#it's always sunny at skyhold

[nirikeehan]

i will wip that wednesday

tagged by @melisusthewee and @theluckywizard for the first wip wednesday of the new year. what have i been working on?

Curse of Strahd crossover nonsense, of course.

I "jokingly" envisioned a sequel to It's Never Sunny in Barovia, called It's Always Sunny at Skyhold. What's the premise of that one? Oh, instead of Thalia in Barovia, it's Metrion at Skyhold. Naturally.

Anyway this scene is about Thalia trying to break it to her boyfriend Cullen that she's got a new bestie and he's a shady motherfucker. Cullen exhibits the patience of a saint.

---

“I don’t believe this.” Thalia stands. “I make one friend, just one friend my own age since I was at the Circle, and the rest of you decide he’s got to be a bad influence on me? I’m not a child, you know.” 

Cullen raises his hands as if in surrender, his face gone pale. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply that.” 

He steps out from behind the desk, crossing the space to her. Lightly, he puts his hands on her shoulders. Thalia wants to flinch away petulantly, but worries that would disprove her own point. She waits, seething, as Cullen leans down and kisses her on the forehead. The tenderness melts her resolve. 

“Forgive me,” he murmurs. “I spent the better part of two months afraid I’d never see you again.”

Thalia sighs, leaning into him. The fur along his collar is soft against her cheek. “I understand that. But if you’re looking for someone to blame, it’s not Metrion. It’s that awful vampire we killed.” 

“So the reports say.” Cullen puts his arms around her, though she feels an unspoken but in the tenseness of his muscles. 

“He’s not so bad. He really isn’t. Dubious past aside.” Thalia chews her lip. She wants to tell him more, but she promised. “And it means a lot. He likes me for me. It wasn’t the fancy title or the accolades that made him want to be my friend.” In fact, she suspects Metrion can hardly stand that he’s fallen in with some sort of political powerhouse. 

Cullen frowns, pulling back to arm’s length. He looks at her a little sadly. “And is that what you think of the rest of us?” 

“No!” She ducks her chin, embarrassed. “That’s not what I meant. Just that — well, it is true everyone I’m closest to started out as allies, or colleagues. Even Pravin. We wouldn’t even have reconnected at all if not for the Inquisition.” She shrugs. “But I was just some girl who was lost, and Metrion decided to help me anyway. If you think there’s a grift in this, he’s certainly playing the long game.” 

Cullen hugs her again. “All right, all right. I’ll trust your judgment on this one — unless he gives me a reason not to.” A pause. “It would help, I suppose, if I actually met the man.” 

Thalia frowns. “You haven’t?” Well, Skyhold is large, and Metrion certainly has a knack for only being noticed if he wishes himself to be. Even the day her column arrived at Skyhold, he slipped out the back of the caravan instead of suffering the official welcome. She found him later, on the battlements, face tilted toward the sun. 

“He’s often in the tavern, I’m told.” Which, unfortunately, doesn’t surprise her. 

“If he is, I haven’t seen him. Perhaps he’s avoiding me on purpose?” Cullen’s voice is light, but he’s not entirely joking. “I could understand if someone of his— er, caliber, might not desire the company of the Inquisition’s commander.”

“Perhaps.” Thalia’s frown deepens, because Metrion’s only comment on Cullen so far has been I get it, love, which she has taken as tacit approval of her romantic choices. “Does this mean I ought to arrange an introduction?” 

Her heart thumps uncertainly at the prospect. She would very much like for Cullen and Metrion to get along, although she worries Metrion’s aversion to authority figures will pose a significant obstacle. Likewise, she has been hoping that her report might open Cullen’s eyes to Metrion’s better qualities, but there is no way she can erase Pravin’s assessment from his mind. 

 “If he’s amenable to it,” Cullen says carefully. The corner of his mouth tugs upward. “I would like to thank him, at least. For taking care of you in my absence.” 

Thalia blushes. “I’m, ah. Not sure he would see it that way.” Their time in Barovia has already sunk into a dismal, horrible blur. The memories she holds most dear are the small moments in which they’d been able to be themselves, without pretense. She’s told Metrion things about her time in the Circle that no one else knows, and in turn he entrusted her with secrets she never plans on sharing — where he’s come from, for instance, and from whom he’s running. 

Tagging to participate, if interested:

@monocytogenes | @delicatefade | @bluewren | @rowanisawriter | @velnat004

[thedragonagelesbian]

YeahTM

cyrus gardening..........

[arlathen]

both solas and amadea will tell you they're not gods. but by virtue of being so powerful and immortal, of being so disconnected from the world, and of having done such legendarily impossible things, they come to be known as gods. over the decades -- and centuries, even -- they answer calls for direct aid a scant few times, but every time it is a threat that could not have been defeated without them, and the victories -- earned or unearned -- become theirs. they become miracles. divine intervention.

they don't answer prayers or receive the offerings -- it's placebo in the way prayers and offerings always have been. but the city that looms above the fade that, legends say and ancient arcane texts confirm, was once black and blighted but now gleams golden like a sun, is where they are known to reside. and the locks and walls that once kept dreamers from reaching it and that once kept it's occupants contained have long since dissolved. you can reach it, if you know how -- but truthfully, the new gods are as often found wandering the fade as they are in their golden city.

the halla -- she never takes this form, but what had been shrines to ghilan'nain become shrines to the guide in the wake of the final blight. she is the goddess of hope, of love, of patience, of persistence, of guidance. the gentle mother, the healer, the lodestar. as a mortal woman she had had power thrust upon her and she had led her faithful through the impossible, had been kind and merciful to a fault, sensible and devoted to the concept of peace. amadea -- protector of the morning. the dawn will come -- she ensures it. the darkness will not last forever. follow the guide, follow the lodestar in the night, keep hope. skyhold is a pilgrimage site, these days.

and the wolf -- never inciting dread, now, such that the other half of the moniker is all but forgotten to time. god of freedom, god of wisdom, of truth, of pride -- not in the sense of folly, but in the sense of standing tall. of rebellion. of never accepting things as they are but always looking toward what they could be. god of idealism. the guardian. his history is long and muddy. hero, traitor, world-ender, world-saver. when spoken to, the wolf never clarifies which he is. the past informs, but does not shackle. he walks beside the guide most often as a tall elven man, but often, too, takes the form of a white wolf to trot at her heels. rumors persist, in historical accounts of the final blight and in murals found in the oldest ruins, of the great black wolf, slavering, many-eyed. this is a form reserved for enemies and few of them survive the encounter long enough to tell about it.

stories of stumbling upon the new gods while dreaming are many. while wandering the fade, one may find oneself within a memory of a white-sand beach or a sunny clearing or a great, gleaming ballroom and find two elves wading in water or picnicking or dancing through a crowd of spirits. they accept no worship but are happy to talk. and while they do not hear the prayers, those whose wishes for their counsel and comfort are most dire tend to find themselves dreaming of slow-falling snow outside a hearth-warmed sitting room -- and tend to find two elves sitting before them.

the surest way to reach them is, of course, in the resurrected city of arlathan. what once had been a simple hall with an eluvian is now a temple. and the priesthood -- which had started as a few friends of the wolf and the halla committed to keeping petitioners from needlessly disturbing their peace -- has grown into a small legion of librarians and archivists who collect lore and record the wisdom and guidance the new gods dispense. before anyone seeks out answers beyond the eluvian, the faithful first research and discuss the problem and attempt to solve it themselves. how can one follow the lodestar, after all, if he has not even opened his eyes? how can one reach for the steadying hand of the god of standing tall if she has made no attempt to first stand on her own?

not gods, but maybe the closest thing thedas has to it.

[daitranscripts]

The Ideal Romance Pt. 4

A Bouquet of Flowers

Related Location: Val Royeaux

Cassandra Masterpost First: It Is Impossible Previous: The Bookseller

The PC travels to the markets of Val Royeaux and speaks to an elf there.

Gardener: By the Maker, it’s the Inquisitor himself! Would you care for a bouquet of flowers, Your Worship? The roses have been exceptional this season.

