywhere and nowhere:

VOICE: But who are YOU, Fiora Luxen?

FIORA (unsettled): I... I’m nobody! I don’t know! I don’t--

She closes her eyes tightly as the world shifts once more. This time, she stands on a stark metal floor. The room around her stretches into darkness as far as she can see on all sides. In front of her are two shimmering portals, and she steps cautiously toward them. Through the first, she sees an image of herself in her old dorm at Hartfeld, laughing and joking with Alyssa, Ian, and Diego as they watch a movie and share a bowl of popcorn. Through the second, she sees herself in an unfamiliar room, equally happy, with Shreya sitting beside her, an arm draped over her shoulder. Next to the two of them sit Griffin, Beckett, and the white-haired version of herself, all smiling and laughing. Fiora looks back and forth between the two of them, confused.

FIORA: The way things were... and... they way they will be here? “Past or present?” Is that what this is?

She frowns as she peers closer at the second portal.

FIORA: Wait, why’s Beckett there? That’s weird.

She looks back and forth again, trying to figure out what she should do.

FIORA: Okay, so...

As she thinks, a shadowy sphere appears directly between the two portals, glowing with dark energy and growing larger and larger as it approaches her. Gradually, a malevolent-looking face appears on its “body,” and it opens its jagged mouth as it glides toward her.

CREATURE: Chhhhhssss!

FIORA: Ahh! What the hell are you?!

The creature opens its mouth and launches a burst of shadowy energy straight at Fiora! She leaps out of the way just in time, and the portals start to flicker and fade. The creature turns and charges toward her, wreathing itself in sinister purple flame.

FIORA: Alright, I don’t like you. Go away! De-spawn! Get going! Whatever!

The creature--and the world--remain as they are. The creature launches another burst of shadow energy, and Fiora barely manages to get out of the way in time. She starts sprinting toward the “Present” portal, but it fades away as she approaches, the creature following closely behind.

FIORA: Okay, you... there’s gotta be a trick to this, right?

CREATURE: SHRIEEEEEEEEK!

FIORA (to herself): You can’t die in the test. You can’t die in the test. You can’t die in the test!

Another shadow burst hits her in the leg, and she falls to the ground.

FIORA: Alright, that’s enough! I’m done! Stupid test!

Frantic, she scrambles back to her feet and stomps the ground three times... but nothing happens. The creature charges toward her, and she stomps her foot three times again before turning and sprinting away from the creature.

FIORA: HEY! I stomped! I’m done! Let me out of this thing already!

The view momentarily shifts to outside the test, where there is a flurry of panic...

...and we see that the creature attacking Fiora is very much real and visible to everyone present. Dr. Swan casts several stoicheal attacks toward Fiora’s Dreamcase, which has now changed color to an angry purplish-red, but none of Dr. Swan’s attacks manage to penetrate it.

DR. SWAN: Someone! Go for help, now!

She casts another attack, and Shinelle nods, rushing off toward a different section of the Vault. As Dr. Swan begins another intricate motion with her hands, a breathless Shreya sprints toward the Dreamcase.

SHREYA: Fiora! No!

Shreya casts her usual Evaporation, but it does nothing. Angrily, she charges at the Dreamcase and starts pounding her fists on the barrier.

DR. SWAN: What are you doing?! That thing is--

CREATURE: SSSSSSHHHHKKKKKK!

The creature turns its attention to Shreya, passing straight through the Dreamcase barrier as though it were nothing. Shreya backs away, drawing back her hands and thrusting them outward at the creature. Two small jets of flame erupt from her hands and toward it, but it appears to be only momentarily stunned by the attack.

DR. SWAN: It’s too dangerous! Let me-

The creature launches a blast of shadow at Shreya, and Dr. Swan projects a shield between her and the creature. The view shifts back into the test...

...where Fiora is pulling herself to her feet, still in the endless dark room.

FIORA: At least that thing’s gone. Uh... now what?

She looks around, but sees nothing. The two portals from earlier have completely vanished. She frowns, and after a brief hesitation, stomps her foot three times once again. Nothing happens.

FIORA (shouting): Hey, I think this test might be glitchy! Somebody? Hello?

Back outside the test, Dr. Swan is sending blast after blast of energy toward the creature, which keeps dodging and attempting to attack Shreya.

SHREYA: Okay, this thing likes me way too much! Go away!

Dr. Swan lets loose another blast of flame, larger this time, and the creature seems to flinch at the impact.

SHREYA: Yes! That’s right, die, whatever you--

The creature abruptly pivots 180 degrees and phases back into the Dreamcase again, ignoring the others completely. Shinelle rushes back into the area, several professors following close behind. A grey-haired woman with a stern expression, DEAN GOEFFE, glances between the creature and Shreya with alarm.

DEAN GOEFFE: Evelyn! What is going on here?

Shreya rushes up and starts pounding on the barrier again, but this time the creature ignores her.

SHREYA: Fiora! My friend’s in there! FIORA!

Back inside the test, the creature has returned.

FIORA (annoyed): Great. You’re back. Alright, time for Round 2!

She grits her teeth and charges toward the creature head-on. Startled, it momentarily backs off, and she turns and swings a fist at it. Upon impact, she recoils in pain as the energy surrounding the creature burns her hand.

FIORA: Yeah, that was probably dumb. Aah!

She stumbles backward as the creature shoots another blast of shadow energy.

FIORA: Look, I know we’re not supposed to use magic-- stoichi, whatever-- but come on!

There is no response. The creature charges toward her, and she lets out a resigned sigh before sidestepping and allowing it to barrel past her. Before it can recover, she concentrates and shouts at the creature, thrusting an arm forward.

FIORA: Fine, screw it. Take THIS!

But instead of the fire that she expected, a brilliant beam of light erupts from her palm, solid and powerful. It slams directly into the creature, disintegrating it completely...

Outside the test, everyone leaps back in alarm as a similar pillar of light lances out from inside the Dreamcase and pierces the ceiling of the Vault high above. Dr. Swan looks on with a knowing smile as Shreya gapes in astonishment.

SHREYA: No... no way...

Back inside the test, reality is beginning to break down around Fiora, with strange lights and shapes popping in and out of existence around her.

FIORA (shouting desperately): That’s not what I meant to do! I swear! Honest! I didn’t even know I... huh?

In front of her, a shimmering portal appears, similar to the two she had seen earlier. But this one displays an entirely different scene from either of the previous two. Fiora sees herself, several decades older, standing in a dark, twisted landscape. She is using powerful fire and light stoichi to battle against unseen foes, along with an older Shreya as well as Alyssa and Ian. Two others that Fiora does not recognize are present as well: a man with long brown hair, fighting at Alyssa’s side, and a woman with a striking scar on her face who stands back-to-back with Ian. Strangely, only Fiora and Shreya look older in this vision, while the twins and their partners still look around the same age as Fiora is now. She steps closer to the portal, peering curiously at it.

FIORA: Okay... that definitely isn’t my past. Or present. What the--

The image blurs and shifts, becoming dark as the portal starts to fade away. But just before it vanishes completely, a sinister voice booms in Fiora’s mind:

VOICE (echoing): ALL THINGS MUST END.

Fiora grips her head and cries out in pain, then collapses to the ground, unconscious, as the test fades away around her. A concerned Shreya calls out to her, her voice fading...

SHREYA (distantly): Fiora? Answer me! Fiora!

_______________________

Scene Notes: So THAT’S where that shadow creature from canon showed up! Watching a professor ask Fiora a bunch of questions wouldn’t be too exciting in film format, so I decided to make the Test a bit more interesting... In order:

Bart Nguyen: no relation to Michelle, if you were wondering. It’s a fairly common last name, and I didn’t even realize I’d given him Michelle’s last name until after I’d written the character! Chalk it up to coincidence.

Why Dr. Swan: Dr. Kontos is busy with the Wood-Atts! Here, each Attunement has its own elemental advisor. Dr. Swan is the Fire advisor, so she handled the Fire-Att test. (The change from “Professor” to “Dr.” was both to further separate this from Harry Potter, and also to keep up the college theme.)

Ian and Alyssa in the test: Were they just illusions drawn from Fiora’s mind, or is there something more going on here...?

The three portals: Probably obvious, but the first two are Past and Present, with a Future portal appearing at the end. Speaking of the future portal: if you’ve read my previous Most Wanted screenplay, the words spoken by the mysterious voice at the end should sound chillingly familiar...

_______________________

Next: Answers and Questions

CIU Tag List: @brightpinkpeppercorn @endlesshero1122 @bbaba-yagaa @acidsugar0 @shaylan211 @griselda1121 @acanthisorbis

DotF/Elementalists Tag List:

[reluctantwrites]

The measure of a man

Thank you for the prompt - some long-overdue Pavellan it is! In which Varlen’s insecurity spikes when he realises there are a lot of differences between his knowledge and Dorian’s... (approx 1500 words) <3

Prompt from THIS LIST.

“Am I not enough for you?”

Dorian started, the words arriving like a slap to the face.  His hands, which were already gripping the edges of the tome he was studying, tensed almost painfully, his knuckles bleeding to white as Varlen’s words – his sudden accusation – sunk in.

“You know, part of me doesn’t even want to dignify that with a response.” Turning, Dorian fixed Varlen with a sharp look. “Varlen. Amatus. If you cannot tell by now how deeply I care for you, then I’m not sure there is anything I can say to convince you otherwise.” He sighed tightly, reaching up to rub his eyes. When was the last time he had slept? “May I ask what in the Maker’s name brought this on?”

“Well, what am I supposed to think?” Varlen was standing at the far side of the room. Their argument, because apparently they were arguing, passed back and forth through the empty air between them. “You spend so much time in here, with your books and your scrolls and your tomes. It feels like it’s all you do now! And I can’t even understand half of them, and then the other half are all to do with magic, which again, I don’t understand. Even when I try, I feel like I’m just in the way or slowing you down, a-and… and at some point…” He broke off, his once-sharp gaze sliding away, the anger melting into something impotent and uncertain. Distressed. “Just… answer the question, Dorian.” He swallowed tightly. “Please.”

For a handful of moments after Varlen’s outburst, all Dorian could do was stare at his amatus, dumbfounded and at a loss for how to reply. “Varlen, the research I am doing here is to aid the Inquisition. To help your sister. It is important.”

“I know.” Varlen’s voice was rough. Hoarse. His gaze remained fixed on the side wall, head turned away. “I know it is. I just…” He pulled in a shaky breath. “How can you stand it? Being with someone like me when you’re so…”

Genuinely not sure where Varlen was going with the thought, Dorian cocked his head. “So…?”

“Smart.”

The way Varlen admitted it… it was almost heartbreaking. No, there was no almost about it. He’d practically spoken the word to the floor, as though just saying it aloud confirmed something he had been trying to ignore; trying to hide.

Oh, that simply would not do.

Dorian closed his book with a soft thud, the pages so stiff they creaked like old wood underfoot. “Varlen…” He rose from his chair, bones protesting, muscles aching as he stood. He ignored it. “Amatus, look at me.”

Even Varlen’s body language, his arms wrapped around himself, screamed uncertainty. Discomfort. Shame. But at Dorian’s instruction, he did as asked, those pale blue eyes rising until they made connection across the empty space. Holding his gaze, Dorian began walking towards him, his approach slow and careful. As he moved, he began to speak, his words forming just as slowly and carefully as his steps.

“You know, I have met a lot of people who call themselves smart. Scholars. Politicians. Intellectuals, if you like. There are many such people, in places like Minrathous, who believe that the measure of a person’s worth lies in the depth of their lexicon. The breadth of their understanding of an absurdly narrow field. Their willingness to…” Dorian ground his teeth for a moment, but pressed on, the distance between himself and Varlen closing. “Their willingness to push the boundaries and discover the unknown at the expense of the moral. At the expense of themselves, and everyone around them.”

Varlen was shaking slightly. Dorian could see it now, as he came within a few feet of the elven man. It was something he should have – would have – noticed before, had his vision not been so closely aligned to the proximity of pages. 

“I don’t understand,” Varlen said softly. Even that small confession seemed to further ingrain his belief that he, for some unfathomable reason, was not enough.

But Maker, that was so far from the truth.

Reaching out, Dorian slid a hand past Varlen’s cheek, barely brushing his skin. His fingers nestled softly in his hair, caressing him, curling gently around the back of his neck as Varlen hung his head, seeming for all the world like a man about to break. And for what?

“Varlen… promise me you will never bow your head because of people like that.”

Confusion seemed to replace shame for a moment, and Varlen stiffened beneath Dorian’s touch. “What?”

“Promise me,” Dorian continued firmly, stepping in until they were so close he could feel the warmth of Varlen’s breath mingling with his. “That you will never think yourself inferior to people just because they know more words, or have read more books, or can recite dead languages to a room full of people just like them in everything save name.” He breathed out, tipping his head forward, gently touching Varlen’s forehead with his own. “I certainly don’t, amatus. Not for a single moment.”

There was something in Dorian’s voice; a plea mixed with a promise of his own. A rawness that might be because he was just too tired to cloak his words in bravado, or simply because he needed Varlen to believe what he said was true. And it was true. Every word of it.

Slowly, Varlen’s hand rose to wrap around Dorian’s arm, tentatively pulling him closer as though afraid the move would be met with rejection. It wasn’t. Of course it wasn’t.

“I’m sorry,” he breathed. “I just… I know we’re so different. I keep thinking that… that it would be so much better for you, if you had someone who could actually help you.”

“You do help me.”

“How?”

Dorian’s free hand found Varlen’s; threaded their fingers together. “You keep me sane. Keep me grounded. You show me what it means to be open to people. To ideas. To change.” He gave a soft, endlessly fond laugh. “You show me which plants will leave my stomach in knots for days, and which will cure a headache. You show me every single day that there is more to this life than what I can learn on the pages of a book.” He smiled gently. “And might I say, no scholar, politician, or intellectual has ever been able to show me that.”

Varlen snorted, a faint smile curling his lips, a sheepishness to the expression that sent Dorian’s heart to its knees. “Even sleep-deprived and stir-crazy, you somehow manage to be disgustingly charming.” Dorian chuckled at that, and Varlen released a slow breath, some of the tension in his shoulders flooding out with it. “It’s just hard, to feel like you can’t be something. It’s like to be smart, you have to fit certain criteria. You have to be worldly and knowledgeable and wise and you need to have learned from the right books and listened to the right people speak and… a lot of other things I’ve never done.”

Dorian just shook his head, his hand tightening slightly around Varlen’s. “You know, I have it on remarkably good authority that very few smart people fit that criteria either. But that is beside the point.” He leaned back slightly to look Varlen in the eyes. To really look, and see the man who had won his heart with a smile moments after they met, and kept winning it over and over again every day since. He did it with who he was. With what he did, and continues to do. With the way he treats others and the way he faces the world time and time again, no matter what it throws at him. “So, if you want my opinion, no. You’re not smart, Varlen...” Dorian leaned in and kissed him, their lips lingering even as he felt Varlen’s brow crease in brief confusion at the mixed message. “You’re brilliant. Charming. Bright and with endless wit.”

Varlen’s hands shifted to wrap around Dorian, pulling him closer as he let out a  quiet laugh. “Yeah, like you’re one to talk. I think I got a lot of it from you, you know.”

But Dorian just shook his head, caressing Varlen’s face with his hand. “No. You are you, Varlen. And with every dusty tome in this god-awful place as my witness, there is no one else I have ever learned more from.” He smiled, then kissed him again. Varlen made a quiet sound - something like a sigh - his hands loose and relaxed on Dorian’s back as they held each other, awash with the warmth and relief of being in one another’s embrace.