1 - Dialogue options:

Investigate: You sell flowers? [2]

General: [Get flowers for Cassandra.] [3]

General: No, thanks. [4]

2 - Investigate: You sell flowers? PC: You sell flowers, I take it? Gardener: Oh, I don’t sell them as much as I grow them—all for the halls of the Winter Palace.

Gardener (Celene died): I once received an honor from Empress Celene herself. Alas, the poor dear. Gardener (Celene alive): Empress Celene does so love the pink daisies. They’re quite difficult to cultivate.

Gardener: But I don’t think they’d begrudge a few flowers for the Herald of Andraste. It can be our little secret. [back to 1]

3 - General: [Get flowers for Cassandra.] PC: I was looking for some flowers, in fact. Gardener: Indeed? For what occasion, if I may ask? PC: For… a lady friend. Gardener: Oh! No simple wildflowers for you, then. I have just the thing. I’ll send them to Skyhold, in fact—rare beauties your lady will adore!

4 - General: No, thanks. PC: Sorry, I’m a bit busy at the moment. Gardener: Of course. Au revoir, Your Worship.

5 - Scene ends.

If the PC speaks to her again:

Gardener: Lovely day, isn’t it? So bright and sunny.

Gardener: Strange how the flowers still grow even with that thing in the sky.

Gardener: You’re always a welcome sight, Inquisitor.

Next: I'd Like to Talk. Privately.

[dragonagecompanions]

For author of ASOIAF Inquisitor: Inner Circle reaction to the events at Hardhome?

Cassanda: And so it boils down to this. From the very beginning the Seeker has wondered when the Wall and whatever lives beyond it will have its say and at last it has come. There are so many plots that a less avid reader might struggle to keep them apart, but Cassandra's focused determination -and the tiny war table she keeps in her quarters, outlining the series- means that when the Night King finally reveals himself she can see the whole field converging.

And it is wonderful.

Varric: Look, everyone thinks they can write a book, but most people never will. His greatest work, which garnered enough notoriety that his career was jump started, was more fact than fiction and yet still was a struggle for the first few drafts. He writes novellas and periodicals because, quite frankly, keeping more than one or two story lines going is annoying and splinters focus.

Which means that with everything happening in the Seven Kingdoms somehow the fall of Hardhome should lack the impact that such an important watershed should have-- and yet somehow dancing from sunny Mereen to the icy tundra of Beyond the Wall as the end of the world draws suddenly near loses nothing for the complexity of its surroundings.

He needs to up his game.

Solas: And so the enemies begin to show their faces. From the first moment of this series the rift mage has seen very few of the plot twists coming, and as he settles back in the solitude of his rotunda this is no different. He had suspected that some of what lay beyond the wall was political fear mongering, that the watch were making ready for their own coup. But to see the Night King being his march with the icy truth that death is truly only fodder for more is....mesmerizing. All the schemes of the Seven Kingdoms fall short of this new terror, and yet so few fail to see it growing at their very borders.

He feels a kinship, there.

Blackwall: Jon Snow would have made a proper Warden. It's easy to see the similarities between wights and darkspawn, and the terrible pressure of a man set to meat unearthly foes. The Seven Kingdoms have a blight of their own on the way, make no mistake, and for a brief moment Skyhold's would be warden is ready to take arms with the King of the North whose name is Stark.

Belatedly he will chastise himself for such foolishness, but it will be on his mind for weeks afterwards, how their inquisitor intends to resolve this-- and what the fate of it all will be.

Vivienne: It stinks of Ferelden propaganda at first, and if there had not been so much else written Madame de Fer might have accused their fearless leader of pandering to King Alistair. But from the inquisitors first words in the series something has lurked behind the walls-- and while others may have been drawn in by the Lannisters and their tricks no player of the great game loses sight of an enemy for long and lives to tell of it. The Stark boy's gambit was a good one, but in showing his hand too early he has caught the attention of something far greater-- and with only an alliance with the Wildlings it seems the Starks are set to loose another scion.

It bears watching-- and is worth the effort to make sure their inquisitor has adequate writing time.

Sera: Friggin' dead people not staying dead, little people turning to monsters and all the big people too focused on their pointy chair. Arrows is what it needs, and dragons. The Red Jenny expels many a cookie and arrow on her targets, too antsy to sit and wait to read more-- and bothering their Inquisitor will only delay the process.

Friggin' words.

Iron Bull: Necromancy, why does it always come back to that? 5000 wildings against an army that just uses your fallen against you? And no promise of alliance or even peace with anyone else? Magic at your back and politics at the front? It sounds like the worst of Seheron, and that always makes his horns itch. At least the 'Vints didn't regenerate, though their magic certainly didn't help.

For all his training and his scheming the Ben Hassrath agent never saw the Night King coming so soon, and as Jon Snow flees again the Charger's leader is suddenly starting to wonder if the Seven Kingdoms is expected to survive at all.

And if not, does that bode well, for Thedas?

Dorian: Really, this is a bit beyond his ability to excuse. For the Night King to be able to permanently rouse so many, particularly in a state of constant obediant reanimation, would require massive amounts of power. And even then his thralls would be shambling disorganized things. It seems that this great and terrible ruler of the north has more in common with a plague bearer than any true Necromancer, and that is a benefit. Plagues can be burned out, with enough fire and steel.

No the real threat still lives in Kings Landing-- and Dorian can only hope the younger son of House Lannister can prove his wit and bring the Mother of Dragons home to roost--before his nest is burned alive.

Cullen: Jon Snow was right to retreat, ahead of a more fearsome army and in a bad position. Skyhold's commander knows a losing battle when he sees it, and moving back south of the wall to regroup is a sound military tactic. Without realizing it Cullen has set and reset his own maps to match the fictional war playing out in his mind--both a relief from their own recent retreat, and to watch what is growing in the south.

Josephine: It is horrible, of course, what the Night King is doing, but also so exciting to see the stories that have so far been on the periphery come to the forefront. But while attack is terrible the ambassador is truly relieved that Loboda falls in the attack. Such a crass and violent leader is not a good ally for peace, and his death at the hands of the enemy will certainly motivate the Wildings without the risks that come with assassination.

They are in a bad spot, of course, but she has faith it will be seen through. And quickly-- the suspense is ruining her schedules.

Leliana: She doesn't finish it. Can't, without seeing the fallen of the blight and imagining her warden friends in that same terrible spot. Josie tells her enough to know what is to come, but the spymaster must read enough terrible things in her day-- this need not be one.

-Mod Fereldone

[midmorninggrey]

Hiya! Dunno if i'm late, but maybe 18 or 25 from the Artifacts of Thedas prompts? c:

Hey, it's never too late for prompts!! Thank you lots for sending these over. Short and sweet scenes are a joy to get back into.

(I will probably do #18 later, but I'm going to make myself post this one now.)

"25. An empty chest with scratch marks around the lock" from the wonderful Artifacts of Thedas writing prompts.

“Be careful,” her father said at the door. “Don’t touch anything.”

There wasn’t much for Celeste to touch in the burned farmhouse, and what was left had already been picked through by her father and the Seeker while she and Cole waited outside in the Ferelden sunshine. Still, she seized the chance to enter the dark house. Celeste always hoped to find something they’d missed.

The house had been built by a prosperous family, now gone. On their approach, she had seen the neat fences that remained around pastures, but the first sign of druffalo was a half-burned hide lying beside the cold hearth. The fire had swallowed half the house. Part of the thatched roof had been eaten by the flames, but the patch of sunlight the hole let in did nothing to brighten the charred, crumbling remains. The house stank of ruin.

Sniffing, Celeste ducked towards the back of the house, which the fire had spared. A thin mattress, leaking clumps of druffalo hair, was tossed in the corner. Someone had been at it with a knife, she thought, and not her father or the Seeker; they would have been cleaner. The same knife had been used on a great chest that was lying overturned on the floor. The polish must have once gleamed on a sunny day, but now desperate hacks and scratches dulled it. The thick wood had held against the attack, but the lock was weaker. The blade had chewed the metal before cracking it.

She knelt down to look inside, and then Cole stood beside her. He swayed, but the floorboards did not creak beneath his boots.

“What do you think was in it?” she asked. With her finger, Celeste drew a line through the dust gathered on the bottom of the chest, catching a hint of cedar.

Cole started in a rush. “Five head to market, a bursting spring. Heavy silver for bells, too heavy to carry - ”

“Wait, Cole,” Celeste cut in. “That’s not really the game.”

“The game?” He asked, the tip of his head exaggerated by his hat.

Celeste sat back on her heels. “Like, you guess the best thing that could be in the box. Even if it's made up. Like a big giant glowing spider that will catch your enemies. Or old maps to a forgotten temple. Or old love letters between two people who aren’t supposed to love each other or something.”

“Those are all things you want.”

“I suppose,” Celeste shrugged.

She didn’t mind Cole being in her head. After her weeks of interrogation at Haven and the days she now spent on display within Skyhold’s walls, it was a relief to not choose which version of herself to share. Everyone wanted something different from The Herald, she knew, yet she was learning she could not satisfy anyone. They deemed her cold and unnatural when she was calm; when she cried, they dismissed her as a child. The arrival of her father had taken many of the eyes and tongues away from her. Even when people had time to gossip between the orders of the newly appointed Inquisition Regent, few risked his ire by speaking of her unkindly. Celeste told herself she was not afraid of her father, but the year they’d spent apart was a gap not easily crossed even now that they could stand together again. She found herself trying to find the right version of herself for him, too.

“You used to play the game with your father,” Cole piped up. “You laughed.”

“Yes,” Celeste admitted, glancing over her shoulder. Her father and the Seeker were outside, but not out of earshot.

She couldn’t be in Cole’s mind, so she made due by peering up under his hat. “What’s your guess?”

“Something that makes the red fade, flash, then go. It will make them whole. A blanket, wrapped blue -”

“No,” Celeste interrupted again, frowning. “Those are things I want. What do you want?”

“The same. You want peace,” he said. “I want the hurt to stop.”

Celeste looked back to the empty chest and wished it were full.

“I don’t want the spider,” Cole was quick to add. “It’s very big.”

[noire-pandora]

Welcome to DADWC!! How about "Hey listen to me, nothing's going to hurt you. You're safe." ❤️❤️❤️

Thank you! I like to write soft!Solavellan more but with this one I had to dip my toes in angst. For @dadrunkwriting

The warm spring air caressed Solas' cheeks as he strolled along the green paths of a small village with a smile on his lips. The sunny, honey-like scent of the Linden trees swaying lazily in the breeze mingled with the various smells of an elven settlement bustling with people.

Solas inhaled deeply, the spring air easing the burden that weighed heavily on his chest. For a few hours, he lost himself in the memories preserved in the Fade. Memories of a time long gone, when the world still sang the same song. Of a world that did not bleed from a wound he had caused.

A laughing group of children ran alongside his legs, his fingers twitching under the pricing need to ruffle their tangled hair. The smile on his lips melted like snow in spring as the realisation stung his heart: no matter how much he wished for it, those days were over. And it was his fault. He closed his eyes to stop the tears from running down his cheeks. His fault. Always his fault.

A loud, piercing scream broke the trail of bitter thoughts that plagued him, and the image of the village dissolved into a green mist. When another scream followed within seconds, Solas ordered his mind to leave the Fade and wake up.

The icy mountain air felt like a slap to his cheeks after walking into the warm air of the Fade, but he ignored the sensation as a third scream echoed through the dark room.

Beside him, the Inquisitor struggled to free herself from the grasp of the furs that now bound her to the bed as indistinguishable words and whimpers left her lips.

"Vhenan," he reached for her, but Elluin pushed him away, the terror of the nightmares he had learned to recognise darkening her eyes. "It is I, Solas, I mean you no harm."

At the sound of his voice, she stopped struggling in vain as the furs wrapped around her legs and arms. "He's after me," she screamed as Solas came to her aid. "He's attacking Haven."

The He, Solas suspected, was Corypheus , and the painful events of the past came back to haunt her dreams. Again.

"We have to escape! Now!"

He reached for her shoulder and held her gently before she had a chance to run away and hurt herself. "Elluin, we are not in Haven anymore. He can not hurt you anymore.

"No longer in Haven?" she whispered with a hint of fear in her voice, as if she was afraid corypheus might hear her if she spoke too loudly.

"Yes, Vhenan," Solas said for another night. The eleventh night, he reminded himself. Too many nights in a row for a soul to suffer.. "We are in Skyhold. And this is your private quarter. You have escaped him before."

Elluin looked at him with hopeful eyes, terror slowly giving way to logic and insight. "Is everyone alright? Cassandra and the others? What about the soldiers and the..." she muttered as worry took her breath away.

"You saved as many as you could, Vhenan. And our companions are alive and well."

"Are you sure?"

He nodded, pulling her into his arms and planting a kiss to her sweaty hair. "Yes. I sensed their essence in the Fade while they slept. Except for Master Tethras, I know they all sleep and walk in the Fade."

Elluin grabbed his shirt and squeezed it as if it was a lifeline to reality, her fingernails grazing his skin. "Are you sure he's not nearby and about to attack us?"

"Yes, Vhenan." The words came quickly to his lips. A formula he'd learned in the nights she'd woken up screaming. "The wards we posted near the castle would have informed me of his presence. He is not near us, and he is not attacking us yet."

"We are safe? But what I just saw...."

His hand slid down the side of her face in a warm caress, his fingers finally cupping her chin and lifting it. "My heart, listen to me. You are safe. No one is going to hurt you at this moment. I will not let them. It was merely a nightmare."

Tears ran down her cheeks and a sob that stabbed like a sharp dagger into his heart left her lips, too loud in the silence of the night. He kissed Elluin's forehead and stroked her head as she buried her face against his chest, crying out the fear that swept through her dreams every night.

And every night Solas held her in his arms, a flimsy shield against the terrible images that hounded and tormented her mind. It was the least he could do after cursing Elluin with this fate.

It was his fault. It was always his fault.

[asgardianhobbit98]

A first-lines meme!

Rules: List the first lines of the last ten (10) stories you published. Look to see any patterns you notice yourself, and see if anyone else notices any. Then tag some friends.

aighttt @sunnyrosewritesstuff tagged me in this so I'm gonna give it a go! Just wanna add, btw, that it all looked really good sunny! I saw a pattern! They're all great ways to immediately inform the reader what the story / chapter is about! Just pulls them right in :3 👌

1. 28 Day February Challenge 2022 - "Their first kiss was back in the Blue Mountains, and Thorin had walked in on them."

2. She's Your Sister? - "“Bilbo left?”"

3. Personal Space - "Anders had arrived at Skyhold alongside of Marian Hawke unbeknownst to everyone except for Varric."

4. Depriving Oneself of Comfort - "“Ah! No, no!” Anders raised a hand and tried his best to remember the right commands to make this dog listen."

5. Pretend Illnesses - "Marian Hawke discreetly stood leaned against the doorway, watching Anders rush around his clinic during what seemed to be a random rush hour of patients."

6. A Winchester Christmas - "“What... the hell is all this?”"

7. Breaking Rules - "“Father always told me not to abuse my magic like this.”"

8. The Only Gift's He'd Ever Need - "Anders’ body took in a deep breath through its nose, before he himself, now awake, breathed it out in a sigh, eyes fluttering open."

9. He's Just Guarding Us - "Placing a kiss onto Marian's belly, then one between her breasts, and lastly a long, sweet kiss against her lips, Anders let out a content sigh."

10. Anders' New Favourite Holiday - "“These human customs turn stranger and stranger the longer I spend time with you.”"

well I see a clear pattern lol - either I start with a pretty long sentence explaining what one character is doing, or I start with dialogue XD also - I need to write about other characters than my baby Anders XD

tagging - asjkdjsha I don't know who has done this so - anyone who fancies a go?? aaaand (sorry if you've already been tagged) @scyllas-revenge and @anders-did-nothing-wrong aaand @bish-0-p please don't feel forced to do this though :3 💜

[maudus1]

May I please as what the Lavellan twins would think of my Inquisitor oc Tash Adaar? He's a twelve year old hedge mage Tal-Vashoth with a sunny disposition and powerful magic, and he likes helping Josephine with paperwork.