In the end, it didn’t need to be said, but Dorian said it anyway. He said it because it was the truth. He said it because his heart demanded him to.

He said it for all the times in Varlen’s life when he hadn’t heard it.

“Varlen, you will always be enough.”

[thereluctantinquisitor]

pssst i saw you reblog some witcher stuff and i was wondering - DA Witcher AU??? (maybe with Varlen as a witcher, because white hair and all, but up to you!)

So I made Hanin the bard. I don’t know why. Let’s do this. (3320 words)

[PART 2]

When Varlen shoved open the tavern door, he had expected the usual warm welcome of conversations warbling to a halt and a dozen sets of eyes silently rolling in their sockets to face him. He could judge any place by that single, simple act. Some people were very good at pretending not to watch every step he took with the wary apprehension of peasants who were raised on stories of monsters and beasts. Others, less so.

The presence of a Witcher was proof, after all. Proof that it was all true.

Well, some of it, at least.

But this tavern was different. The atmosphere inside was already tense, and for once it wasn’t his fault. Stepping through the threshold, shrugging off his damp cloak, Varlen looked for the eyes but found them all elsewhere, lingering in mugs or on the feeble flames of the hearth. There was music, faint and slow - almost reluctant, as though each note was an uncomfortable interruption of a much larger, heavier silence. If Varlen didn’t know any better, he’d guess someone had died.

But he did know better, and there was no need for guessing.

Not entirely sure what to do when he wasn’t immediately confronted by hostile villagers, Varlen made his way to the bar, hoping the old trick of asking the tavern owner for news would work its usual magic. He settled on one of the tall stools, shifting slightly, the blades hanging from each hip bumping awkwardly against the outside of his thighs as he adjusted. 

Steel for humans. Silver for monsters.

“Gold for the Witcher?”

Varlen started, surprised to see what he assumed was the owner of the tavern standing before him. He must have come in from the kitchen. “I… What?”

The stocky man cocked one of his bushy grey brows, then nodded to one of the casks behind him. “Honey brew. Local specialty.” He shrugged. “Folks just call it ‘gold’ around here. You want that or something else?”

So, he was actually being offered a drink first. Things must be worse than rumour suggested. “That’ll be fine,” he said after a moment, meeting the older man’s gaze. “Thank you.”

With a brisk nod, the tavern owner bustled away, fetching a mug and heading for the cask. He turned back and introduced himself as Rolf in what felt like an afterthought as the sound of rushing liquid filled the room. Varlen didn’t bother watching what he poured or how he did it. Most folks knew better than to try to poison a Witcher now. After enough failed attempts, word gets around. 

“Took your time getting here.” The mug sloshed but didn’t spill as the man set it down in front of Varlen, the stiffness of the movement one of the only things betraying his true feelings about having a mutant at his bar. “Can’t say I’m glad to see you, but we lost another one last night, so…”

“Another one?” Varlen ignored the drink for a moment, giving the man his full attention. “How many is that now? Six?”

Rolf sighed and nodded, and something more defeated washed over him. His shoulders sagged slightly, and for a moment Varlen actually felt sorry for him. After all, the tavern was where people went to drown their sorrows. It would be difficult, being submerged in that kind of grief every day. Easy to drown in it. “No one has a clue what’s doing it,” Rolf continued with a sigh, “but whatever it is, it seems to like hunting at night.”

“Like a wolf,” Varlen muttered, picking up his mug and taking a deep gulp of ale. “Or a bear.”

“Could be.” Rolf seemed a lot more open to the idea than Varlen expected. “Sure hope we didn’t go pulling all our coin together to pay you to hunt an animal, though.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time.” Varlen shrugged and set the mug down with a low thud. “So you have six people, all dead in the dark. Huh.” He frowned thoughtfully, then glanced up. “Men and women?”

A nod. “Four men, one woman. The Miller boy was the last taken.”

Varlen knew better than to ask, but somehow, he always did. “How old?”

“The lad?” Rolf huffed, leaning his large forearms on the wooden counter. “Not much more than fifteen winters. Can’t say I know for sure. Sorry.”

All Varlen could do was shake his head and take another drink. The boy was dead. That was always how the story went when he was involved. He was so used to it now that he never hoped for survivors. Even a wolf wouldn’t turn down such an easy meal. “Who do I speak to about the contract? You?”

Surprisingly, Rolf shook his head, then nodded towards the back of the bar. “Tall bastard over there’s who you want. He’s the one who convinced us to empty our pockets for one of your lot.”

Shifting, Varlen followed Rolf’s gaze. When he met his target, he raised his brows in surprise. Sure enough, there was a tall man at the far side of the tavern. He was in a low-backed chair, seeming almost bored, lute resting against his broad chest. His fingers absently plucked out the slow, halting rhythm that defined the room. Everything about his demeanor suggested he was a man lost in deep, melancholy thought. 

Everything except his eyes, which were locked on Varlen and likely had been since the second he set foot in the place.

The music stopped as the man stood, carefully swinging his lute across his back with the usual bardic reverence. There were no complaints that the song was over. In fact, no one even looked up as the man abandoned his post and crossed the room. Even Rolf just shook his head and disappeared back into the kitchen, leaving Varlen very much alone as the bard approached. 

“Witcher.”

“Bard.” Varlen raised his mug half-heartedly. “I hear you’re the man to talk to about—”

The sound of something heavy thudding to the counter cut Varlen off mid-sentence. A brown pouch, sides bulging at odd angles, barely slid once it made contact, burdened by its own weight. Despite himself, Varlen gave a low whistle, surprised to see so much from a place that seemed to have so little. “That bad, huh?”

“Yes.” Dragging out a stool, the man sat, one foot resting against the metal bar between the stool’s legs. “If the people here had let go of their denial earlier, they wouldn’t be where they are now.” He nodded towards the room. Towards the hunched figures. The vacant eyes. The nursed ales, warming slowly to the temperature of the wavering hearth. “They’ve already paid a higher price than this.”

There was something about his words that piqued Varlen’s curiosity. “You make it sound like you’re not from here.”

“I’m not.” The man’s green eyes cut across to him. There was anger behind them, but Varlen got the distinct feeling it was not directed at anything in particular. It was just there. “I am a bard. I travel.”

Varlen hummed, lifting his mug, draining another two mouthfuls of the strangely sweet brew. “Well, you sure put in a lot of work for someone who doesn’t even live here. What’s your name?”

“Hanin.” It seemed he wasn’t going to take the bait Varlen had so casually dangled in front of him. A shame. “I take it you’re aware you aren’t dealing with an animal here.”

Sighing, Varlen nodded. “Yes. I know.” He’d felt it the closer he got to the village, like a pressure on the back of his neck. Fingers wrapping tighter and tighter. Whatever it was that lurked in the nearby forest, it was strong. It was hungry. “I don’t suppose you have any idea what it is?”

Typically, canvassing the locals was about as useful as interviewing a pig about the war with Nilfgaard. So, needless to say, Varlen nearly choked on his ale in shock when Hanin glanced around then leaned in close. When he was sure he had Varlen’s attention, he murmured a single, terrible word.

“Bruxa.”

Immediately, Varlen felt that same sensation - that same weight on the back of his neck, only this time the hairs on his arms stood as well. He didn’t need to study the man to know precisely two things. 

Firstly, that he was telling him what he really believed was the truth. 

Secondly, that he was right.

“… Shit.” Varlen groaned and ran a gloved hand down his face. What he’d give for a wolf. A pack of wolves. Shit, even something as unnatural as a pack of bears would still be preferable to a single Bruxa. “What the fuck is a Bruxa doing here?”

“Quiet.” Hanin glanced around again. His stern expression was definitely for Varlen this time. “The last thing we need is to cause a panic.”

“A little panicking wouldn’t kill them.”

“No, but fleeing their homes this close to sundown would.”

He had a point, as much as Varlen hated to admit it. In truth, if he had his way, he’d clear the whole town out, tell them to relocate, and call it a day. If they were smart, they’d go. But people were rarely smart. Not when land and legacy meant more to them than their lives. “A pissed off bruxa could wipe out this entire village in a single night,” he remarked, then glanced at the pouch of gold. “You’re going to need more than that.”

The bard’s disposition shifted again, and this time the anger behind those eyes was all Varlen’s. Lucky him. “This is everything they have to spare, Witcher.”

“Varlen.”

“I don’t care what your name is. The gold is here. Take it and do your job.”

“It’s not enough.”

“People are dying.”

“People die every day.” Varlen knew it was harsh, but reality often was. He couldn’t be blamed for that, even though he always was. “I’m not risking my life against a bruxa for pocket change.”

He could feel Hanin’s rage, now. It pulsed like a living thing, and he spat each word like a mouthful of blood. “Greedy bastard - it wasn’t ‘pocket change’ before.”

Varlen gave a bored shrug. “It wasn’t a bruxa before.” With that, he stood, the stool grating along the wooden floorboards. He checked his mug, drained the last few drops, then slid it towards the end of the bar with a small stack of dirty bowls and cups. “If I’m so greedy, find someone else to do it. Oh, and tell Rolf the brew was good. It’ll be a shame to lose it.”

Even leaving the tavern was uneventful. In a town being ravaged by a creature as deadly as a bruxa, Varlen expected something to happen. An angry blacksmith blocking his path. A weeping widow. Shit, even a pissed off widow would make more sense than the complete resignation that seemed to radiate from every person he passed on his way to the door. 

Stepping outside, Varlen paused by the town’s main road, closed his eyes, and tilted his head. The sounds of the world slowly rose to meet him, rushing forward at his insistence, surrounding him, drowning him in a steady roar. Leaves rustled high above him in the canopy and it was as though the sound was happening right against his ear. Somewhere down the road to his left, a squirrel scuttled out of a pile of drying firewood. It wasn’t what he wanted. He frowned, concentrating until he heard a sparrow sing out ahead of him, nestled somewhere well beyond the treeline.

One.

He honed in on the sound, searching for more. Seconds passed. Then a finch added its voice to the mix, its song delicate and thin. Two. The more he found, the easier it was to tune out the rest of the world’s noise. A partridge met his ears next, then a pigeon’s coo. With each new bird that joined, Varlen felt something hard sink to the bottom of his stomach. A shrike piped up. A jackdaw. A—

“Wait.”

The voice, even though it sounded distant and distorted like words spoken underwater, broke through Varlen’s focus, pulling him out of his search. Grunting, he blinked his way back to the roadside and turned to regard Hanin. The man was dressed very unassumingly for a bard, in a simple linen shirt and brown trousers. No wonder Varlen had missed him on the way in.

“I already told you, I’m not…” Varlen trailed off as the man, with no small amount of disdain, held out two bulging cloth pouches, one the same as before, the other slightly smaller. If Varlen had to guess, it was enough coin to buy him a new saddle and set of shoes for Arla, and with money left to spare. “Impressive,” he confessed, folding his arms and regarding the bard. “You must have more of a silver tongue than you let on, if you managed to get anything out of that room.”

“I don’t relish this, Witcher. Save your flattery.” With a sharp motion, he tossed the original pouch to Varlen, but kept the second firmly in hand. “That one now, this one when the job is done.”

His tone indicated that he expected an argument about that, but Varlen just hefted the pouch in his hand and shrugged. “Fine. But it better not go missing while I’m gone.”

“It won’t.” Hanin made a point of sliding the pouch into his satchel, fastening it shut with a metallic click. “Because I’m going with you.”

This time there was no helping it. Varlen stared at him blankly for a moment, then let out a bright, astonished laugh. “You’re not serious?”

Hanin did not seem to share his amusement. “I won’t risk you running off with these people’s money. I will have proof that this thing is killed.”

Again, it wasn’t the first time he’d been accused of something like that. “You have my word that I won’t run off into the night,” he said, and actually tried to sound as genuine as possible. “And I don’t give that lightly.”

“Your word means very little to me.” Moving a few steps closer, Hanin paused beside Varlen, his eyes trained on the treeline. “Listen. The birds.”

While that kind of sign was clear to Varlen, he had to admit, he was surprised to hear a bard comment on it. “Yes,” he ventured, following Hanin’s gaze. “I hear them.”

For a moment, they just stood together by the dirt road, silent, shoulders drawn tight by an unspoken tension. Then, softly, the bard began to murmur something to a tune that was barely there. 

“In the tall woods of Velen, where the oak meets the sky,

seven lost birds in the treetops did cry.

But at sundown the sound of her silent screams bled

into the dreams of the woodsman asleep in his bed…”

Quietly, Hanin trailed off, and while Varlen was certain there was more to the verse, he let the matter slide in favour of something more important. “Listen. Don’t come with me. Stay here. You will be safer.”

Again, Hanin shook his head. “I… can’t.”

“Why not?” The question seemed simple enough, but Hanin clenched his jaw tight, and something about the dread that seemed to radiate from him set the pieces in place for Varlen. “You’ve heard her, haven’t you?”

“Yes.” It seemed to take everything he had to say a single word, and for the first time Varlen noticed the dark circles beneath the bard’s eyes. “I’m not alone. Here, no one can sleep anymore.”

With a sigh, Varlen reached up and rubbed his forehead wearily. “Yes. Bruxae like to do that. The stronger ones, at least.”

“Why?”

“They’re clever. It’s dangerous for them to venture into populated places, especially if they’re alone. So they drive people half mad with nightmares. Keep them awake in the dark hours. Stop them thinking rationally.”

Hanin frowned. “The people she’s already taken all went out for a walk in the middle of the night.”

Breathing deep, Varlen nodded. “People tend to do that, after a nightmare. Something about clearing their heads.” He shrugged. “It’s probably not a bad idea. Most times.” He looked across at Hanin, the bard seeming a shade paler than usual, and tried one last time to talk some sense into the man. “The only thing more foolish would be venturing into the bruxa’s territory on purpose. You clearly know the warning sign. Don’t risk your life for this.”

The words jolted Hanin out of his reverie, but much to Varlen’s frustration, he just shook his head again. “No. I… I am going with you.” He turned slightly, glancing back at the tavern. “I’ve seen a lot of places end up like this. Watched things fall apart and towns collapse on themselves as their people are picked off one by one.”

In truth, Varlen wasn’t sure where Hanin was going with his story. But the reality was that the sun was setting and he had preparations to make. So, he started to walk down the dirt road, back towards where he left Arla tethered to a tree. “So… what makes this place any different?”

For a moment, Varlen thought Hanin had come to his senses and wasn’t going to follow. But then the sound of a second set of footsteps joined his own, Hanin’s longer legs making short work of the distance between them. “All of the other times, I convinced myself it wasn’t my problem, and I left.” He shook his head slightly, eyes trained forward, something fearful but determined in that green gaze. It would have been impressive, in any other context. “But I won’t. Not this time. I’m tired of monsters and beasts tearing people apart.”

In more ways than one, Varlen thought. In truth, he could almost understand the man’s drive. Don’t get him wrong - Hanin was clearly out of his mind, wanting to accompany him into a bruxa’s lair. But at the same time, Varlen could sympathise. He used to be like that, when he first left Kaer Morhen. He’d take any job for half the coin other Witchers asked, simply because he wanted to help. But the world had a way of beating that kind of generosity out of you. After enough shredded bodies, lifeless eyes, bloodless corpses and thankless scorn, you learn that compassion comes second to survival. It has to, or no one would be left to walk away.

“I won’t be able to protect you,” Varlen said after a moment, not bothering to sugarcoat the truth. “I’ll have a hard enough time keeping myself alive against a well-fed bruxa.”

Hanin nodded. “I don’t expect you to.”

“When we get out there, you do exactly as I say. Down to the letter.”

Another nod. 

Varlen didn’t buy it. “That means if I tell you to run, you run. No questions asked. You run all the way back here and lock yourself inside. Understood?”

“Understood.”

To Varlen’s surprise, there was something else in the man’s voice. Something almost… amused. He paused, turning to look up at Hanin skeptically. “What?”

Again, there it was. A faint quirk of the lips this time, like he was sharing a private joke with himself. “Hm? Nothing.”

Varlen narrowed his eyes at the bard, then shrugged, continuing down the road. He could see Arla now, her tail flicking back and forth as she spotted him in return. In his mind, he went through a checklist of what he needed. Moon dust bombs. A black blood potion. Vampire oil. Silver.

And beside him, Hanin walked a few feet away, a hand on his satchel, his gaze fixed on the trees. As the sun dipped low on the horizon, the shadows of the branches stretched like reaching fingers across the uneven road.

The birds had stopped singing.

[thereluctantinquisitor]

Witcher AU - Part 2 (Bruxa Boogaloo)

PART 1

Varlen the witcher and Hanin the bard head out to solve the town’s Bruxa problem. It was never going to be easy...

No one explains to people that one of the most important parts of being a witcher is simply inventory. Head into a fight unprepared - front up against a werewolf without sharpened silver and cursed oil - and you will end up lying in a cave with your guts painting the walls. Varlen could practically feel the bard’s restlessness behind him as he rifled through the packs strapped to Arla’s saddle. The sound of his shoes grinding against the dirt road was almost irritating in the eerie silence that had descended with the sun.

“How much longer will this take?” Hanin’s voice carried an uneasy edge to it. Good. There was still time for him to change his mind. “The bruxa won’t just wait for you to be ready.”

“If she is smart, she won’t.” Varlen didn’t dignify the first question with an answer. He needed to concentrate. The vial in his hand was warm to touch as he dropped the last piece of dog tallow through the narrow opening and rapidly sealed it with his thumb. The cloudy mixture immediately roiled, the glass heating to an almost unbearable point. The fleshy part of his thumb began to throb, then burn, before the whole concoction suddenly cleared, turning a crisp amber and cooling almost instantly to the temperature of Varlen’s skin. Exhaling, Varlen gave a faint nod, corked the oil, and tucked it beside the vial of Black Blood hanging from his belt. He’d have to be careful not to mix up the two. Even for a witcher, he imagined vampire oil would not be pleasant to imbibe.

“Alright... you still sure about this?” Varlen glanced back just in time to catch Hanin’s tense nod, and sighed heavily. Damn it. "Fine. Then just remember what I told you earlier, and maybe you’ll survive.”

Reaching for the largest pack on Arla’s back, Varlen dug around before pulling out a makeshift torch, the rag already wrapped around one end, a small vial of regular oil tied at its neck. It would be pitch black in those trees. “Fire?” Hanin asked, standing just behind him now, peering over his shoulder. “Won’t that give us away?”

“A bruxa can see better than either of us in the dark.” He shoved the torch into the Hanin’s hands, quietly pleased at how quick his reflexes were. It might just save his life. Maybe. “The second we set foot in her territory, she’ll know we’re there.”

There must have been something about Varlen’s tone that didn’t invite argument. Hanin glanced at the torch in his hands then nodded faintly, seeming to accept his word as truth. It was a nice change, really. Varlen always expected people to curse him out or accuse him of spreading folktales and myth. Maybe bards were more open-minded about those kinds of things, given what they did for a living. Most songs had some truth behind them, if a little embellished.

“Alright bard. Stay three steps behind me and keep that torch lit. Don’t set any trees on fire unless you have to.” He didn’t give enough pause for Hanin to question the instruction, grabbing a few spare torch rags and tossing them at the man. “Keep quiet unless you see something. And again, if I tell you to run---”

--- “Run. Yes, I understand.”

Frowning, Varlen sealed the pack on Arla’s back and glanced over to see Hanin had already detached the oil and was carefully running it around the head of the torch. Huh. Not one to give praise for such a simple act, Varlen just sniffed, brushed the side of Arla’s face - a foolish promise of I’ll be back - and headed for the treeline.

                                      --- Hanin’s POV ---

Darkness quickly enveloped them once they ventured away from the road. With sunset giving way to dusk, the forest took on a muted, cold visage; the kind that made you start at each small noise and wary of any flicker in the corner of your vision. 

Without waiting for the witcher’s instruction, Hanin lit the first torch, holding it low enough that he could see his feet as he picked through the dense underbrush. We can’t all have cat’s eyes, he thought, occasionally glancing up to watch how Varlen ducked and wove his way through the branches and scrub with what could only be described as feline grace. He’d heard songs about witchers - about how you never hear one approach unless they want you to. Before, he’d wrote it off as romantic nonsense. Now? Well, even he could admit when he was wrong.

Varlen stopped suddenly, tilting his head to the right, his silver hair an eerie contrast to the shadow-stitched woods. Taking it as a silent cue, Hanin halted and held his breath, eyes darting around in a desperate attempt to discern shapes in the dark. Ironically, the less he made out, the more a crawling sense of dread scraped out a hollow for itself deep within his chest. 

“Wait here.”

Blinking, Hanin returned his attention to Varlen. “What? Here?” He looked around at the dense trees and shook his head. “Shouldn’t we... stay together?”

Glancing back, the witcher just fixed him with a golden-eyed stare, the unnatural slits of his pupils jarring in the flickering torchlight. “Your heartbeat is too distracting. I need some distance.”

“My heart...” Hanin glanced down at his chest before realising how foolish that was. What was he expecting to see?

Ahead of him, Varlen just sighed. “Just stay here. I won’t be gone long. And keep that torch lit.”

Before Hanin even had a chance to reply, Varlen was gone, vanishing around the large trunk of a tree and slipping out of the light’s glow. Cursing softly, Hanin raised the torch above his head, eyes flicking up to the canopy, down the trunks, checking the bushes and tangles of shrubbery for any sign of passage. But he was no tracker, and he certainly didn’t have the heightened senses of a mutant. So, slowly, Hanin lowered the torch once more and tried to focus on his breathing, lest he be berated upon the witcher’s return for that being too loud as well.

He liked to think the exercise was working. At least, it was until a soft voice from behind him set everything suddenly and wildly out of pace.

“E... Excuse me? Sir?”

Whirling around, Hanin swung the torch towards the voice, only to freeze in place, rooted to the ground. From within the inky dark, a figure had appeared, tousled and dirt-smeared. Her dark hair was knotted slightly at the ends, as though it had been snagged and tugged by a hasty passage through branches. Her lips, flushed like her cheeks, stood out against pale skin that seemed to drink in the faint moonlight from above. All she wore was a light shift dress - the kind women in the town liked to sleep in during the warmer months. Suddenly, the torch seemed too.... harsh. Too hot and untamed. Hanin quickly drew it back, an apology on the tip of his tongue, but the woman smiled uncertainly before he had a chance to speak, something akin to relief crossing her face.

“Another person, all the way out here? Thank the gods, I thought I was... I... I must have wandered off in my sleep.” There was a dazed quality about her - a kind of absence of mind that Hanin had become increasingly familiar with as the sleepless nights had stretched on for days. “I think I had a bad dream, and...” Slowly, her smile wavered at the edges and she pursed her lips, dark eyes widening as she took in her surroundings for what almost seemed the first time. “O-Oh gods, I-I don’t know where I am. I don’t know how to---”

--- “Easy - it’s alright. Just... try to calm down.” Straightening from his defensive position, Hanin let the torch sink to his side, the warm glow painting them both a soft, golden hue. “Stay here with me. We’ll get you out soon, but it’s not safe to leave just yet.”

“W-We?” she repeated. She seemed confused - lost, even - as she looked around the nearby trees. “You’re... not alone?”

Exhaling, Hanin shook his head. “No. Well, for now, yes, but not for long.” Keen to change the subject from his runaway witcher, he cleared his throat softly. “I... didn’t catch your name. You said you were from town?”

Another nod, her dark curls shining in the flickering light. “Yes. I’m Verena. My father owns the barley farm just west of town.” The breeze picked up, stirring her dress into a flutter. She gasped, almost flinching away from it, wrapping her arms around herself to fend off the chill. Nights out in the open could be bitter-cold in Velen, even in the warmer months. Her eyes darted then locked on to the flame of the torch.

“I-I’m sorry... but might I...?”

Hanin blinked, then held it up. “Oh - yes. Of course. Here.”

The fearful look in Verena’s eyes gave way for a moment, her lips curving into a meek smile as she moved closer. Torches didn’t give off much heat, but it was better than nothing. “So... why are you and your friend all the way out here?” she asked once she was close, spreading her fingertips towards the flickering light. “Did you both have trouble sleeping too?”

Glancing across at her, catching her gaze with his, Hanin sighed and nodded. “Yes. This past week has been... difficult.”

She murmured a soft agreement and inched a little closer until her arm was brushing his. It took everything in Hanin’s power not to step away and put a safer distance between them, but he didn’t want to seem uneasy. “Why do you think we came here, of all places?” Glancing around at the dark canopy, she shivered again and refocused on the light. “The forest is frightening enough in the day, yet alone at night. I feel like...” she lowered her voice, “like something is watching me.”

Hanin paused for a moment, then cleared his throat softly. “It could just be me.”

Verena’s gaze flicked up, the swiftness of the motion at odds with the innocence of her expression. “Oh?” She blinked her dark lashes once, twice, then flushed. “Well... maybe that’s not so bad, then.”

A faint smile quirked the corner of Hanin’s lips. “If you’re cold, I could...” He raised his arm, nodding to his side in invitation. After all, the torch could only do so much. She regarded him for a moment, an almost playful edge to her expression as she tilted her head and considered the offer. Then, with a faint laugh, she slipped beneath his arm. When she sighed, she all but melted into him, her head nestled near his shoulder. 

“That’s... much better.” Her smile was unhindered now, wide and inviting. She turned her face against his chest, inhaling deep while Hanin all but held his breath.

The stood in silence for a moment - nothing but him, her, and the flickering light.

Come on... 

Verena stirred - from his odd angle, he barely caught the flicker of frown across her dark brow. “Oh... what’s this?”

Swallowing tightly, his throat dry as the dead bark beneath his feet, Hanin remained perfectly still as Verena walked her fingers across his chest and reached down his shirt. Her fingertips were icy cold against his skin, and all Hanin could do was watch in mounting dread as she drew out a pendant filled with crushed garlic from beneath his tunic. Pulling back slightly, she regarded it for a moment, again with that innocent, curious expression. Then, like the breaking of a bowstring, her expression snapped into something cold and derisive, those once soft eyes hardening to stone. 

“Garlic. Really?” Her accent shifted - sharpened - and she tutted like a matron before a failing student. With a deft tug, she snapped the leather cord and flicked the pendant into the trees in a single fluid motion. “Well, I suppose it was thoughtful of you to season yourself.” She smiled, then, lips spreading to reveal rows of shining white teeth. “I prefer just a dash of salt, though.”

Now, Hanin could truly feel his heart hammering against his ribs, the bruxa still pressed to his side, her smile widening - glinting - at the corner of his vision.

Damn it, where was that gods-forsaken witcher! 

He had to stall. Somehow. “Your kind... they’re meant to---”

--- “What? Flee at the scent of garlic?” Her laugh was different now - still soft, but it seemed to ring through the marrow of Hanin’s bones. “Well, it’s good to know the songs we sang all those years ago are still being believed. I wonder if I'll find a holy symbol in your boot. Or perhaps elsewhere...” Her eyes flicked down pointedly, but Hanin didn’t dignify the suggestion with a response. Mostly because he was still coming to terms with the fact that the holy symbol in his belt pouch was apparently ineffective, too. 

Shit. 

“Well... if you are going to kill me, do it. Enough with the games.”

“Me? Play games?” Verena - if that even was her name - cooed something in a language Hanin didn’t recognise, before switching back to Common tongue. “If you lived as long as I have, bard, and you would start playing with your food as well. But very well. I would prefer to avoid your cat-eyed friend. I imagine his silver will be far more effective than these... folksy charms.”

Standing there, rooted by a mixture of fear and hopelessness, Hanin felt his heart stutter in his chest. So she knew. She knew it all. How long had she been following them, waiting for them to split up? How many times had he looked right at her and seen nothing but shadow and spidery branches. 

This was bad. This was worse than bad. There was no use stalling anymore - no point trying to trick her into a trap born from an age-old lie. Knowing it was his last chance, Hanin used every ounce of his willpower to dart back, swinging the flaming torch towards her head. Fire was fire. Even a bruxa could burn.

It passed through empty air.

Before Hanin could recover - before he could even shout a warning to Varlen - there was a blur from the corner of his eye and something slammed into the back of his head, throwing him into the trunk of a nearby tree. Something cracked on impact - whether it was wood or bone, Hanin couldn’t say. His vision flared white, then narrowed dangerously, like dark curtains drawn across his eyes. Something warm ran down the side of his face; stung his eye.

He never felt himself hit the ground.

[reluctantwrites]

One Last Chance

Part 1 - The Letter

Part 2 - Cope (AO3 Link)

The rediscovery of a piece of his past fresh on his mind, Hanin struggles throughout the week to keep himself together. Luckily, where he is not willing to seek help, he finds it offered by someone close to him.

Inquisitor Riven Lavellan belongs to the lovely @chaitea09​.

The week moved so slowly Hanin thought he might go mad. His routine, which had once brought him the comfort of familiarity, suddenly became an arduous chore, each step taking too long to complete, each piece not quite fitting into its proper place. Morning training with the squad passed in a blur, the rest of the day little more than a series of back-and-forth pacing, the letter in his pocket a weight he could not ignore. Meetings occurred, majority of which he was invited to attend. Majority of which he had no memory of once they adjourned. Frustration followed, knowing they were important. Frustration remained, knowing that didn’t seem to matter.

It was the day before their scheduled departure that Hanin was summoned to Riven’s personal quarters.

He had just finished up the morning spars, giving the squad the rest of the day off to pack and ready themselves for the journey north. The usual messenger arrived, breathless and red-cheeked, although far more used to Hanin’s gruff acknowledgement than he had been on their first meeting. As a result, the exchange was mercifully brief, and soon Hanin found himself at Riven’s door.

“You asked for me.”

The Inquisitor, who had been sitting at her desk pouring over a stack of papers, started slightly, apparently so absorbed in what she had been doing she had not seen Hanin’s shape darken her doorway. “Oh, yes. Come in, lethallin.”

She rose as he entered, crossing in front of her desk, their paths meeting at the centre of the large rug that adorned the floor. They stood there for a moment, Hanin looking down at Riven, Riven’s eyes raised to meet his. There was a tension there, but neither seemed to know what to do with it. 

It was a tension of questions left unasked.

“Are you and your squad prepared?” Riven seemed content to start simple, offering a faint smile as she moved away. A pot of tea brewed on a table by the fireplace, which she checked by raising the lid and wafting the steam towards her face.

Unsure of what to do, Hanin cleared his throat softly. “Yes. They are… aware of the situation. We intend to travel light.”

Riven nodded, gathering a pair of cups, setting them beside the pot. “A good idea. Anything else you might need on the journey there can be provided by the caravans.” Slowly, she began to pour a cup, steam curling into the air. Then, she glanced up, catching Hanin’s curious gaze. “Will you try this with me? Tahl recommended it. It’s meant to be quite popular among the Avvar.”