Only twelve?! He baby 🥺

(For this I'll go with my OG class variations for the twins - Elaria's first PT was as a Knight-Enchanter, and Da'riel a DW Assassin)

Elaria would be concerned by the burden of such a position being placed upon his youthful shoulders. As the First of Clan Lavellan, she would be intrigued by his talent for magic as well as his culture and thus take it upon herself to take Tash under her wing - training with him at Skyhold whenever they had free time, and researching qunari magic practices and history in the library with Dorian.

Whatever she could to aid his growth both as Inquisitor and as a developing mage, she'd do. As someone with a similarly bright disposition I think they would get along wonderfully, and she could help him maintain that cheer when the going gets rough, either by providing an ear or a shoulder as needed.

Da'riel is a bit wary of mages outside his clan in the beginning, as he better trusts the Dalish to train their young in a free and unbiased environment (to him, caging a person - mage or otherwise, literally or metaphorically - only inspires violence and rebellion, thus putting young mages as well as those around them at worse risk). He'd be cautious, but as one with a soft spot for the innocent and vulnerable, also very protective - though Creators know he'd never admit that's the real reason why he lingers close, keeping a watchful eye. In time he'd warm and probably attempt to teach Tash some self defense, even gift him a small, personally crafted dagger to hide within his belt.

He was also the primary provider for his family and Clan Lavellan's most skilled hunter. As such, he would always ensure they're well stocked and full-bellied when settling into their bedrolls at camp, and keep dried fruits, nuts, berries, and whatever else he could forage upon his person in case Tash needs a boost while they travel.

Basically huge Big Sis and Big Bro vibes all around, the difference being that Elaria would take a heavier mentor and moral support role whereas Da'riel would be the bodyguard and ass-kicker of anyone who looks at Tash wrong. 😂

[cheri-translates]

[CN] Shaw’s Encounter Date

🍒 Warning: This post contains detailed spoilers for a date (and Season 2) which has not been released in English servers! 🍒

It’s important to know what’s going on in Season 2 so you wouldn’t get confused in this date. Do read this post if you don’t! :)

Parallel World Dates Collection: Gavin // Kiro // Victor

Check out @skyholders​‘ translation of Lucien’s date here!

Making use of the university vacation, I return to Loveland City to begin practicing producing programs with the company.

Once I'm done with my afternoon work, I smile and lean towards Anna’s desk.

MC: We did quite a lot today. Thank you Anna. 

Anna: I didn’t actually teach you much. You’re quick-witted, and you move fast. 

In front of her desk, Anna looks at the time and smiles at me. 

Anna: There’s nothing much left for today. Go back early, and I’ll see you tomorrow. 

Standing under the office building, I look towards the continuous crowd on the road and let out a long sigh. 

During this season, Loveland City is the same as always, filled with water vapour and lush greenery. This normal afternoon is similar to the peacefulness and comfort in my memory.

Everything I've been through before, along with time’s unstoppable passage, causes familiar and foreign faces to continuously overlap. 

Clearing my head, I stand at the bus stop. A bus happens to stop, and it displays three numbers: 330. 

My heart suddenly skips a beat. I act without thinking, stepping forward like a puppet. 

“Ding.”

When I regain my senses, I’m already on the bus that’s travelling in a completely opposite direction from my home. 

MC: ...

I can’t help but release a sigh, mocking myself silently in my heart. 

There aren’t many passengers on the bus. I sit at the same seat as before - the one against the window. 

Outside the bus windows, pedestrians weave around busily. The noon sunlight falls onto the glass, making one feel warm. 

However, I can’t help but recall that scene--

The early morning. Empty streets. Everyone feeling anxious in response to the danger...

And that unreasonable person who arrives and leaves whenever he wants to. 

It seems like a world away, but it was real. 

An inexplicable bitterness arises in my heart, and I rub my eyes. 

MC: Where... could you be now? 

While I’m mumbling to myself, the bus happens to stop at a familiar crossing. I lift my head subconsciously, staring closely at the entrance, as though anticipating something. 

Even after the doors shut, no one boards the bus.

I smile in self-mockery, returning my gaze to the window. 

MC: It makes sense. It didn’t happen at this time originally... since he said he wouldn’t be late again, I’ll trust him for once. 

With the roar of the engine, the bus continues on the road. 

Suddenly, along with the sound of wheels violently scraping the ground, the bus stops. 

Losing my balance, I hit the chair in front of me with a dull thud.

MC: Ouch...

Bus driver: Do you want to die! You dare to block a bus!

The driver’s cursing brings me back to my senses. Even though I know I shouldn’t harbour such expectations, I can’t help but lift my head--

Carrying a long black bag, the lavender-haired man walks over. 

[Note: Some CN players pointed out that Shaw shouldn’t be carrying a long black bag i.e. guitar bag. He should be carrying a skateboard.]

Under his scattered bangs, his lazy eyes meet mine. 

He still has that casual and arrogant look, and doesn’t seem to care about the episode he just caused.

The light casts a faint halo on his messy hair, making every step he takes towards me appear unhurried. 

In the next second, he sits down in the seat next to me.

I feel a little confused, as though someone has pressed a “freeze” button on me. I’m so shocked that I can’t move. I can only stare at him.

He puts down his skateboard, placing it upright in between us. He crosses his legs and takes out a black mp4 from his pocket--

Only now does my blood continue to flow. I sense a wave of inexplicable happiness within me, and I blink my slightly swollen eyes slowly.

Noticing my gaze, he turns his head over, eyebrows arched high. One corner of his lips crooks up into a smile. 

Shaw: You want to listen? 

MC: N-no.

I wave my hands subconsciously. Only after saying this do I realise the familiarity of this conversation. 

In the quiet bus, that familiar tune of <<Holiday>> flows from his earpieces, though it isn’t very clear. 

The familiar scene is like a replay. My heart feels as though it’s been tapped by something, and it’s difficult to remain calm. 

Feeling slightly confused by this coincidental meeting with Shaw, I can’t help but turn and give him a glance, unsure of what to say. 

MC: You...

Shaw: You want to ask about this? 

Shaw casually sways the black cube in his hand with a half-smile. 

Shaw: It’s a music player. 

Different from typical music players, it has two extra dials at the bottom. The metal panel looks very shiny and smooth, as though it hasn’t been used for long. 

Even though there are many things I want to say to him, I think about the “warning”--

“Your unintentional actions may lead to irretrievable consequences.”

I bite my lip and decide to quell my ideas. I continue. 

MC: ...I see. 

For some inexplicable reason, a patter of rain suddenly descends on this originally sunny afternoon. Before I can think about it, the bus makes a sudden sharp turn-

MC: Oof!

After getting hit, I cover my forehead with one hand. By the time I steady myself, Shaw’s eyes have already turned into impatient arcs, and he says directly to the driver:

Shaw: Oi, drive slowly!

Bus driver: This is a public...

With disdain in his eyes, Shaw stores away his earlier nonchalance, and says coldly.

Shaw: Drive slowly, do you hear me?

Intimidated by Shaw, the driver quickly nods. Shaw runs his fingers through his hair, and regains his earlier expression in an instant. 

The ends of his narrow eyes are slightly raised, and he shoots me a playful look. He curls the corners of his mouth and his smile deepens. 

Shaw: You bumped my skateboard.

This brat - he’s still the same as before!

MC: I’m sorry, I’ll apologise to it then.

She recalls the last time she saw him on the roof (Ch 37 of the main storyline, before Season 2) and his casual farewell

She decides that while Shaw has re-entered her life on his own terms, she wouldn’t let him leave casually again

It starts pouring heavily, and the bus driver asks everyone to get off

Shaw refuses to do so

Shaw: You want us to get off just because you say so? Who are you to say this?