Seeing no reason to decline, Hanin moved over to join her, accepting a cup stiffly, the delicate object seeming out of place in his rough hands. Riven continued, pouring one for herself, the almost nutty smell of the tea filling the air around them.

“Lethallen,” Hanin began slowly, raising his attention from the cup to her face, “was there something you needed?”

Riven paused for a moment, then gave a soft laugh. “I suppose I should get to the point, shouldn’t I? You must have a lot on your mind.”

Typically, Hanin would deny such an accusation, however kindly delivered. That was because most people mistook his silence for deep contemplation, rather than simply an absence of speech. But Riven was not one to make such comments lightly, and he had to admit, she was right. As the departure date grew closer, he found himself lost in his own mind, plans and strategies making knots of his thoughts, tangling them until he couldn’t follow one from its beginning to its logical end.

“I do,” was all he said in response, and he followed her lead when she sat down in one of the nearby chairs, motioning for him to do the same. The fireplace crackled invitingly between them. “What did you need of me?”

Releasing a soft breath, Riven just shook her head, hands wrapped around her cup. “Nothing, Hanin. That’s not why we’re here.” She seemed a little uncomfortable, at least to Hanin, but he could hardly blame her for that. While she had assumed her rightful role as Keeper, it was clear she was still growing used to the mantle. Among her many others. He imagined it must feel strange, speaking to him from a position of authority within the clan. For so long, the dynamic had seemed… well, quite the opposite. “I wanted to check on you,” Riven continued, the words careful as they left her lips. “You seem… troubled. More than Varlen and I expected.”

“Did your brother put you up to this?” Hanin wasn’t sure why, but he found himself immediately on the defensive, walls going up before he even had a chance to question them. “I am as troubled as I should be, given the circumstances.”

But Riven did not flinch. “No, he didn’t put me up to anything, Hanin. But he is worried about you. We both are.” She took a breath, then, shoulders rising, the steam from the tea a soothing presence in otherwise tense air. “I want to make sure you are not going to do anything… careless.”

Hanin frowned. “That is not how I operate.”

“Normally, yes, I would agree. But…” Riven pursed her lips, her expression troubled. “You have not been yourself this past week, lethallin. Varlen and I are not the only ones to notice that.”

Again, the instinct to deny it all surged. “Who, then?” He felt his grip tighten on the cup, and had to consciously warn himself not to break it. “I have completed my duties to satisfaction.”

“Of course you have. That is not the problem. As for who… well, the people who are closest to you are the ones most worried.”

It took Hanin a moment to realise what she was saying. “My squad?” He frowned, not sure what to make of it. Not sure why they would not bring up their issues with him directly. “Their training has not changed.”

“Their training is not why they are concerned.” Riven sighed properly this time, and Hanin could sense a kind of restrained frustration in the act. That, more than anything, told him something he needed to know. She was tense, too. They all were. His stubbornness was not what any of them needed right now. If there was a problem, he had to hear it before he could even attempt to address it.

“Ir abelas. Speak, lethallen. I… will listen.”

Perhaps he should have felt insulted by the flash of surprise that crossed Riven’s face, but in the end, he couldn’t blame her. He had been difficult, to put it lightly. The fact that she had remained as patient as she had with him was a testament to her character, not his. “Ma serannas.” She offered him a soft, grateful smile before continuing. “Hanin… I don’t know who Athran is, or even how well you might have known him. That is fine. All I want to know is that you will not place yourself, or your life, at unnecessary risk for this mission.”

Unnecessary risk.

“Risk is a… difficult thing to determine.” Hanin shifted, his untouched tea still warm in his hands. “I intend to return Athran to the clan. Where he belongs.” He met her gaze, holding it. “Whatever needs to be done to ensure that, to me, is a necessary risk.”

That answer, it seemed, did little to alleviate Riven’s concerns. “That is what worries me, Hanin. I know you are not the kind of man to rush into something without thought, but all of this… it has left me, and others, questioning your judgement.”

The confession stung like a slap to the face. In truth, it hurt even more than when Josephine had called him a brute, all those months ago.

Yet, just as with Josephine, Hanin knew he deserved it.

“If I have worried you, I can only apologise. This… was not something I ever expected.” How much should he say? How much could he say? So many years had passed; he truly believed he had put it all behind him. But reading Athran’s name at the bottom of that letter was like being flung back ten years in the span of seconds. Alone, Hanin just couldn’t seem to recover.

But he was not alone.

“I don’t want an apology, lethallin. I want to know if you are okay.” Leaning forward slightly, Riven’s gaze was warm. Patient. Encouraging without demanding a thing. “Did you… know Athran well?”

Hanin felt his pulse quicken at the question, his body responding as though he had suddenly been faced by a threat. It was ridiculous. It made no logical sense.

It was a testament to how badly he needed to speak to someone.

Riven was there, sitting in front of him, willing to listen. Willing to wait as he gathered his thoughts and pieced them into something he might be able to share. Perhaps it was also her right to know as much about the situation as possible, given her position as Keeper of the clan.

Perhaps that was just a convenient excuse to help Hanin begin.

“As I said, Athran was a hunter, close to my age. Well-liked. Brave. Intelligent. Warm. Everyone knew him, in some way.” Hanin worked his jaw, trying to find the right set of words to do the man justice. “I knew few people closely, but… I knew him.”

Riven tilted her head slightly to the side. “You were friends, then?”

Blood rushing in his ears, Hanin closed his eyes for a moment, trying to focus on things that were tangible. The splintering of the wood in the fire. The warmth of the cup in his hands. The dryness of his throat as he dragged forth the words.

“More than friends.”

Once they were out, they were out. It was like releasing a long-held breath, only for Hanin to find himself holding the next one, waiting tensely for a response.

“It’s alright, Hanin.”

They sat in silence for a time, the heaviness of it stretching between them. The fire seemed impossibly loud, crackling to the point that Hanin had to turn his face away from it and the wavering glow it cast throughout the room. He didn’t know what to say. But it was alright.

So he said the truth.

“Riven… I have no plan.”

“I know.” The Inquisitor shifted, her shadow bending in the firelight. She let the soft-spoken words hang for a time, offering space for Hanin to continue. When he did not, she did. “We are still receiving information, lethallin. Every day. There is time. We will confer with Leliana and Commander Cullen for the best course of action as we travel north. Between us all, we will think of something.” Slowly, carefully, she reached out, placing a comforting yet firm hand on Hanin’s wrist. “You are not alone in this. You know that, don’t you?”

Hanin swallowed, his throat traitorously tight. He took the opportunity to raise the cup to his lips and take a sip, the warm liquid helping loosen the knot that had formed at the centre of his neck. “I know,” he said eventually. Yet, for whatever reason, those words hadn’t been true until the precise moment he spoke them. “Ma serannas, lethallen. I… needed that.”

Riven just nodded, her expression soft and understanding as she leaned back, the pair returning to a pause of quiet contemplation. Something changed, in that moment. A weight that had threatened to crush Hanin from the inside shifted slightly, like a person taking a step to the right in a crowded room. Suddenly, there was a little more space. A little more room to think. It wasn’t over; Hanin was still trapped in that crowded room; but for the time being, he could breathe. Cope.

He just needed to cope.

[thereluctantinquisitor]

5. Nairi & Varlen

#5 - Help

The forest was almost entirely silent. Or perhaps that was just how it seemed to Varlen. He lay on the ground, face-down, only awake because the pain wouldn’t let him close his eyes. Wouldn’t let him go. 

Some stubborn piece of him screamed that he had to move. That his sister was waiting for him. His father. Ahvina. They were all waiting, and if he didn’t keep moving, he’d let them down. Mustering everything he had, he begged his body to work. To listen. Just... make it to that next tree... 

He made it to the tree. Then to the next one, too, legs dragging, arms torn and bleeding, dirt smearing into the wounds as he pulled himself over the forest floor. His heart hammered out a steady rhythm in his chest, slower than it should be for someone so afraid. But he was cold. Wet. Too much exposed skin, too much pain. He slipped halfway to the next tree, slick palm sliding out from beneath him, chin striking the ground so hard he tasted blood. And he just lay there, eyes half shut, shivering and sweating, too exhausted to move another inch. Too deep in pain and denial to consider what that might mean.

I didn’t mean to... I’m s-sorry...

A stick broke. The snapping sound was sharp enough that it stirred Varlen from semi-consciousness and he coughed weakly, the taste of it metallic. Groaning, he forced himself to turn his head; to open his eyes as far as he could. The world was nothing more than a blur of brown and green, the sky a fading blue; the preface of dawn. Get up... just get up... 

Varlen’s hand twitched in the dirt. That was it. 

“Varlen...?”

The voice was soft. So soft he almost missed it, and for a second, he thought it sounded eerily familiar. Like his mother, maybe, calling from beyond the veil. A part of him didn’t want to respond, too afraid of what it might mean. But when he heard his name again, slightly louder this time, he pulled together what little of himself remained. He swallowed dryly, chest aching in time with each shallow breath.

“Help...”

He wasn’t sure how long he lay there. Wasn’t sure if it took Nairi an hour or a second longer to find him. How she managed to carry him back, Varlen would never know. When she ran over and tried to get him off the ground, he’d only managed half a scream before blacking out; a dead-weight in her arms. But somehow, she’d done it. When Varlen next woke, he was in a healer’s tent, body wrapped in strip upon strip of cloth, head pounding, heart beating uncertainly as though questioning if he was truly alive. The pungent small of salves stung his nose.

He was alive. Nairi had saved him. They’d only met that morning. He’d disliked having to babysit her; ran off when they were supposed to be scouting together. 

And she’d saved him.

Slowly, Varlen closed his eyes, unable to care about the tears that rolled down the sides of his cheeks. He didn’t deserve it. Her. This. But soon he was unable to care much about anything. The pain crept back piece by piece, each addition building upon the last, fire in his skin, aching in his bones, loathing somewhere deeper still, until he couldn’t even remember what it was like to feel normal.

And that feeling remained long after the wounds had healed. 

[thereluctantinquisitor]

OC Questionnaire (Hanin)

Thank you for the tag @ephemereon! I decided to do this for the Metal Onion (in his regular ol’ canon, for the sake of simplicity) <3

Tagging: @smolpocketmonstercoffee, @chaitea09, @lavellanlove, @bladeverbena, @kurogoesinthedas, and anyone else who wants to!

QUESTIONS (most under cut)

GENERAL

Name: Hanin Lavellan

Alias(es): Sir/Captain/Dad (once all three in a row, when Darren was nervous)

Gender: Male

Age: 33

Place of birth: Free Marches

Spoken languages: Common, Elven

Sexual orientation: Bisexual

Occupation: Former guardian of Clan Lavellan. Self-appointed bodyguard of Inquisitor Riven Lavellan. Captain of the Dawn Squad.

APPEARANCE

Eye color: Hazel (browner inner iris, green outer iris)

Hair color: Dark brown.

Height: 6′4″ (193cm)

Scars: Face: brow, lip. Body: Three deep scars running from the upper left of his chest to his pelvis. An large array of other smaller scars from fighting/training. 

Burns: None.

Overweight: No.

Underweight: No.

FAVOURITE

Color: Earthy tones (greens, browns, dark orange)

Hair color: Dark.

Eye color: No preference.

Entertainment: Combat training. Listening to someone tell stories. Learning a new skill/practicing an old one. Bards (the kind that play music and don’t try to kill you).

Pastimes: Combat training (there’s a theme here, methinks), caring for his gear (armour/Atisha), hiking, spending time with his squad/LI. 

Food: Pears. 

Drink: Water. Gotta stay HYDRATED. But if he is feeling fancy, he actually enjoys sweeter wines/ciders.

Books: Hanin doesn’t really read. The answer would be “reports”, but only because that’s the closest thing to a book he will read. He does not enjoy them.

HAVE THEY

Passed university: No, I guess? But he passed his test to become a fully-fledged warrior for clan Lavellan, so I’m gonna say that counts!

Had sex: Yes

Had sex in public: ... Define public? As in out in the open? If so, yes.

Gotten pregnant:

Kissed a man: Yes.

Kissed a woman: Yes.

Gotten tattoos: Yes.

Gotten piercings: No.

Had a broken heart: Yes (but not from romantic loss).

Been in love: No. He loves (i.e. Riven and Varlen, the Dawn Squad), but as not been in love. He cared very deeply for Josephine, but they both knew it wasn’t going to last forever, so he stopped himself from getting too attached.

Stayed up for more than 24 hours: Often. He sleeps very poorly, especially after losing the Clan.

ARE THEY

A virgin: No.

A cuddler: Yes.

A kisser: Yes.

A smoker: No.

Scared easily: No.

Jealous easily: No.

Trustworthy: Yes.

Dominant: Yes. 

Submissive: In bed, occasionally, with the right person. Will also take a step back if he is in a situation where he knows someone else’s skills/knowledge surpasses his own.

Single: At Haven? Yes. At Skyhold? No. Post-Inquisition? Yes.

RANDOM QUESTIONS

Have they harmed themselves: Physically? Not intentionally. Emotionally? All the damn time.

Thought of suicide: Yes.

Attempted suicide: No. He had some very dark thoughts at one stage, but Cole intervened. 

Wanted to kill someone: Yes.

Actually killed someone: Many times. Kinda his gig.

Ridden a horse: Yes. His horse’s name is Elgar ;D

Have/had a job: Yes.

Have any fears: Failure (overestimating himself, being unable to protect those he loves), the Fade, precarious heights, his own weakness (physically and emotionally), magic (to an extent), getting too attached to people (LOL too late buddy >.>).

FAMILY

Sibling(s): none.

Parents: [Deceased] Samahl Lavellan (father), Isala’lin Lavellan (mother):

Children: The entire Dawn Squad. But especially Darren.

Pets: He accidentally adopted a little lost pup called Fela for a while at Haven, before someone else decided to take care of her.

[thereluctantinquisitor]

“You–uh–spooked…my heart.” for Dorlen because honestly I can actually SEE Varlen saying that line xD

Pfff this is PERFECT VARLEN DIALOGUE indeed! Many thanks, friend!

Pavellan. Dorian Pavus x Varlen Lavellan (approx 1500 words)

“Come on, Varlen ��dance, yeah? Get out there! Shake your butt or something!”

The sound Varlen madein response to Sera’s urging was akin to a wounded animal begging for the sweetrelease of death. He shook his head, a tall drink of something in one hand, the other fighting for freedom as Seratugged it insistently towards the dance floor. “I don’t want to,” hecomplained, attempting the subtle art of wriggling free without spilling hisdrink. “I just want to drink and go home, Sera. You’re the one who wanted toparty.”

Fixing him with a flatgaze, Sera heaved a sigh and released him dramatically, the way one drops asoggy sock. “What, so you got all dressed up and stuff just to decorate thewall?” She gestured to Varlen’s costume, one brow arched so high it nearlyvanished beneath her fringe. “Can’t have been easy wriggling your way into that.”

In a sense, she wasn’twrong, but it really hadn’t been Varlen’s fault. At the last minute, he hadordered a batman suit online, but when it finally arrived… well…

Let’s just say he hada whole new appreciation for catwoman.

“I can’t dance in this,” he protested, gesturing at theoutfit. “I can barely breathe in this!” He groped around behind him, then brandisheda long, thin strip of black fabric. “I have a tail.”

“Pshh.” Sera justrolled her eyes. “Be grateful you’re not in heels or nothing! Now go on. Tenminutes.” She nudged him in the ribs playfully, swapping to a sing-song voice.“Dance for just ten minutes and I’llstop bugging you…”

Some battles were notdesigned to be won. Varlen let out a tight breath – mostly courtesy of the suit– and took a long, deep, steadying drink. “Fine,” he gasped once he had drainedalmost half the glass, swiping his mouth with the back of his hand and slappingit down on a nearby table. “Ten minutes. Then I’m going home and peeling myselflike a banana.”

Sera snorted at that,giving him a push in the direction of the dancefloor with the heel of her palm.“Go get ‘em, tiger.”

“No stripes. Not funny.”

“Sourpuss.”

The dancefloor was asmuch of a nightmare as Varlen had anticipated. He winced, music throbbing loudas a heartbeat on a silent night, and he swore his own was breaking its properrhythm to match that of the bass. It was always an uncomfortable sensation, particularlythe more he thought about it, but he reasoned he only had to put up with it forten minutes.

What could possiblyhappen in ten minutes?

He started to move;small, awkward steps at first, not entirely sure how to dance to thatparticular style of music. It was so fast that he doubted it had been designedfor human beings. But he gave it his best, certain that Sera was lurkingsomewhere just outside the dancefloor, watching, making sure he upheld his endof the bargain. More people joined in the fray, and soon there were bodiespressed tight against Varlen, blocking his view of pretty much everything butsweaty skin and the alarming amount of fake blood. Always with the fake blood. Monsters and ghouls and sexypretty-much-everything jumped, bounced, raised their arms and shook their hair aroundhim. Varlen tried to share their enthusiasm – to lose himself in the cacophonyof noise and sweat - but fell so far short of the mark that he wasn’t even sureit existed.

It was all too much.The heat, the bodies, the loud, thumping, angry music. The catsuit. Varlen was pretty sure he might sweat himself into a stateof dehydration if he didn’t extract himself from the makeshift mosh-pit soon,so he started wriggling, trying to push his way through an imaginary gap. Hewasn’t short by any means, but the press was a difficult thing to fight. Justas he was considering dropping to the ground and waiting for some burly mandressed as the Hulk to notice and carry him to safety, someone grabbed him bythe shoulder and pulled sharply backwards.

Yelping, Varlentipped, throwing his arms out but meeting little more than the forearms andwaists of the other dancers. Just as he began picturing his fate, trampled to deathby Sexy Spongebob, he was caught beneath the arms and extracted from the thronglike a child from a pool, and probably twice as soaked. Gasping, Varlen pulledout of the person’s grasp and whirled, ready to give whoever had manhandled hima piece of his mind. But the angry tirade lived a short and futile life at theback of his throat, dying before it even reached his lips.

Standing before him,tall and dark and dazzling, was the most beautiful Grim Reaper Varlen had everseen.

Death – because Varlendid not know his name – flashed him a smile, raising his hands in a placatinggesture. “Apologies. You seemed a mite distressed. I thought I might lend ahand.” To emphasise the point, he turned one gloved hand, revealing theembellishment that gave it the appearance of something skeletal. Varlen wasstill reeling from the shock of being faced with quite possibly the mosthandsome man in existence, but Death clearly took his silence as a bad sign.“I… hope I did not frighten you, snatching you like that. Small window ofopportunity, you see. It was then or never, lest you succumb to the undulatingmasses.”

Blinking, Varlenregained a modicum of composure and shook his head, a blush crawling up hisneck. Or perhaps it was heat stroke. Hard to tell in a catsuit. “N-No! No,that’s not… I wasn’t—”

Say something charming, the voice in Varlen’s head screamed as hestammered through the sentence. Look himin those gorgeous grey eyes and be witty you lycra-swathed muppet!

“— You–uh–spooked…myheart.”

Sometimes, Varlentruly wondered why he ever left the house. The blush that had been lingering onhis neck boiled up to the tip of his ears and Varlen winced, reaching to hidehis face in his hands. Oh god. What wasthat? Spooked my heart?!?

Then… laughter. Lowand amused and almost… fond. In sheerdisbelief, Varlen lowered his hands and fixed Death with a hesitant look, apart of him certain the man was about to mock him and stride away. It would bewell-deserved, all things considered, so he braced himself for it.

But instead,quartz-grey eyes caught Varlen’s, and a smile spread across that handsome face.“Well… that is undeniably a new one,I will give you that,” he said, echoes of laughter chasing the words from hislips. “I have always found myself rather drawn to originality.” His gazeflicked down, a brow rising in what was either approval or horror. Or both. “My.That is an… interesting choice incostume. Bold, if I do say so myself.”

Varlen felt the urgeto wrap himself in a towel or something. At that point, being naked wouldprobably be preferably – at least he wouldn’t be so damn hot. But considering he did not have a towel or enough time to freehimself from his lycra prison, he did the next best thing.

He planted his handson his hips, struck a pose, and owned it.

“You like it, huh?” heasked, the redness of his face doing its best to betray his attempt at bravado.“Figured I’d try something a little different, y’know? Shake it up a bit. Rockthe catsuit.”

Death arched his brow,but the smile never left his face, even as his gaze drifted back up from itsappreciative lingering to rest on Varlen’s face. “Oh, I do,” he replied simply, in a voice smooth as velvet. “I imaginethat was quite the task to slip into. And out of.” He blinked, as thoughremembering himself, and held out one skeletal hand. “Where are my manners; DorianPavus.” He smirked. “I would have you know the name of your mysterious rescuer.After all, I intend to take full, unashamed credit.”

Varlen grinned, takinghis hand. “Not so mysterious, now that I know who you are,” he remarkedplayfully. “I’m Varlen. Thanks for the save back there. It was getting a littleclose for comfort.”

They smiled at eachother. Shook. Stopped shaking. But for whatever reason, neither man let go. Amoment passed, then two, the pair of them just standing there, staring at theirclasped hands, the music thumping, the dancers cheering and jumping andspinning, the lights blazing past to the rhythm of the DJs booth. Yet, even asthe ‘shake’ stretched well beyond the point of traditional comfort, neitherseemed even slightly willing to break contact.

“Do—” Dorian began.

“— you want to get outof here?” Varlen finished hurriedly. Both men broke into matching chuckles, andDorian nodded, a glittering sharpness to his gaze that made Varlen’s knees goweak.

“Excellent.” Heturned, throwing back his cloak, gesturing gracefully towards the door with thehand not currently holding Varlen’s. “Now… care for a date with Death?”

Varlen’s grin justgrew wider. “Hell yes.”

[thereluctantinquisitor]

Would Varlen ever slip Dorian the last healing potion without telling him it was the last, even if he was hurt?

Short answer: Yes. A thousand times, yes.

Long answer… (Dorian Pavus x Varlen Lavellan, approx 1000 words)

“Dorian…? Dorian, are you all right?”

Gasping, Dorian’s eyes snapped open, wide and searching. Hewas lying on the ground, mud clinging to his arms as he tried to lift them,head ringing, vision doubling and blurring at the edges. “A…matus?” he mumbled.He couldn’t see – not properly – but he searched the white fog that wasthe sky, the sun agonisingly bright despite being concealed by a thick cover ofcloud. His eyes watered and he blinked rapidly, trying to clear them to little avail. “Maker… w-what happened?”

“Another mage.” Varlen’s voice was hurried, and Dorian felt somethingwarm slip around behind his head - a hand - angling his neck up gently. “He hit you realgood, vhenan. Tossed you like a rag doll.”

Dorian barked a bitter laugh, then winced in regret as painstabbed through his chest. Some broken ribs, perhaps? Wonderful. “Ah. I don’t suppose you… sorted that out for me,yes?”

The elven man’s laugh was weak and worried, but the sound of it always brought Dorian comfort. “Come on, of course Idid. Now, stop talking and open your mouth.”

If Dorian had the strength to arch his eyebrow suggestively,he would have, but as it was he could barely muster the energy to blink yetalone get creative with his expressions. So, obediently, he opened his mouthand felt something cold press against his lower lip. A vial, perhaps? At the end of the day, it didn’t particularlymatter what it was. Varlen was offering it to him, and he had no qualms accepting the offer.

“Drink,” Varlen urged gently, tipping the vial upwards.Dorian complied, gulping down the thick, earthy liquid that he knew to be someelfroot concoction. He signalled weakly and Varlen paused for a moment, lettingDorian catch his breath as a familiar warmth blossomed from his stomach outwards,dulling the pain, sending pleasant tingling sensations to his fingers and toes. “Just a little more,”Varlen continued, and helped Dorian finish the last of the vial. “There. Good.”

His vision clearing rapidly, Dorian managed to sit up withVarlen’s help, the elven man’s hand pressed carefully to the centre of hisback. Reaching up to rub his eyes, he gave himself a few more moments to nursehis tender body back to some semblance of strength, letting the potion take itsfull effect. Once satisfied, he lowered his hands hesitantly and breathed a sighof relief when the light no longer left him on the verge of tears. “Ah,excellent. Much appreciated, amatus. Your timing is, as always…”

Turning his head, Dorian trailed off, his eyeswidening slightly as he took in the sight before him. Varlen was smilingweakly, swaying ever so slightly, but that was not enough to distract Dorian from his state. His hair wasmore red than silver, a head wound bleeding rivulets down the left side of hisface. His clothing was torn, gashes leering out from between the shreddedfabric, dirt and grime caked into every fold - every open wound - as though he had beenshoved down into the mud. Varlen was kneeling in it, true, but when he tried to shift it was clearhe was hurt, his breath catching in pain as he attempted to rise and failed.

“Varlen, what in the Maker’s name—?!”

“I’m fine Dorian.Really. I just need to—”

Dorian cut him off with a scoff, reaching out to claspVarlen’s face in his hands, uncaring of the fact that they were trembling withworry. “Fine?” he repeatedincredulously, eyes searching his amatus’ pale blue gaze. “Well then, if you’re fine, the I’m Mother Giselle, and we areabout to have a very enlightening talk about the wonders of the Chantry.”

Varlen grimaced, attempting to shake his head but finding iteffectively stilled by Dorian’s hands. “Please, Creators, anything but that.”

Humour aside, Dorian frowned, concern evident in every flick of his gaze. Every touch. “You need a healing potion too, Varlen. Have you another? Come, Iwill help you take it. Where do you keep it?”

A beat passed. Then another. Varlen said nothing, but gave himselfaway regardless when his gaze flicked over to the empty vial, lying discarded in the mud. Dorian caught the movement in a flash of bitter realisation.

“Oh no. You didn’t.”

Varlen laughed softly; gave a woozy smile. “Yeah… I did.”

Sputtering for a moment, all Dorian could do was shake hishead, still holding Varlen’s face between his hands. He was angry, yes. Of course hewas. But at the same time, he wanted nothing more than to wrap Varlen in hisarms. His stupid, selfless amatus. Maker, he’d do anything for that pain of a man.

“Kaffas, Varlen. How many times do I have to tellyou…”

A low chuckle overlapped with Dorian’s words, and Varlenmanaged to catch his gaze and hold it. “Don’t matter,” he murmured, voiceslurring a little. Dorian hadn’t noticed that before, and his worry returned with a vengeance. “I’d still do it again.And again. And ag…”

Hushing him, Dorian just shook his head and pulled Varlen inclose, using the moment to scan his back for any further signs of injury as they embraced. “Yes… yes, of course you would, wouldn’t you.” It was not aquestion. Dorian sighed, then shifted position, grunting with the effort as herose from the ground on shaky legs. “Right. Very well, then. If you won’t take care of yourself,then it seems I shall have to step up to task, yes?”

Tipping his head back, Varlen just let out a dreamy giggle, locks of silver-spun hair stuck to the blood and dirt on his face. “Heh… yeah. But that’s why we make such a goodteam, right…?”

Caught slightly off-guard, Dorian couldn’t help himself. Helet out a huff of surprised laughter, then leaned down, hooking his armsbeneath Varlen’s. The elven man just tipped forward, resting his head againstDorian’s shoulder, exhausted. Spent. Sighing, Dorian somehow managed to haulVarlen to his feet, draping his amatus’ arm across his shoulders and turning backtowards the camp, teeth gritted with effort as he began to walk.

“A good team…” he repeated darkly, then glanced across at Varlen’slimp form. To his surprise, despite his state, the elven man was smiling ever so faintly, asthough amused by his own private thoughts. As if pleased that, even in his own pain, he had lessened that of another. No, of Dorian. Even more to his surprise, Dorian foundhimself smiling, too. “Yes. Indeed we do.”

Maker’s breath, that man was a fool… 

… but he was his fool.

[thereluctantinquisitor]

Name: Giulia :D | Age: 23 in a couple of weeks | Meaning behind tumblr url: my artist name is KuroCyou and I have no creativity for urls | Hobbies/Interests: Fawning over Varlen. And eating Nutella while thinking about Dorlen | Why you follow me: I love you and your stories and your humour | Random fact about yourself: I dyied my hair purple! | Question for me: what planet would you like to visit?

Well hello there ;D and HAPPY BIRTHDAY IN A COUPLE OF WEEKS (in case I forget u_u). And tbh the only way to correctly think about Dorlen is while eating nutella (unless you have a nut allergy in which case pls no - do not do that). That is absolutely 100% by design and I approve immensely. PURPLE HAIR! I already love it! I’ve always wanted to go purple but always chickened out at the last second haha

What planet would I like to visit? I mean, I’d probably die on all of them in a matter of seconds, but... Pluto. Because I always cheer for the underdog.

[thereluctantinquisitor]

Dungeons and Dragon (Age)

DORIANMANCE WEEK -::- DAY 4 -::- MODERN D&D AU

Because let’s be real, Varric would make an awesome Dungeon Master…

(Pavellan, approx 2500 words, most under the cut)

Varlen stared at the board, his face slack with shock, his hair pulled back into a scraggly bun. A few unruly strands had already sprung free over the course of the evening, tumbling down the side of his face.

“So… wait, I’m what?” he demanded, eyes wide. Varric nodded somberly, barely visible from behind his DM screen as leaned down and hastily scribbled what might have been a sequence of numbers. Or an epitaph. Varlen hated when he started writing like that. It always made him nervous.

“Eaten,” Varric repeated, flashing Varlen a whip-crack of a smile. “Sorry, kid. With a dex check like that, purple worm bites, purple worm swallows.”

Mouth open, Varlen watched in horror as his bard, Taliden High-Strung, was removed from his square and placed atop the purple worm’s tile. Around the table, voices rose in a chorus of protest.

“What, so there’s nothing we can do?” Dorian demanded, leaning forward, pensive behind his clasped hands. “A reaction, perhaps? A counter of some description?”

“Hey, you tell me,” Varric said with an easy smile, spreading his hands. “You’ve all got your sheets. Impress me.”

Dorian, Cassandra, Iron Bull, and Josephine peered down at their character sheets, brows furled in concentration. Paper rustled as Dorian leafed through his spells, lips pressed into a thin line. Cassandra and Bull were the first to sit back with resigned looks on their faces. Josephine took a few more beats before letting out a gusting sigh and casting worried eyes across to Varlen.

“Nothing,” she said sadly, as though she had personally failed him. “Sorry, Varlen.”

Desperate, Varlen just nodded and turned his gaze to Dorian. The man was glancing back and forth between a pair of spells, but already it was clear there was little that could be done. Slowly, reluctantly, he eased back in his seat and cast a dark glare towards Varric. “Unfortunately,” he said through clenched teeth, “I have nothing prepared to deal with this particular… circumstance.”

A slow smile spread across Varric’s face, then he wiped it away with a practiced sigh. “Well, all right then,” he said, then nodded towards Cassandra. “looks like Clarette’s up.”

Tense, Cassandra tapped a finger on the table, the sound ringing hollowly as she inspected the board. “I attack the beast,” she said eventually, then hesitated. “Wait. I… will not harm Taliden in its stomach, will I?”