MC tells the driver that since they aren’t in a rush, they can wait for the rain to become lighter before continuing the journey

She’s also secretly happy to extend this moment with Shaw

Soon, apart from the driver, only Shaw and I are left on the bus. 

I cast sweeping glances at Shaw several times. I clear my throat, about to greet him formally--

Shaw: Oi...

I’m caught off guard when he suddenly turns towards me, his eyes teasing and amused. 

Shaw: You’ve looked at me so many times... tell me, what do you want? 

Tremendously loud thunder resounds in the sky. Heavy rain splatters against the glass windows, leaving behind smears like those in an oil painting. 

I’m caught off guard by his sudden remark.

MC: You really don’t plan to leave the bus? 

Shaw: Is there a problem? 

MC: It looks like the rain will continue for a long time. Simply waiting seems boring. Why don’t we have a chat? 

Shaw doesn’t respond immediately. He narrows his eyes and looks at me, his eyes revealing a meaningful expression.

Realising something, I immediately straighten up and my mind starts whirring.

MC: Actually, I’m an intern producer. I recently participated in a program related to Loveland University. You should be a University student too, right? Are you interested in being interviewed? 

Shaw: Not interested.

 MC: ...

Even though he rejected me outright, I had already expected it. Taking a deep breath, I try again. 

MC: This interview is not a typical interview. It’s even more interesting than you can imagine. It isn’t boring at all. Also, I guarantee there wouldn’t be more than five questions! How about that - are you willing to cooperate? 

I widen my eyes, looking at him expectantly.

Shaw tilts his head to the side. After looking me up and down for a few seconds, he closes his eyes and leans back against the seats comfortably. 

Shaw: [sighs] Fine, ask away. 

I feel refreshed with his agreement, and immediately retrieve a pen and paper from my bag, putting on a serious expression.

MC: May I know what your name is...? 

He pouts. After two seconds, he lazily responds.

Shaw: Shaw. 

MC: Are you a student from Loveland University? 

Shaw releases a lazy “mm” from his nose. 

MC: Archaeology? 

Once the question leaves my lips, Shaw arches his eyebrows, looking at me playfully. 

Shaw: How did you know? 

MC: ...based on your temperament and appearance. 

Shaw: Oh. Unfortunately, you got it wrong. I just got my research qualifications, so it doesn’t count. 

MC: ...

I continue wearing an unfazed expression on my face, but am secretly shocked.

This person is pretty amazing. 

MC: ...since you say this, you must really like antiques then? 

Shaw: They’re all right. 

MC: As a contemporary university student, you definitely have other hobbies apart from your own studies, right? For instance... something band-related?

Shaw widens his eyes and looks at me once he hears my words. Afraid he’d see through me, I squeeze out a professional, business-like smile.

The corners of his lips slowly curl into a teasing smile. Just when I think he’s about to respond, he suddenly snatches away my paper and pen. 

MC: Ah!

Shaw: Your handwriting is really ugly. 

He sweeps over my notes, then closes the book.

Shaw: Didn’t you say it wouldn’t be boring? Your interview doesn’t seem to match what you guaranteed. 

MC: This is just the beginning. I haven’t reached the interesting questions yet!

Shaw: Stop taking notes. Let’s just chat casually. Also, what’s your name? 

MC: ...MC. 

Shaw: Which production company are you interning at? 

MC: I’m the one interviewing you. Why are you the one asking me questions now? 

Shaw: You’ve asked more than enough. It’s only fair if it’s reciprocal. 

In the midst of conversing with Shaw, we seem to get to know each other again seriously. 

The rain has become lighter, and the bus finally reaches the final stop slowly. 

Once we leave the bus, he suddenly stuffs a transparent umbrella into my hand, then turns around to leave. 

The water kicked up by his black sneakers splash onto his ripped jeans. 

Shaw: You’re welcome.

Shaw lifts an arm and waves it. His lazy voice drifts towards me, entering my ears. 

Watching his retreating form, I grip the umbrella tightly and bite my lips.

The trajectory of destiny is always deviating, yet seems to meet sometimes. Since meeting him again was destined to happen-- 

I no longer hesitate, and run in the direction where Shaw left. The water under my feet splashes, but the only thing I’m afraid of is not being able to run fast enough. 

Finally, I see him at the intersection in front-- 

MC: Shaw! Wait for me!!

Shaw doesn’t seem to hear me, and he turns right into a small path. I hurriedly chase after him and enter the corner--

MC: Oof!

I crash into a sturdy yet warm chest. 

Shaw is leaning sideways against the corner of the wall, one hand gently holding onto me, and the other stuffed in his pocket. He has a calm and relaxed expression.

Shaw: What is it? You like my skateboard that much? 

I immediately straighten up, and realise that I’ve knocked into his skateboard again. 

MC: ...

Shaw: Why did you call out to me? Just to make things clear - the interview is already over. No matter how many questions you ask, I won’t answer. 

His familiar expression makes me want to tell him many, many things. Even after opening and closing my mouth a few times, I have no idea where to start. It seems as though no matter what I say, it wouldn’t be appropriate. 

After some hesitation, I finally lift up the umbrella in my hand. 

MC: I... I’m here to return the umbrella!

As though responding to me, rain starts to patter down around us, and onto Shaw’s hair. It looks like a soft halo.

Slightly surprised, I look towards the inexplicable light rain. I happen to see the imperceptible smile at the corner of Shaw’s mouth. 

He seems... to be in a good mood? 

MC: Since it’s raining again, here, I’m returning the umbrella!

Shaw stares at me fixedly for two seconds, his smile widening. Finally, he settles on a playful smile. 

Shaw: ...quite interesting. 

Unable to hear him clearly, I ask “what?”. He doesn’t repeat himself, but takes the umbrella from me. 

“Pa.”

The transparent umbrella suddenly opens above me. Rain drops patter continuously on the transparent umbrella.

The pitter patter of rain enters my ears. 

MC: Do you feel the rain getting heavier? 

Shaw: Want to avoid the rain? 

MC: Ah?

Shaw: Let’s go. That place doesn’t look too bad. 

He brings her to the Street Art Exhibition House

She starts talking about including this location into her program

Shaw catches her in her lie: Wasn’t her program about university students? Why is she suddenly talking about exhibitions?

MC gives an excuse on how she’s able to multi-task

Shaw: It’s best to be focused during your internship. It’s not good to be distracted. 

MC: ...sounds like you have working experience? 

Shaw: I don’t. Who says I need to have experience to offer advice? 

Shaw: Oi, do you know me? 

MC: ...!

My heart leaps, and I instantly deny it in a loud voice.

MC: How is that possible!

Shaw: Really? 

MC: Of course!

Shaw: So why did you chase after me? 

MC: Didn’t I say it was to return your umbrella...

Shaw: Ohhh...

He deliberately elongates his words, a doubtful expression flashing across his eyes. 

MC: If you don’t believe me...

Before I finish speaking, Shaw suddenly steps on the nearby stairs, turning around to face me. 

Shaw: I even thought you were here to look for this!

He whips out a key which has a rabbit doll attached to it. He waves it in his hand gently.  

MC: Isn’t this...

I hastily lower my head to dig through my bag, then realise my keys are missing. 

I reach out, wanting to take the key from him. Before I can say “thanks”, Shaw has already clasped the key in his palm.

Shaw: I picked this up on the bus. It belongs to me now.

MC: ...where does such odd logic come from!

Shaw: You want it? That’s not impossible. What have you prepared in exchange? 

Hearing Shaw’s tone, I release a resigned sigh. After offering him a series of items in exchange, he still isn’t satisfied, and wrinkles his eyebrows.

MC: You don’t like this, and you’re not satisfied with that. Why don’t you suggest the item?

Shaw: Oi, give me your phone. 

MC: What do you want?

Shaw: Why do you have so many questions? 

After saying this, he points at my phone, slightly impatient.

Confused, I hand my phone over to him, and watch as his fingers rapidly tap a series of numbers. In the next second, his own phone ringtone sounds clearly. 