Varric thought about it, then shook his head. “Not unless you try to run it straight through with your sword, but just slashing at it should be fine.”

Cassandra narrowed her eyes at him. “Should be…?” she repeated, stressing the word skeptically.

Perking up from behind his screen, Varric just flashed her yet another untrustworthy grin. “Hey, you know how it is. Can’t tell you all everything.”

Huffing, Cassandra reluctantly made her attack, missing the first, striking with the second, adding on a divine smite for good measure like a true paladin.

“The purple worm shrieks as you slash it across its underside,” Varric announced, scribbling something behind his screen. “The holy light seems to pass from your blade into the wound itself, lighting it from within for a few brilliant moments, before fading away, leaving behind a deep, bloody gash.” Varric glanced up, fixing her with an expectant look.

Nodding, Cassandra just sat back, shoulders tense. It hadn’t been enough. “That is all. I end my turn.”

“Right, you’re up Regulus.” Varric paused, then added. “Given your knowledge of beasts and the arcane, you can tell that worm is looking… well,  pretty rough.”

Dorian, who had appeared lost in deep thought, started slightly at his character’s name. “Hm? Oh, of course… now let me see…”

Varlen could only watch in quiet desperation as Dorian’s gaze flicked from the board to his character sheet, gears clearly turning behind those keen grey eyes.

“I move around behind the worm, and place my back against the wall of the cavern,” he declared and Varric nodded, maneuvering his character accordingly. “Then, from my safe distance, I cast Hypnotic Pattern.”

Varric raised his eyebrows in surprise and let out an approving hum, glancing at the map. “Sure thing, Sparkler. Where do you want it centered?”

Dorian gestured with a single finger, his lips curving into a smirk. “Right on top of the worm, of course. Where else?”

“All right then…” Varric continued, clearly amused as he counted out the spell’s 30ft radius. “I’m going to need Clarette, Urgok, and Sylvena to all make a wisdom saving throw.”

Cassandra, Bull, and Josephine all exchanged horrified glances. “What?” Cassandra and Bull demanded in unison. Josephine just remained stiff-backed in her chair and cast a cold look in Dorian’s direction.

“I trust you know what you are doing, wizard,” she said. Dorian just waved a dismissive hand.

“Oh I never know what I’m doing,” he confessed, tossing her a charming smile. “That’s half the fun of magic, is it not?”

“Oh god I’m going to die…” Varlen bemoaned, curving forward to rest his head on the table with a heavy thud. He liked his character. They’d been through a lot together. He’d raised him from a little level one bard into a versatile, cunning performer who actually wasn’t useless. Now he was going to meet his Maker in the stomach of a big ugly worm. All because Varric was a sadist.

Around the table, the players rolled their saves with disapproving expressions. To Varlen’s horror, all three failed.

But so did the purple worm.

“Okay, so everyone affected by the spell is incapacitated,” Varric declared, a small measure of his glee tempered by the fact that his beloved monster-worm was also rendered temporarily useless.

“Wait, what does that mean?” Bull asked. Josephine sighed and answered.

“It means we cannot take actions or reactions until the spell is broken. Is that right?” She directed the final query to Dorian, who possessed the spell card.

“Indeed. Or you take damage, of course.”

Bull grunted disapprovingly, folding his massive arms across his chest. “Great. Guess we’re skipping my turn, then.”

“Mine too,” Josephine declared, clearly unhappy about the whole situation.

Varric nodded, then glanced down behind his screen. “Okay… so in front of you all, you can hear the worm make a few angry, confused screeches as it tries to move but finds itself strangely unable to.”

“Well, that’s good, isn’t it?” Cassandra asked, glancing about the table beseechingly. Varlen peeked up from his slumped position with a small pang of hope, only to see Varric grimace in the faux-apologetic way of a DM.

“For everyone outside its stomach, sure. It’s great news.”

Varlen blinked, his gut sinking. “W… What is that supposed to mean?”

“Just because it can’t move doesn’t mean it can’t digest.”

Josephine let out a soft groan, placing her head in her hands. “Oh I knew this would go badly,” she said, words muffled by her palms. Varlen just threw Dorian a panicked look, then felt even worse when he saw the expression on the man’s face. He looked genuinely appalled.

“Oh sure. Of course it has stomach acid,” Bull drawled, gesturing towards the board. “Looks like our little bard’s become breakfast, huh?”

Varlen made a shrill noise, shaking his head, looking to Varric in horror. Varric just maintained eye-contact and started rolling dice… after dice… after dice…

“I-In the monster’s stomach,” Varlen stammered as Varric rolled for what felt like the twentieth time, “I just… s-start thinking about all the people I love. My family, back in High Forest, who are still waiting for me to finally come back home… m-my friends, just a few meters away… undoubtedly doing everything in their power to save me…” the last comment held an accusatory edge that Varlen directed towards Dorian. The man, for his part, raised his hands apologetically, and seemed truly genuine in his remorse. As a result, Varlen’s expression softened. “And I… I think about Regulus. About that drink he still owes me. He’d called it a date as a joke but… secretly… I’d wanted to go on one with him.”

Cassandra gave a soft gasp, her hand moving to her mouth, eyes wide. “No,” she breathed, then cast a dangerous look at Varric. “We cannot allow this. You… you cannot! They are in love!”

“… Apparently so,” Dorian breathed, surprised, seeming genuinely distressed by the whole situation. He glanced up at Varlen, then back to the board. There was a fire brewing behind those eyes - a plan. Varlen only hoped it wouldn’t come too late.

“Heart-warming as that was,” Varric continued almost gently, “I’m afraid, Cassandra, that I absolutely can.” He turned his gaze to Varlen. “Taliden, inside the belly of the worm, you find yourself pressed on all sides by thick, slimy muscle.”

Varlen cringed. “Gross. Can I move at all?”

Varric drew his arms in close and squirmed a little, rather convincingly acting out the part of a bard trapped in a tube of worm. “You try, but you can’t seem to budge more than a few inches at a time, and even moving that much leaves you pretty exhausted.”

Sadly, Varlen nodded, his gaze drifting down to the board dejectedly. To poor Taliden High-Strung, trapped in the stomach of a purple worm. This is it, I suppose, Varlen lamented silently. End of the line.

Varric cleared his throat.

“The lower half of your body, Taliden, suddenly starts to feel very hot.” That drew Varlen’s worried gaze. “You realise, with a kind of knowing dread, that the heat is from the worm’s stomach acid, bubbling up beneath you. You take… thirty-one acid damage.”

Dorian tensed, sitting up straighter in his chair. “What? But I—”

“It’s all right,” Varlen said hastily, casting him a calming look. “I’m okay. I’m still alive.” Barely, he added in his head, but decided to keep that little fact to himself. A collective sigh of relief rose from all of Varlen’s party, but the problem was far from over. Nodding, Varric gestured to Varlen.

“Well… you’re up, Taliden.” He smiled. “Luckily, you weren’t able to see Regulus’ spell, so you are unaffected by Hypnotic Pattern.”

Varlen swallowed tensely, throat feeling suddenly dry. He didn’t have much left. He’d burned through all of his spell slots already, and all he had was cantrips at his disposal. There was no way they would be enough to save him…

… would they?

“I…” Varlen began, then paused, an idea sparking to life. “Hey Varric, can the worm hear me? Like, if I shout really loud from inside it?”

The question seemed to catch Varric off-guard and he paused contemplatively. “Sure, why not,” he confirmed, nodding. “We hear our own stomachs growl, so why wouldn’t he hear an elven bard screaming to death as he’s being digested?”

“Varric!” Josephine gasped, and Varric just shrugged helplessly.

“What? It’s true.”

“Well, if this is how I’m going to die,” Varlen continued slowly, then gave a weak smile, “might as well die having the last say, right?” He closed his eyes, took a deep, steadying breath, then opened them again. “I cast Vicious Mockery from inside the purple worm.”

Bull let out a bark of laughter, slapping the table, causing the miniatures to rattle and jump slightly on the board. “Yes!” he cried, grinning. “Good! Tell it who’s boss, Taliden!”

Varlen grinned, then sat a little straighter. If this is how I go, I’m going to go in style.

“At the top of my lungs, I scream,” Varlen cleared his throat, “You’re the most hideous creature I have ever had the misfortune of witnessing! In fact, you’re so ugly, I prefer the view from in here!”

Varric let out a short laugh and waved a deferring hand towards Varlen. “Damn. Well, the worm failed its wisdom save. Roll for damage, Snowy.”

Swallowing, Varlen reached into his dice bag and drew out two d4s. He rolled, and let out a quiet breath of relief. A four and a three. At least it did a little more than nothing for once, he supposed, announcing his grand total of seven damage to the table. Bull just let out a quiet ahh at the pitiful display and reached out, clasping a firm hand around Varlen’s shoulder.

“Well, it was a good shot,” he said, nodding in a show of solidarity. Varlen nodded back, reaching up to rest his hand gratefully over Bull’s.

“Yeah… thanks…” The compliment felt hollow, considering in one more round Taliden would be dead. All of his friends, save for Regulus, were incapacitated. Sighing, Varlen looked up and saw a look of pure dejection on Dorian’s face, his spell cards cast aside, his chin in his hands. He was out of spell slots.

It was over.

“The worm…” Varric began slowly, voice commanding attention. All gazes returned to him as he continued to speak. “Hears the bitter words resonating from deep within its belly. It doesn’t understand, per say, but the tone of them was just so derisive – so mocking – that it suddenly loses the will to live.” Varric paused, turning to fix Varlen with a long, pointed stare. “You, Taliden… just shamed the giant purple worm to death.”

A beat passed, then the table exploded back to life. Josephine let out a cheer before catching herself, flushing slightly at the outburst, grinning behind her raised hand. Bull laughed loudly and clapped Varlen on the back, who wheezed at the force of the movement while Cassandra excitedly repeated I knew it! I knew he would live! from the far side of the table. Dorian, however, remained completely still, eyes on the board, expression thoughtful, as if…

… as if waiting for something.

“Taliden, as the worm dies, you feel the muscles clamped around you suddenly go slack, and you’re able to start wriggling your way towards the beast’s mouth.”

“Yeah, yeah, I do that!” Varlen said, excited. Relieved. It was over! He’d survived!

“I… would like to meet Taliden at the beast’s mouth,” Dorian said suddenly, cutting through the cheering and laughter with surprising sobriety. Varric glanced across at him, then nodded as if in understanding. The table fell silent as Dorian and Varlen slowly met each other’s gaze.

“Taliden,” Varric began softly. “As you start to near the worm’s mouth, you notice a shadow partially blocking the light…”

“… I reach out to him,” Dorian murmured as Varric trailed off. He continued to hold Varlen’s stare, then gave him a wavering smile. “A bit of a tight fit in there, yes?”

Varlen laughed despite himself and flashed Dorian a warm, breathless grin. “Just a bit.”

“With Regulus’ help, you managed to crawl free of the purple worm,” Varric interjected quietly, watching them both curiously. In fact, everyone at the table did. “Given your state,” he continued, “you end up collapsing…”

“I catch him,” Dorian said. “I… hold him in my arms.”

“… For a moment there, I thought I’d lost you,” Regulus said, his voice soft as he reached out and brushed back a few errant strands of Taliden’s hair. The locks were thick and smeared with god-knows what from inside the worm, but that didn’t matter to him. In fact, nothing mattered save for the man in his arms, pale and shaking, but mercifully, blissfully alive. Regulus offered him a weak, hesitant smile. “Don’t you go scaring me like that, understand? Never again.”

In his arms, Taliden let out a feeble laugh then reached up, fingertips brushing the side of Regulus’ face. He left a streak of blood there and flinched slightly, knowing the wizard’s dislike of it. To his surprise, Regulus just chuckled and shook his head, as if to say ‘don’t apologise’. As if to say he didn’t mind.

“Well… I couldn’t just go dying in there, you know,” Taliden murmured, his voice hoarse, his breathing weak. “Y-You still owe me that date, remember…?”

Surprised, Regulus blinked for a moment, before easing into an uncertain smile. “You… mean the drink, yes? Unless…”

“I was nearly eaten alive by a giant worm and am this close to passing out,” Taliden said suddenly, his voice sharp but not angry as he looked up and held Regulus’ gaze. “Just… let me ask you on a date in peace, okay? Just this once.”

For a moment, all Regulus could to was stare mutely at the shivering elf in his arms. At the bard that had somehow sung his way into his heart.

With an alarmingly teary expression, Regulus finally gave in to a genuine, relieved smile.

“Very well. A date it is, then.”

[thereluctantinquisitor]

Imagine the recruits arguing hard and fierce about some kind of gift to get for Hanin because "well I heard from THIS totally reputable source that his birthday is NEXT WEEK".

I IMAGINED IT (in approximately 3000 words of fluff and angst because my imagination clearly has no restraint >.>)

“It is,” Darreninsisted, leaning forward, blue eyes burning with determination. “I heardVarlen say so. It’s next week.”

From his chair, tipped back on two legs, Cyrus sighed andreached up to rub tiredly at his eyes. “So… what?You wanna make him a macaroni picture or something? Go ahead, be my guest. You dork.”He added the insult at the end as something of an afterthought, but seemed rathersatisfied with it, smirking to himself as he tilted his head back and closedhis eyes.

Working his mouth, Darren sputtered out a handful of noisesbefore falling into an indignant silence. Cheeks red, he turned away from Cyrusto face the rest of the squad, who were scattered around the barracks. Therewere only five of them, but they each showed a different level of interest inthe discussion at hand, some watching with idle curiosity, others oiling theirboots or murmuring to each other, their attention elsewhere.

“Come on, guys,” Darren insisted, rising fromhis chair to sit on the small table for a little extra height. “I know he canbe a hard-ass, but he just wants what’s best for us, right?” He turned toRalon. “He helped you out with that problem you had with your arm, remember?From when you fell when you were a kid?”

The brown-haired young man hesitated, but eventuallyconceded with a nod. “Sure, I s’pose,” he admitted slowly. “But isn’t that justhis job? Training us up so we can run into a wall of demons and die a littleslower than everyone else?”

Cyrus snorted at the comment, clearly in agreement. A murmurbroke out and Darren clenched his jaw, biting his tongue to stop himself fromsnapping back. It wasn’t that he disagreed,exactly. He just… well… if they didn’t fight, then who would?

Someone had to.

“He fights too, you know,” a voice said, somewhat softlycompared to the others. Connors had spoken up from where she sat at the edge ofthe room, her back to the wall. She was a woman of unusual preferences. Shepreferred the floor and being called by her last name, for a start. With herusual quiet resolve, she met Darren’s eye for a moment, then let her gaze sweepacross the rest of the recruits. “It’s not like he expects us to do anything hewouldn’t. None of them do. Not even the Herald.”

“Exactly,” Darrensaid, grateful that someone was willing to back him up. It was hard for him tostand there and pretend to be convincing. “Even the Inquisitor goes out intothe field, right? Puts herself in danger? She does it all the time. Why shouldn’t we do our part too?”

“Look, kid, no one’s disagreeing with you…” Cyrus drawled,pausing to yawn as though the whole conversation bored him. “We’re all stillhere, aren’t we? But listen… what makes you think he’d even want anything from us?” On that note,Cyrus hesitated, a surprisingly thoughtful look sweeping across his features. “Wait…do Dalish even celebrate birthdays?”