Shaw: Done. You owe me. We’ll talk about this next time. 

As he says this, he throws the keys to me with a flick of his wrist. 

Seeing that he’s about to leave the exhibition house, I lower my head and look at the key in my hands. I ask: 

MC: Why did you pick up this key just now? 

Shaw pauses in his steps. Then, his lips curl upwards.

Shaw: Who knows... the look of you running over was even more interesting than I thought. 

Standing in place, I think about his words while in a trance. Already at the door, Shaw suddenly turns around again.

Shaw: Also, regarding the last question you asked in the interview... come watch my band perform in Live House when you’re free. That’s all.

With these words, Shaw turns and leaves. 

A fine curtain of rain interweaves with the doorway he vanished into, just like a flowing background. 

And our interweaving... has just begun.

-

🌸 MOMENTS 🌸

Shaw: The keychain is even bigger than the key. What a bother.

MC: What kind of keychain wouldn’t be considered bothersome then?

Shaw: Why should I tell you?

-

Shaw: The keychain is even bigger than the key. What a bother. 

MC: To thank you for picking up my keys, why don’t I treat you to a meall?

Shaw: It depends on what you plan to treat me with. 

-

Shaw: The keychain is even bigger than the key. What a bother.

MC: You don’t find it cute?

Shaw: No.

-

Phone Call: here

[nirikeehan]

Happy friday! "sharing food" from the fluffuary propmts

Thanks, Blue!

Came up with some post-Barovian nonsense for shady besties tonight for @dadrunkwriting

WC: 792

---

She puts the pie down in front of him, steam wafting up from the flaky crust. Metrion’s eyes go wide, as if he’s never seen a shepherd’s pie before. They’re brown in the dim light of Herald’s Rest, but she’s grown used to his many disguises. And his true appearance, his exotic background. She had assured him he wouldn’t need to hide himself at Skyhold, but he’s done it anyway, taking on the part of the unassuming, tan-skinned human. It will take some time, she thinks. 

Thalia hands him a fork and sits on the bench across from him. She stabs her side of the pie with her own. “So. First impressions?” 

“That this is bloody better than wolf jerky.” His voice is muffled by a full mouth, his head bowed over the dish, hair hanging down in his face. He eats like a prisoner might, she has noticed: hunched and frantic, afraid each meal may be his last. Her heart tugs with a little pang of pain.

“I meant Skyhold.” She eats a forkful of gravy, meat and peas, wonderfully seasoned. The cooks know what they’re doing. It’s so good to be home. 

Metrion shrugs. “’S big. Busy. Full of people.” He glances at her quickly. “They all defer to you.” 

Thalia nods. “I am the Inquisitor.” 

“Yeah, but you never really explained what that means. I think I get it now.” He looks away, to the casks of ale Cabot rolls out from a back room. He taps his empty stein on the table between them. “Be a love and get me another pint, will ya?”

Thalia laughs, but she does as he says. This catches the eye of many in the tavern, but she ignores them. When she returns with the frothing mug, he takes it from her and slings it back. He wipes his mouth, though through the illusion, no foam stands out on his lip. “Is it gonna be a problem?” 

“Is what going to be a problem?” Thalia breaks off a bit of pie crust and chews on it. She has a feeling she knows what he’s getting at, but she intends to make him say it. 

“Me being here. Think there’s at least a dozen blokes ready to defend your honor because I dared make the Inquisitor serve me ale.” He switches mid-sentence to the accent he uses to impersonate nobility. 

Thalia takes a breath. “You’re here because I invited you. You’re under my protection. If anything, you deserve a medal of valor for helping me escape Barovia alive.” 

Metrion chortles into the ale stein. “Sure. Right. Like anyone’ll pin a medal on my chest.” 

“I can,” Thalia retorts. “I will, if you want. In the main hall, in front of everyone.”

“While sitting on your throne, your highness?” 

“It’s technically your worship,” Thalia reminds him. Metrion scoffs, burying his face in one hand. 

She chews her lip. “You don’t have to stay, you know.” The words are painful in her throat, even worse rolling off her tongue. “I just thought, after everything we’ve been through, I didn’t want to you to have to…” Return to old habits, she wants to say, but that feels too judgmental. She’s adamant about not judging him, not the way her team did. Not when he understands her in strange, unexpected ways no one else has, and would have died for her several times over. 

She’s worried, though, that this was perhaps too idealistic of her. That removing Metrion from the environment that exacerbated his worst impulses isn’t enough to break the cycle of shame she’s observed in him. Some behaviors he’s slid right back into. One she’s aided herself, by giving him the ale he requested. 

 His hands don’t shake anymore, at least.

“No, no, no, no.” Metrion waves at her dismissively. “Don’t get me wrong, this is loads better than the streets of Waterdeep or Neverwinter. Just. Takes some gettin’ used to, all right?” 

He digs into the pie again, eating very deliberately while maintaining eye contact, as if to appease her. He has an intense gaze when he wants to, a way of making it seem like she is the only person in the room who matters to him. She knows this is a trick of his, a way to butter up a target, but he does it enough unbidden she suspects it’s also simply the way he is with people he likes. 

They eat in silence for a while.

“This meat really is superb,” Metrion comments, licking his fork clean. He glances at her, a smug smile tugging at his lips. He looks away, feigning wistfulness. “Not as good as Ismark’s, but. You know.” 

Thalia groans with laughter and throws her napkin in his face. 

[sinsbymanka]

@tightassets and I have combined our smutty angsty powers to bring you our combined prompts for @cozy-autumn-prompts, brain child of the lovely @scharoux. 

For our first prompt, enjoy this ADORABLE picture of Keaton Hawke and Lilitu Lavellan sharing a blanket for Prompt #3 (also join me in ooh’ing and ahh’ing over the rain effect and Lilitu and Keaton’s PERFECT expressions).

And as always, art has inspired fic! Special shoutout here for @solas-disapproves for helping me translate some Elvhen because I’m hopeless and @jennserr for the amazing translation trick on AO3!

Title: You Smell Like Wet Dog Pairing: Male Hawke x Female Lavellan, Keaton Hawke x Lilitu Lavellan Rating: M Content Warnings:  Fluff and Humor, Light Angst, Flirting, Pining, Past Anders/Male Hawke (Dragon Age), Sexual Tension

Read on AO3

Keaton was beginning to realize his memories of Ferelden may have been tinged with just the slightest whiff of nostalgia. 

Sure, there were definitely things to admire. First and foremost,there were more dogs and fewer Orlesians, always a plus. Unfortunately, a solid ninety-five percent of his stay in Crestwood had consisted of scraping mud out of his boots, an overall minus. Add in the lakes full of cursed undead he somehow missed as a child, and he’d have to readjust his thinking about his homeland. Add in Varric’s unbearable snoring, the rain dripping through a small hole in their shared canvas tent, and the smell of charred human flesh, and Keaton Hawke had quite enough of this visit .

As if the dwarf heard him, the rumble in the tent only intensified. Keaton threw his forearm over his eyes and grit his teeth together. Sweet Andraste’s blushing asscheeks. At least Keaton finally knew the real reason Varric’s prime lady friend was a weapon of mass destruction. Any flesh and blood woman would have smothered him. 

Not that Keaton would have blamed them. If he had a real pi llow, he may have done it himself. 

For a blissful moment, the constant noise ceased. Keaton closed his eyes and tried to will himself to fall asleep. He was exhausted, his shoulder ached, and-

The rumble started up again almost on cue, loud as a pride demon trapped inside with them. Keaton flung his arm from his face, turned his head to glare at the dwarf, and promptly had a fat drop of water plop in his eyeball.

Well. So much for sleeping here. Maybe he’d go find one of those charming caves full of giant spiders and take his chances of getting eaten alive. 

Keaton didn’t bother to muffle the noise his hasty departure from the tent made, but his blighted best friend snored peacefully through all of it. When he dove out through the tent flap and into the freezing rain, Keaton fought the urge to grab his sword and slash the canvas right over Varric’s annoying face. 

He honestly may have done it anyway, self-control had never been his strong suit, but before he could weigh the pros and cons of listening to Varric’s complaints about a ruined tent the whole way back to Skyhold, something much more interesting caught his attention. 

Perhaps one of the few truly good things about being stuck in the soggy Ferelden countryside. 

The Inquisitor glowed in the firelight. Keaton swore he heard her humming even in the steady patter of the rain. The song sounded half familiar, something Keaton swore he’d heard before. 

Then Inquisitor Lilitu Lavellan tossed her moonlight pale hair over her shoulder and looked behind her towards the tent. Almost instantly her nose popped into the air like a hound scenting trouble, her brow furrowing. 

“What are you doing?” She demanded. 

Excellent question. One that probably demanded a semi-coherent answer. 

He jerked his thumb over his shoulder and gave her the sunniest smile he could manage while the rain was plastering his hair to his face. “We were comparing chest hair and I was coming out the obvious winner, so now I’ve got to find another tent.” 

Lilitu blinked once. Twice. Then she shook her head and scowled. 

“You’ll get wet.” 

“Wet.” Keaton repeated. Lilitu huffed in irritation and pointed at the sky above them as if to illustrate it was indeed raining and that would be responsible for getting them wet. 

Although the little pout twisting her lips made him think of much more delightful ways to get her wet than the blighted Ferelden weather. If only his current tent wasn’t occupied by the loudest and most annoying dwarf he’d ever met. 

Before he could begin calculating alternate arrangements, Lilitu stalked away from the fire and straight towards him. One small hand, not even wide enough to wrap the whole way around his wrist, dug into bicep and dragged him forward with surprising strength and astonishing impatience. 

...was it wrong to be impressed, terrified, and aroused by the tiny elf manhandling him? 

Before he could consider the full implications of that thought, she dragged him to the log she’d been sitting on, pointing at it before issuing her command. “Sit.” 

He didn’t see how that was going to help him be less wet, but who was he to deny the Inquisitor herself. Particularly when she wore an expression that managed to be both stern and utterly adorable under the curling crimson ink of her vallaslin. He tossed the tiny elf a sunny grin and plopped himself down on her log. 

Which was exactly when he realized what a clever little set up she had. Surrounding the log was a pocket of warm, blissfully dry air. Before he could even process his shock at the sheer neatness of her trick, she settled herself beside him with a little hum, looking up at him while she picked up the blanket she’d abandoned to retrieve him. 

Then her nose wrinkled and she sniffed audibly. “Ma odhe irmes dhar.”

Had… had she just told him he smelled like a wet dog? 

“Ahn?” He sputtered. 

Her whole face lit up like Satinalia had come early. “Dirthas Elvhen?” 

Keaton smirked and nodded. “Dirthan.” 

He may have spoke Elvhen, but he wasn’t prepared for the torrent of words that flew from Lilitu’s lips as she leaned closer. He caught bits and pieces of words. Champion. Kirkwall. Something about a dragon. 

Ah. Varric’s name. Somebody had been telling stories about him again. 

“Dirtha felas’el!” He laughed, running his hand through the soaked stripe of hair on his head. “I’ll answer your questions, kitten, but you gotta slow down.” 

That seemed to please her quite a bit judging by the satisfied smirk playing around her sinful lips. She fluffed the blankets in her hand before flapping it in the air with a deft flick of her wrist. 

Then those same clever fingers were tossing half the blanket over his shoulders while her curvy form pressed firmly against his side and the other half of the blanket draped over her. Lilitu’s pointed chin tipped up expectantly, and for a dizzying moment, Keaton almost thought she’d lay her head against his arm. 

“Dirth ma.” She insisted, poking his muscled arm. “The dragon.” 

“Which one?” Keaton asked. 

Her eyes shimmered with joy. “All of them.” 

Keaton scratched at his beard thoughtfully while she examined him with her bright, inquisitive gaze. Her eyes glowed and his heart throbbed almost painfully, a feeling he didn’t quite understand.

One he very much didn’t want to understand. 

He tore his eyes from her to look at the fire, rolling his stiff shoulder, trying to think of where to start his pitiful story. 

“It hurts?” Lilitu asked, jabbing her finger into his bicep. He frowned, drawn back into her alluring orbit. 

“Only when I’m displaying manly feats of strength for your enjoyment.” 

The flirting still came easy, even after everything. Lilitu rolled her eyes to the dark sky, smile tugging her lips up, thin fingers trailing thoughtfully up over his loose cotton shirt before she dug her grip into his aching shoulder. 

Before he could complain, warmth trickled from her fingers, seeping into his abused muscles, easing the tightness, numbing the pain. It felt familiar, and different at the same time, bringing back a haunting echo of different hands at the same time a wave of heat settled into his gut. 

“Better?” Lilitu asked, eying him critically. 

It was. It would be. “You’re handy, kitten. I’ll give you that.” 

Was it just him, or did she let her hand linger just a moment, exploring the breadth of his muscles before she removed it with heat lingering in the expression she wore? 

Keaton didn’t know the answer to that question. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know. Maker’s ass, was he in trouble. 

He took a deep breath while Lilitu settled herself beside him, leaning lightly into him. 

“Tell me.” She demanded, relaxing beside him, staring into the flickering flames with an expression of great satisfaction. As if she’d rather be nowhere else than their little bubble, silent but for the rain around them. 

Suspiciously silent, in fact. Keaton shot a chagrined look at the tent behind him. That dwarven bastard had planned this. Somehow. And Keaton would pay him back for it in spades. 

After he finished impressing Lilitu Lavellan with all the dragons he slayed. 

Elvhen Translation:

Ahn - what

Dirthas elvhen - you speak elvhen? 

Dirthan - I speak it. 

Dirtha felas’el - speak slower 

Dirth ma - tell me

[pcrseverance]

👫 for neria 💚🥺 ofdevotedheart

Send a 👫and I’ll write some headcanons I have about our muse’s relationship

Neria reminds Cullen of sunflowers, which are sparse in Skyhold when they reunite, but in turn also remind him of Honnleath in summer. 

He struggles a lot with how long she was in the Circle for, and how... ‘good’ a mage she was when they creep towards friends. Whether it’s even okay to exchange pleasantries after respective histories, and how she can even bear to do so. He knows she has a sunny disposition but friendship still feels like taking advantage, somehow. She’s so soft and he can’t understand how she’s survived the things she has.

Whilst he never asks about her leg, or any pain she might be in, assuming that to be a rather personal thing as it is for most, he does always clear a chair for her if she comes to his office to talk, or- if they’re talking whilst walking- walks them to a place where they can sit, if need be. 

@ofdevotedheart

[another-rogue-trevelyan]

A thing I wrote featuring Cousland, Hawke, and Trevelyan in a knife throwing contest, feat. Cullenmance

“Commander, Ser...”

“Jim, haven’t you learned not to interrupt me?”

It was a warm, sunny day in Skyhold, and most of its inhabitants were taking full advantage of it. Cullen, however, was deep in a stack of reports, determined to finish them before evening.

“It’s the Champion of Kirkwall, Ser.”

“And what has Hawke done this time?” Cullen asked, not bothering to look up from his work.

“She’s...started a knife throwing contest with her Majesty, the Queen of Ferelden and the Inquisitor.”

Cullen was out the door and down the steps before Jim could gather what had happened. As the Commander crossed the courtyard toward the training grounds, he cursed under his breath. He knew it had been a bad idea to have the three most dangerous women in Thedas under one roof. Especially when all three of them were trained rogues.

A crowd of cheering fans had gathered in the training grounds. As he made his way to the commotion, he couldn’t help but give way to the infectious high spirits that the event had brought to Skyhold. He too was curious, and when he caught the Inquisitor’s eyes, her brief, mischievous grin was enough to win him over fully.