Darren frowned, honestly uncertain, but Lyrene let out along-suffering sigh. She leaned back in her chair, braided blonde hair drapedover her shoulder. She twisted the ends absently between her fingertips. “Well Ican’t speak for all clans, but mine did. It was a small thing, usually. Familyand a few close friends. It’s possible that Hanin’s clan is… was… similar…”

Lyrene’s voice faltered as she stumbled over harsh reality likea person missing the final step of a staircase in the dark. She swallowed,uncomfortable, and shrank down slightly in her seat. Darren managed to catchher gaze, but couldn’t seem to hold it as her eyes slid back towards the floor.He couldn’t blame her. Judging by the suddenly sombre faces of the rest of therecruits, they were all thinking the same thing. A lot of them had lost peoplethey loved to the fighting. To the demons. Darren had been lucky, but he knewhe was one of few. Ralon and Connors were alone, recruited into the Inquisitionbecause they had nowhere else to go. Lyrene lived in fear for her clan, not aday passing that she did not murmur quietly before sleep the names of those sheloved. After what happened to clan Lavellan…

Darren’s hands clenched at his sides. He honestly wasn’tsure he’d have survived news like that. Yet, Hanin did. He survived. He rose at dawn to meet them on the training field,always waiting, running his own warm-up drills in the fading dark until theyarrived. Day after day. Week after week. No matter where he’d been the daybefore, no matter how sick or broken he felt, he would be there because he knewthey needed his help. His experience.

Hanin even trained with them the morning after he’d heardthe news of his clan.

“… I’m just saying,” Darren continued after a moment, hisvoice soft. He didn’t need to be loud. Not in a room so silent. “That itcouldn’t hurt to do something. That’s all.”

For the first time that evening, no one disagreed. No oneeven seemed slightly hesitant. Even Cyrus, renowned for his inability to careabout anyone but himself, just stared blankly at the far wall, his jaw setstubbornly, but not in defiance. Connors breathed out gently, tilting her headback against the wall. Ralon and Lyrene exchanged glances, then nodded slightly. From his position at the head ofthe group, Darren felt a twinge of satisfaction. Good. They’ll listen, at least.

“So…” Cyrus said suddenly, his voice startling Darren out ofhis reverie. He turned, regarding the dark haired man with a curiousexpression. Cyrus just shrugged, arms folded across his chest. “Anyone got anyideas?”

Voices swelled into a babble of suggestions and noises ofdismissal, some hesitant, others loud and almost amused as the ideas naturally swungbetween sensible and ridiculous. Somewhere in the middle of it all, Darrenfound himself smiling. Even Cyrus had turned his chair, sitting on itbackwards, occasionally shooting down suggestions in his usual brazen way. This is good, he thought, laughing asLyrene cuffed Ralon playfully for a comment he made about elfroot. Darrencouldn’t be certain, but a part of him was convinced this was what a squad was supposed to feel like. They weresupposed to care about each other.

Suddenly, a sharp rapping cut through the conversationinside the barracks, the sound carrying like a drumbeat through the woodenbuilding.

“Dawn squad - enough! Lights out!”

They all fell silent as the officer’s footsteps retreated,some succumbing to rebellious giggles of laughter before catching themselvescarefully. Shrugging, Cyrus got up and headed towards the edge of the roomwhere the bunks were lined in careful rows. Others followed, but Darren remained,starting at where the officer’s voice had come from, his gaze distant. A candleburned on the small table beside him as the other lights around the barrackswere extinguished one-by-one.

He had an idea.

Hanin stretched, his shoulders stiff as he sat on the edgeof his bed. His hair hung loose around his face, tousled and almost brushingthe tops of his shoulders as he leaned forward with a groan. Everything ached. It wasn’t unusual, exactly, butit was a constant reminder that the years might be starting to catch up to him.They shouldn’t be, he thought grimly.He was, after all, only thirty-thr…

… Thirty-four.

Not that old,Hanin reasoned hesitantly, rising from the bed and heading towards the window.He unlatched it and pushed it open, letting the cold mountain air swirl intothe room. It always felt stuffy when Hanin woke, no matter how bitter the nighthad been. He wasn’t sure how people could stand it, being cooped up inside allday.

The sun had just started to rise somewhere below the visiblehorizon, golden light filling the thin cracks between the mountains. It waswith a measure of disdain that he realised he had slept in, and he reached forhis armour with a low sigh.

There was always another day.

“You’re all late,”Hanin declared, stressing the word as his recruits spilled out onto thetraining field like water from a tipped bucket. Some were properly dressed, butothers were still in the process of lacing their gloves with clumsy fingers. Frowning,Hanin decided to let their state of disarray slide, more curious as to why theywere late as a collective as opposed to just one or two. “Big night?” he asked curtlywhen they got closer, moving to form their usual line. At the centre, ofcourse, Cyrus snorted.

“Sure, kinda.”

Hanin shot him a dark look and the man sighed before adding, “Sir”.

“Sorry, sir,” Darren said, piping up from beside Cyrus. Hewasn’t standing in his usual spot and held himself awkwardly, an arm tuckedbehind his back. Hanin arched his brow and the young man seemed to wilt beforehis stare. “W-We were just…”

Much to Hanin’s private amusement, Darren trailed offnervously and glanced at Cyrus, who just rolled his eyes and shoved him forwardimpatiently. Hanin frowned at that, but no one else seemed put-off by the move,so he held his tongue for the time being. It had taken time, but finally thesquad had started speaking up when Cyrus got out of line. But this time, ifanything, they seemed…

… well, expectant.

“I-I, uh,” Darren stammered, now isolated in the spacebetween Hanin and the rest of the recruits. Weary, Hanin levelled a flat stareat the youth, who swallowed, trembling. Then, almost violently, he thrustsomething out towards Hanin. Something in a small, poorly wrapped parcel.

“Happy Birthday, sir!” he announced loudly, straight backed,gaze locked directly in front of him on nothing in particular. Hanin regardedhim dumbly for a moment.

Creators, was the boy sweating?

For a few beats, all Hanin could do was stand there like a statue,his mind sluggishly trying to comprehend the strange event that was unfoldingright before his eyes. Then, uncertainly, his gaze drifted down to what heassumed was a gift, held out to him like some kind of offering.

“I-It’s from all of us,” Darren continued, his composurecrumbling like old stone before Hanin’s silent appraisal. “We just, um…”

“Maker, just take it already, would you?” Cyrus demandedsufferingly. Despite acting the part of the impatient observer, his mouth wasquirked into a tell-tale smirk. “You want us to get back to training, right?Then put Darren out of his misery.”

Some of the recruits chuckled at that and Hanin reached out,accepting the bundle cautiously. He eyed it, then the line of soldiers-in-training,a part of him convinced they were pulling some kind of prank. He’d seen Lyrene speakingwith Sera a few days ago. That meant none of them could be trusted anymore. Butnothing happened as he held it aloft before him, and when his gaze eventuallycame to rest on Darren the young man gave him his usual bright yet tentativesmile. There was nothing that felt out of place.

Nothing but Hanin.

Slowly, cagily, heforced himself to peel back the wrapping paper, which he noted with someamusement was the same used to package field rations. Some was even stillstained, carrying the scent of dried meat. Without needless ceremony, heuncovered the contents and pulled it free from the paper.

“A glove…?” he asked, not bothering to hide his surprise. Heheld it in his hand, the dark leather soft to touch, clearly a product of theInquisition’s more skilled artisans. Confused, he turned it over, thenhesitated as something caught his eye.

On the back of the glove was a symbol, embossed into theleather. It was a half-circle, its curved edge framed by several sweeping linesthat, when worn, fanned outward towards the fingers. Stylised but instantlyrecognisable, it was a depiction of the rising sun. Hanin frowned at it, tryingto make sense of the gesture, a piece of him figuring that it was importantsomehow.

“I don’t—” he began, but his recruits suddenly moved. Asone, they snapped into a crisp cross-chest salute, backs straight, chinsraised, right hands balled into tight fists above their hearts. For a longtime, Hanin just watched them in quiet disbelief, any words he might have saidlost to him as his gaze lingered on each of them, one by one.

All five of them wore the same glove, the dawn mark subtleyet impossible to miss on the backs of their hands.

“Dawn Squad!” they declared suddenly and with surprisingpride. Hanin stared, speechless, his throat tightening traitorously at thesight. All this time it had quietly pained him that they had never reallybonded as a unit. They were the leftovers, after all. A squad cobbled togetherat the last minute to deal with overflow recruits, handed over to Hanin. Made his problem. But to see them standing there,united behind a name and symbol…

Hanin cleared his throat as their flawless salute began towaver, smiles creeping onto their faces as they watched him, waiting for areaction. A response. Anything.

“Three laps,” Hanin declared stiffly, nodding his headtowards the outer boundary of the training ground. “For being late. Go.”

None of them argued, but Darren definitely looked stung bythe sudden dismissal. Cyrus nudged the boy pointedly, stirring him into motionas the group took off in a cacophony of boots on dirt. Hanin watched them go,the glove still in his hand, feeling… strange.It wasn’t that he was ungrateful. As his thumb absently brushed across thedawn mark, he became certain that was not the case. Yet, a broken piece of himwished they hadn’t done it. Wished they’d refused to see him as anything morethan a painful part of their morning routine.

He couldn’t bear it. They were at war. They were soldiers. Losing his family once hadbeen hard enough. But to always be a single bad fight away from losinganother…?

Hanin squeezed his eyes shut, his grip tightening slightlyon the glove. He had a decision to make – an impossible one. One he could nevertruly be prepared for.

And he had three laps to make it.

“W-we did… the wrong thing…” Darren panted as they passedthe second lap of the large training field. It was hard for him, keeping upwith Cyrus, but he needed to talk about it to someone.

“What did you expect?” Cyrus replied, casting him a flatlook, barely even fazed by the run. “A teary-eyed thank you? It’s Hanin,not some dockside whore you graced with an extra coin.”

Darren flushed, breathing hard, wishing he had more air inhis lungs to use for scolding. As it was, he could barely manage the smallconversation he was currently attempting, so he set his indignation aside forlater. “I just… don’t think he… liked it… much.”

“Seriously?” Cyrus snorted, picking up his pace as in thehopes of lose Darren. Stubbornly, Darren forced his legs to move faster,ignoring the sharp pain forming in his side that tugged with each step. Clearlyfrustrated, Cyrus groaned. “Of coursehe liked it. He just sent us away because he needed a minute. Needed to think. It’s just how he is.”

Darren said nothing to that. The worst part of it all wasthat he wanted to believe it was true.So much so that he slowed his pace and let Cyrus pull ahead before he couldchange his mind and contradict himself. They’d all agreed it was a good idea; asmall gesture that Hanin would appreciate. The saddest thing about being wrongwould be that they had all somehow completelymisread him. That just seemed so…

… well, lonely.

Coming to the end of the lap, now towards the end of thegroup as he slowed to nurse the stich in his side, Darren plodded down to a slowjog as he re-joined the dawn squad, lungs aching, muscles tight. He swalloweddryly, sweat sticking his hair to his forehead, then glanced up. Cyrus was watchinghim with an odd look in his eye…

… and he was smiling.

“Form up,” Hanin barked, and they all shifted, moving intotheir usual line on reflex at the command. The elven warrior eyed them allseverely, his posture straight, standing at parade rest as he continued toaddress them. It was the way he acted every morning, and Darren felt hisstomach sink. “On my order, pair off and begin defensive drills. Swapshield-bearer every ten blows. Continue to do this until my signal.Understood?”

“Yes, sir!” they chorused, some more breathlessly thanothers. Darren saluted in time with the rest of his squad, gloved hand tochest, still feeling as though he had swallowed a large, heavy stone. It doesn’t matter, he thought weakly. It was worth a shot, right? At least we cansay we tried.

In front of them, Hanin waited for a long moment, his greeneyes once again flicking between the members of the small, eager group. Eventually,he reached the end of the line and caught Darren’s gaze. He held it for a time,as if waiting for something. Darren fought back the urge to waver, insteadmeeting that intense gaze with his own kind of quiet determination. He would not give in. Not this time.

The faintest of smiles tugged up the corner of Hanin’s lips,and he slowly raised his hand to return the salute. There, emblazoned on the back of Hanin’s clenched fist, wasthe symbol they had chosen for themselves. The symbol that united them as one. The dawn mark.

“Now get going, all of you,” Hanin declared, his voice tingedwith fondness even as he gave the order. “These drills aren’t going to run themselves.”

[thereluctantinquisitor]

You were chased by the cops, got in my car, and yelled "DRIVE!" AU for Dorlen?

“Against All Odds” - Modern AU Pavellan

Dorian Pavus x Varlen Lavellan, approx 1800 words, most under the cut

“DRIVE!”

Varlen yelped and slammed his foot down on the accelerator,his heartrate increasing at an almost identical rate as his car tore off downthe street. Breathing hard, Varlen glanced across, eyes wide with panic. Therewas a man beside him, turned away, clearly intent on something out the window. Vaguely Varlen swore he could hear the sound of distant shouts; of sirens muted by the heavy brick of buildings. For a time, the stranger stayed pressed close to the glass, then abruptlyturned, sinking low in the passenger seat. Varlen could feel his hands shakingas he gripped the wheel, palms slick with sweat.

“Please,” he said quietly, forcing himself to focus on theroad, begging his voice not to tremble. “Don’t hurt me. I’ll take you wherever you want to go, just—”

“Turn here,” the man instructed sharply, cutting him off andgesturing to a street on the right. Varlen, shocked, obeyed with a panicked jerk of thewheel, tires skidding as he swung the car around the corner. Theman made a noise of surprise beside him, his hand flying up to grip the handleabove the door as the force of the turn shoved him to the left.

“Sorry - sorry!” Varlen said, then paused, mentally kicking himself.Why am I apologising to him? He’s not a passenger! He’s carjacking me!

“Quite all right,” the man replied shakily, righting himselfin the seat. Again, he turned and glanced back out the passenger window,peering into the dark. “Although feel free to take it a mite slower next time.I’d hate to pull off such a daring escape only to find myself cast through a windshield.”

Varlen didn’t reply, his hands still shaking, eyes focused intently on the road in front. Don’tlook at him. Don’t make him mad. This will be fine. YOU will be fine. Just…stay calm…

The man let out a quiet breath and turned back to face the front of the car. Varlen’s chest felt too tight - too small to hold all the air he needed for breathing. Was this really happening?! Why? He was a good person! He didn’t deserve–

“I’m not going to hurt you.”

The declaration startled Varlen and he stiffened in his seat.Buildings zipped past to either side of the car in a blur of doors and windows.“I… d-do I just take your word for it?”

“Preferably, yes,” the man said with an absurdly affableshrug. He seemed to have relaxed slightly, sitting more upright in thepassenger seat. Varlen took a gamble and glanced across. He was covered in alight sheen of sweat, as though he had been running. In his lap rested a small,dark satchel. He held it close to him, as though it contained something important. “Ofcourse, if you do not, I can’t say I blame you,” he continued. “I will simplyhave to convince you of the truth.”

Oh god. Varlenswallowed heavily. “And a-ah… how exactly are you going to do that?”

The man turned to face Varlen and cocked an eyebrow. “By not hurting you, of course. How do youthink?”

“Oh.” They came to another intersection and Varlen glancedpointedly at his spontaneous passenger. “Um… are we turning again?”

“Why not? Take another right.”

He did, slower this time, his heart still hammering madly inhis chest, but some of his senses returning to him now that the initial rush ofpanic was beginning to pass. I need toknow what’s happening here, he thought. Whathe wants. There has to be something…

“Are you, ah…” Varlen trailed off, his own voice betraying himas fear closed up his throat for a moment. The man glanced across but saidnothing. He just watched Varlen with a pair of pale, surprisingly patient eyes. Even in thedark, they seemed to stand out, bright like quartz. Clearing his throat slightly, Varlen forcedhimself to continue. “So, are you in trouble, or…?”

That seemed tosurprise the man. An expression of disbelief washed over his face and helaughed, reaching up to sweep a hand back through his dark hair. “Trouble? Yes,I suppose you could call it that. I certainly don’t make a habit of leapinginto the cars of strangers and scaring them half to death!”

Varlen laughed nervously, mostly because it felt like theright thing to do, but it was far too high to sound natural. As if sensingsomething was wrong, his passenger hesitated, then sighed.

“Dorian Pavus.”

The rapid thrumming of Varlen’s heart skidded to a halt.The car continued down the road, streetlights flashing past. “I… what?” Varlen sputtered, horrified, his voice barely above a whisper. He told me his name, he thought, mind spinning. Why? Why would he do that if he was justgoing to let me go? Oh god, he’s going to kill me. He’s going to make me driveto the middle of nowhere and pull over and get out and then he’s going to—

“My name,” the man – Dorian– continued nonchalantly. He was thrumming his fingers on the car door now, therhythm at odds with the low rumble of the engine. “Call it a token of goodfaith. I am placing my trust in you in the hopes that you will feel more inclined to do the same for me.”

“But…” Varlen said, brow furrowing. “This just, I mean… itdoesn’t really change anything does it? Now I know your name, which is probably… y’know… not good…” Trailing off, Varlengenuinely wished he could just learn to stop talking. He was digging his own grave, one stupid word at a time. 

Dorian, for his part, raised his eyebrows at the comment. “You know, Ihadn’t actually considered that. A poor choice on my part. I imagine I justmade matters even worse, yes?”

Unsure of what else to do, Varlen just nodded stiffly, grip tight onthe wheel, his knuckles white. They were still in the city, although closer toits center now. The buildings were packed far more tightly, alleyways barely wide enoughfor two people to stand shoulder to shoulder, late-night entertainment lit with hazy neon signs.

“… You’re not even a little curious?”

Varlen jolted, the car swerving a little in the lane.“C-Curious?” he repeated, his mind slow to comprehend, dulled by anxiety. Doriannodded, one hand still wrapped protectively around the small bag on his lap.

“Yes. After all, I did commandeer your car and you by association. I know I, if I ever found myself in your unfortunate position, would be rather interested toknow why.”

“I just figured I shouldn’t ask,” Varlen said carefully, wondering if this was some sort of trick. He let out another nervous laugh. “The less you know…”

“I was caught stealing,” Dorian said suddenly, without any need for further prompting. Or, well, any prompting. “Tripped an alarm, you see. Quite thedisaster.”

“That’s, ah…” Varlen trailed off for a moment, wracking hisbrain for a response to the confession. “Unfortunate.So… you were running from the police?”

“Indeed. Luckily I knew that section of the city ratherwell. I managed to lose them, but, well… I needed to cover more distance than Icould manage on foot before I was homefree, so to speak.” He glanced over at Varlen and actually smiled. “That’s where you came in, I’mafraid. So sorry about that. Dreadful timing on your part.”

Despite his nervousness, Varlen actually did laugh at that, although it was abitter one. “Yeah, just my luck,” he muttered, then sighed heavily. He turned leftat the next intersection without consulting his passenger, but Dorian didn’tseem to mind now that there were no sirens blaring in the distance. “Was it important?” Varlen continued suddenly, despite his better judgement. “The thing you tried to steal, I mean.”

For the first time since throwing himself unceremoniouslyinto the passenger seat, Dorian actually hesitated, as though the question had physicallytwisted something inside him. “Yes,” he said eventually, his hand tightening onthat small satchel he held. “And I didn’t tryto steal it. I stole it. Rather successfully,might I add, if you ignore the hapless blunderingthat occurred afterwards.”

They drove in silence for a little while. For some strangereason, Varlen didn’t feel as threatened by Dorian now. He didn’t appear to bearmed, and he’d been strangely open about the strange situation they now shared, as ifseeking some kind of reassurance. Validation? Varlen wasn’t sure, but it seemed that askingquestions wasn’t going to be met with disapproval.

“You couldn’t find some other way to get it?” Varlenasked, rounding a bend in the road. He recognised the part of the city theywere in, and a part of him itched to lock the car doors. The hour was late, andpeople staggered down the narrow sidewalks, bumping and shouting at each other inslurred, angry voices. It wasn’t a good place to be. In fact, it was the area where people went when they were looking for the opposite of good.

“Oh believe me, I tried,”Dorian said, almost sounding regretful. “This was something of a last resort. Dreadfully stubborn man. Never let goof something important to you, understand? No matter what you agree upon. A deal is only worth anythingif both parties are willing to uphold it. The moment one decides to go back on their word, itbecomes… well…” He gestured morosely around the car. “This.”

“… A complete disaster?”

Dorian let out a surprised bark of laughter. “Indeed.”He smiled, still chuckling quietly, and cast his gaze out the window. Then, helet out a slow breath. “You can let me out here, if you like. This should befar enough. I wager I have more than outstayed my welcome.”

Here? Varlen casthis eyes nervously around the street, then back to Dorian. “Is that… a goodidea?”

“A good idea? My friend, nothing I’ve done today could be considered even a remotely good idea.” He laughed again then shrugged, although Varlen could see asudden stiffness about the man as he sat there, satchel pressed close to his stomach, hisgaze adamantly locked on the passenger window. Although he was angled away from him, Varlen heard the man swallow. “Might as well add another,” Dorian continued, although with far less casual certainty than before. “For the sake of consistency.”

Despite every rational part of Varlen screaming at him notto, he sighed and locked the car doors. Dorian turned sharply, a fleeting look ofapprehension crossing his face before he quickly tried to mask the emotion with a nervous laugh. “You don’t intend to break my knee-caps and hold me hostage, do you?” he asked. “BecauseI’ve had a rather appalling day as it is.”

“No,” Varlen replied quickly, then glanced across. Somehow, hemanaged to offer what he hoped was a reassuring look. “I’m just going to dropyou off somewhere less… ah…”

Dorian frowned, then glanced back out the window. “… Murder-y?”

“Yeah.”

Clearly taken aback, Dorian just watched Varlen for a time in a stunned silence.Then, finally, he eased himself back into the seat and folded his hands on hislap, both now gripping that dark leather bag. It must mean a lot to him, Varlen thought. Whatever it is that person tried to keep from him.

Finally, after a few more streets had scrolled past, Dorianspoke again.

“Thank you. I… don’t deserve this.”

Feeling strangely at ease, Varlen just let out a quiet huff of laughter. Then, casually, he leanedforward and flicked on the radio.

“Yeah, well, seems we’ve both had some things happen to us todaythat we didn’t exactly deserve,” he replied,then relaxed, combing his fingers through his hair, driving one-handed as heheaded back towards the outer city. “Sometimes it’s just bad luck, y’know?”

Dorian leaned back and released a long,deep breath, as if expelling a measure of tension from his own body. “Yes well…this, I think, turned out rather pleasantly, all things considered.” He paused, thenglanced across apologetically. “For me, I mean. I imagine this has been allmanner of terrifying for you. I… wish it hadn’t happened this way. Truly.”

“Honestly?” Varlen began, then shook his head with an amused chuckle,turning onto a better lit street, beams of light sliding over both of them asthey passed street lamp after street lamp in quick succession. “For acarjacking, this hasn’t been half bad. I almost like you.”

Dorian grinned at that, white teeth flashing as another pulseof light washed over them. “Well, I do tryto make a good impression, no matter the endeavour.”

“Well, congratulations,”Varlen replied, smiling. “Against all odds, you managed it.”

Dorian’s expression softened into his own quiet smile and heclosed his eyes for a moment, as if content.

“Yes. Against all odds, indeed…”

[thereluctantinquisitor]

But what did Dorian steal? Was it something from his parents? I just get the feeling that it was something from his parents' house. Childhood mementos? I'm dying of curiosity!

Well well! Nonny, you’re not wrong… (also @opal-bee and @kurosmind, in case you still happen to be curious)

Pavellan, approx 1200 words. Continuation of “Against All Odds” 

Varlen let the door click shut behind him, the light he hadturned on flickering a few times before finally buzzing to life on the ceiling.This day has been ridiculous, hethought, turning his key in the lock then checking the doorknob. And I am clearly out of my mind.

“This is ah… quite a place you have here.” The man who had carjackedhim, Dorian, was peering suspiciously at Varlen’s coffee table, no doubtattempting to identify if the marks on it were features of the wood or just an eclectic array of stains. Varlen turned and felt his face grow hot. They’d talked a lot more asthey’d drove around the city, and Varlen had (probably unwisely) invited him back to hisplace for a bit. Something didn’t add up about Dorian, sure, but he didn’t really strike Varlen as dangerous. It was obvious he wasn’tcarrying any weapons on him. Just that satchel and an impressive mustache.

“Yeah,” Varlen said, his voice apologetic as he moved overto the couch. He sat down on it with a rushing sigh, then winced as a piece offoam burst out from the cushion and wandered across the floor. “I um… wasn’texpecting company, so…”

Dorian turned and arched an eyebrow. “That would have madeall the difference, I suppose?”

Despite his embarrassment, Varlen couldn’t help but laugh at the truth behind the comment. “No,probably not.” He paused, then gestured to one of the chairs. “You can sitdown, if you want. They may lookdiseased, but there’s nothing living in them.” I don’t think…

“Well, consider my standards met,” Doriandrawled, but sat regardless. He leaned back, sighing. The satchel remained nestled safely inhis lap. Varlen eyed it quietly for a moment, and his curiosity got the betterof him.

“So… can I ask what’s in the bag?”

Dorian’s grey eyes flashed, flicking towards him, and for asecond Varlen thought he’d made him angry. However, the moment passed, andDorian relaxed again, sighing and sinking further into the decrepit chair. “Isuppose,” he said airily, waving a hand lethargically before letting it flop back into hislap. “It’s the least I can do, after all, given the miraculous rescue youperformed.”

“Not willingly,”Varlen pointed out, then grinned, “but hey, I’ll take it.”

With a light snort, Dorian sat quietly or a moment,fingertips toying with the clasp of the bag. Then, almost reluctantly, heopened it and pulled out its contents. Varlen tensed, not sure what to expect.

He certainly hadn’t expected a book.

“Yes, scandalous, isit not?” Dorian said, taking note of Varlen’s bemused expression. “All thattrouble… for this.”

“I mean… I…” Varlen gave up trying to justify it and justshook his head. “Why? Is it like… afirst edition or something? Is it super rare? Worth thousands?”

“Not at all.” Dorian’s gaze had fallen to the leather cover,and a soft smile drifted across his face as he gently eased it open with a satisfying creak. “Just… well,sentimental drivel, I suppose. It was given to me by a good friend. One I miss rather terribly, as I recently discovered. Hence the heist.”

“Wait,” Varlen said, raising a hand, face scrunched into adeep, bewildered expression. “So you mean to tell me you broke into someone’s house… for a book.” He pointed. “That book.”

“Yes.”

Varlen had nothing to say to that. He just raised hiseyebrows in disbelief and shook his head. “That’s… well, whoever it was from, they musthave meant a lot to you.”

“He was… a good friend. A good man, really.” Dorian spoke slowly, his voice growing distant as hebrushed his fingertips across the back of the cover. “A better one than I willever be, at least. Not that such a thing would take much, mind you.”

By the tone of Dorian’s voice alone, Varlen could tell thiswas a difficult thing for him to share. He watched as the dark-haired man swallowedtightly, pursed his lips, then blinked a few times, as if forcing somethingback. Holding something in.

“What was his name?” Varlen asked eventually. Gently. “Did he writethat?”

Dorian let out a surprisingly watery laugh. “What? This? Heaven’s no. This… was his father’swork, actually. One of his first publications. I… apprenticed under him for atime.” He smiled to himself, then gently closed the book. “Felix kept me sane,you know. He would sneak me food when I forgot to eat. Force me to go outsideand breathe the fresh air, if thereeven is such a thing. I… the first year I spent working with his father, hegave me this for my birthday. Blessed fool even signed the cover like some sort ofpseudo-celebrity. His idea of a joke, I think…”

Dorian trailed off, and Varlen said nothing, feeling asurprising pang of empathy for the man sitting in his battered old chair,curved over that leather-bound book. However, eventually, Varlen found anotherquestion begging to be asked.

“So… why did you have to steal it?”

“Well, I couldn’t just askfor it,” Dorian began blithely, then hesitated, a dark expression suddenly liningthe corners of his mouth and eyes. “My parents had it. It was sent to them,apparently. Had I requested it, they would have likely destroyed it purely to spiteme.”

Varlen cringed, leaning forward to rest his elbows on hisknees. “So you had to steal it.”

“Yes.” Dorian sighed, reaching up to rub at his eyes. “Ratherunfortunate situation, I’m afraid. They had upgraded their security measures since I last lived in that cursed house. But… I do apologise for dragging you into all of this. I imaginedriving terrified through the inner city then harbouring a criminal wasn’t quite how you planned on spendingyour evening.”

Varlen forced a chuckle, still feeling bad on behalf of hisnew houseguest. “Yeah well… it’s not so bad. I’m not murdered in a ditch, so I have that going for me.”

He glanced across to catch Dorian arching his eyebrow at him. “You… haverather low standards, Varlen. You know that, yes?”

“Yeah, well, I mean…” Varlen gestured around the crampedspace, every object in it trapped in some sorry state of disrepair. “That shouldbe pretty obvious by now.”

Dorian laughed at that, leaning back, the sound rolling easilyfrom his chest. It was the first genuinely relaxed thing he’d done that entireevening. Perhaps, tucked away in such a small, nondescript apartment, he feltsafe from the repercussions of his crime. Perhaps he was right to feel thatway. This would probably be the last place anyone thought to look for him.

With that thought in mind, Varlen suddenly spoke. “You can stay the night here, if you want.” Dorian, whose eyes had actually drifted closed for a moment, snappedopen to look at him, as though shocked. Varlen felt his cheeks grow hot and hecleared his throat. “I uh… have a spare bed. Well it’s not a bed exactly, more a blow-up mattress, but youcan use it if you’d feel better here then… at your place… y’know, if your parents suspect…”

Nailed it, Varlenthought bitterly as he trailed off, cringing and burying his face in his hands, pretending to rub his eyes. Yep. Smoothest talkerin the city right here. I should give lessons. Start a class. Write a book. Lecture at a unive—

“You… are a very kind person, Varlen.” Doriansaid suddenly, startling Varlen out of his despair. He paused, regarding Varlen with those quartz-grey eyes, then smiled,causing Varlen’s cheeks flush yet again. “I would be rather foolish to turn downsuch a generous offer, given the circumstances.”

Varlen blinked for a moment, stunned that Dorian hadactually agreed. “Wait, so… you will?Stay, I mean.”

“If you will have me, yes.”

In a rush, Varlen launched to his feet, suddenly strangelypanicked. What am I meant to do? I don’tthink anyone’s ever stayed the night at this dump of a place before! Where’s thatmattress… shit, I can’t remember… wait… maybe…

“I… ah…” Varlen paused, forcing himself to stop, then took a deep, calming breath. Significantlymore composed, he cleared his throat pointedly and turned to meet Dorian’squizzical stare. “May I offer you a beverage.”

Dorian let out a surprised laugh at the sudden formality,then relaxed into a smile as Varlen’s composure broke and he grinned back stupidly. 

“Please.”