Cullen turned to take in the scene that surrounded him. Varric and the Iron Bull had set up a betting ring to the side, where Cullen observed many of his soldiers lined up to place their bets. Cole sat with them, thrilled with the excitement and happiness. Dorian, Vivienne, and Josephine had perched themselves on the staircase, high enough to see over the crowd. While Dorian and Vivienne expressed mild curiousity, Josephine appeared utterly appalled. Cassandra and Leliana were leaning against the walls, heads close, pointing and discussing the situation. Blackwall and Sera were in the front, cheering just as much as the soldiers, and even Solas had decided to make an appearance, standing a respectable distance away from the commotion.

“What’ll it be, Curly?” Varric asked as Cullen approached their table. “Care to wager some gold on the Herald?”

“I would, but I’m never gambling again.”

“Not even to put some coin on the love of your life?” Cullen blushed furiously.

“She hardly needs my coin to win.” Cullen smiled, knowing that Evelyn actually did have his coin with her - a coin he had given her in one of their rare private moments, which she now wore under her armor on a chain around her neck.

“You’d better hope so, Curly. I’ve taken down my share of demons with both her and Hawke, and this is the stuff my nightmares are made from. As for the Queen, she took down an arch demon with her dog. And she’s a Warden. Even Blackwall seems scared of her. I don’t know how this will end, but I can’t wait to find out.”

Cullen made his way through the crowd, arriving next to Sera and Blackwall. The Queen of Ferelden stood next to the Inquisitor, and he noted that they seemed rather similar. Both had been born into nobility and thrust into chaos, suddenly responsible for the fate of the world. There was an air of regality about the pair of them, who were no strangers to leadership, and the Ferelden and the Free Marcher seemed two sides of the same coin. The only difference, he noted, was that Evelyn had more than enough action in the field as of late, while the Queen appeared to be itching to get back into the thick of things.

Hawke was something else entirely. Raised in Lothering, she had come from humble roots. During Cullen’s time in Kirkwall, he had heard rumors of her working as a smuggler, as poor fortune had struck her family as Ferelden refugees during the Blight. She was a survivor, certainly, but she was also chaos incarnate. What she lacked in poise she made up for in wild energy and sarcastic humor.

Seeing the Hero of Ferelden and the Champion of Kirkwall had done little for his nerves. Both had seen him at his worst, and he wished more than anything he could take back his actions in the Ferelden Circle and in Kirkwall. Both had been gracious in accepting his apologies, but the shame he felt from his former life rose in him whenever he spoke with them.

But then, it started.

The Queen of Ferelden went first, throwing a dagger expertly into the target in front of her. It hit dead center, setting a high bar for her opponants. The other women were not to be discounted, however, and performed with equal accuracy. The targets were moved further away with each passing round. Eventually, even this wasn’t enough, and the Iron Bull stepped in to throw objects into the air for the women to hit, as still targets were too easy.

While the spectacle was certainly entertaining to watch, those who had placed bets would surely be disappointed. The women, it seemed, were equally matched, and after many rounds there was still neither winner nor loser. The event ended in smiles and handshakes, and those who came were even more in awe of the women than they had been before.

“Nothing like throwing some knives to relax after a long week,” Evelyn joked, suddenly appearing at Cullen’s side. The crowd had subsided now, returning to their usual evening activities.

“Beautiful and dangerous,” Cullen said, wrapping an arm around her and pressing a kiss upon her head. “I’m the luckiest man alive.” Evelyn laughed, turning into him and reaching her arms around his neck.

“I’ll be entertaining two beautiful and dangerous Fereldens for dinner this evening. Have any pointers?”

“You won’t have any trouble, but if you can acquire a mabari between now and then, that always helps with Fereldens.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“Have fun, love. And try not to let Hawke start a demon killing contest.”

“But what if I want to start a demon killing contest?”

“As your advisor, I’d have to recommend against it.”

“And as my lover?”

“I would still have to recommend against it.”

“You’re no fun.”

Cullen laughed at her feigned pout. She was an entirely different woman now from the Inquisitor he had just seen hurling knives through the air. He couldn’t imagine the weight she bared, living up to being Andraste’s champion. The real woman was one few got to see, and Cullen was especially pleased that he saw even more of her than anyone else. He gave her all of him in return, and thanked the Maker daily that she wanted him too.

“I’ll see you tomorrow?” Cullen asked, rubbing his thumb mindlessly across her cheek.

“Actually,” she said, raising her own hand to his, “I’m rather concerned about the hole in your roof. I can’t have my Commander getting sick from sleeping in the cold. It’s my duty to make sure you’re kept healthy and warm. The task is too important to delegate, you see.”

“What would you suggest?” Cullen’s lips were close to hers now as he waited for her response.

“Come to my quarters this evening after dinner?”

“I’ll be there.”

As their lips met, Cullen was sure of two things. The first, was that this was to be the longest dinner he had ever sat through. The next was that he was the luckiest man in the world.

[blarrghe]

Lavellan Bros: Meet Kiara

Did someone say more Lavellan Bros? Did someone say THEO HAS A KID? Welcome to more Lavellan bros, Theo has a kid and I have died. @serphena‘s Theo in this with my Taren Lavellan, and it can be read as taking place in either AU tbh.

Theo was nervous as he led Taren out into the gardens. He didn't say much in the way of explanation, and what he did say was muttered and fast. "There's someone I want you to meet" was the gist of it, the rest was apologetic and evasive. "I promise I'll explain later I just," head shaking, hand wringing nervousness, "you should meet her first."

 Taren followed him, curiously straining to look ahead into the gardens, searching for this big reveal.

 There were several people about, tending to the medicinal plants or relaxing in their leisure time. He spotted Cassandra, keeping close to a small dark-haired child, an uncertain smile on her face. The child giggled and poked at Cassandra's armour, and the Seeker looked mostly amused, if a little stiff.

 "Kiara!" Theo called out next to him, taking a wide stance with arms outstretched. The little girl and the Seeker both looked up with relieved smiles, and then the little girl was rushing toward them, springing into Theo's arms.

 "Papa!" Theo took her up in his arms. She was a tiny thing, and she didn't share his winter pale complexion and startling silver hair, but she had his face; in the nose and eyes, even the smile.

 "Taren," Theo turned to him, securing the toddler into a comfortable spot on his hip, "meet my daughter, Kiara." The little girl smiled at him, and it was definitely Theo's smile now, though more dimpled and sweet - like his had been, long ago. "Kiara, this is your uncle Taren."

AO3 Link or read the rest under the cut!

"Hi, Kiara." Taren smiled, offering the girl a friendly wave. This was the last surprise he would have guessed at, but it was a great one. She looked up at him with wide eyes.

"Hi!" Kiara wriggled her little face toward her father's, her smile expectant. "Can we play now?"

"Papa really has to talk to uncle Taren for a minute..." Theo began to answer apologetically, setting the little girl down again on the ground. Her disappointment was evident, and Taren was standing back, grinning at the entire interaction. He bent down.

"I think it can wait, right?" He confided in the girl, who nodded, "we can play for a bit first."

Kiara grinned, and in an instant was running back into the garden's grassy clearing, demanding that they chase her.

She was surprisingly talkative, for one so young with someone so new. She insisted on piggy back rides and on being spun in the air by both of them, chattered happily about her papa, the castle, herself, and asked quick, excited questions about everything and everyone else. And Taren, delighted, obliged her requests and indulged seriously every single curiosity she had:

"Why is your face like that? Pappa has swirls on his face too but you have so many!" She reached out, touching the spiralling tattoos on his cheek with curious pointing fingers, tracing the lines with a look of wonder. 

"We get them when we become adults. You know I was there when your papa got his? He didn't like getting them, that's why he doesn't have as many as me." Taren was sitting in the grass next to her now, having won the game of “catch me” and then been directed to observe a pretty flower that sprang up outside of the sectioned off herb gardens. They were dandelions, but that didn’t mean they weren’t pretty.  

"I like them. They're pretty. Can I have some?" She bounced with her questions, playing with the grass as she spoke, touching his clothes or hair or whatever other little thing caught her attention. 

"Maybe, when you become an adult."

A thoughtful pause. "Do you like apples? The lady gave me an apple while we waited for papa."

"Sure, I love apples." Taren answered, plucking a few dandelions and weaving them into a chain. Kiara watched, enthralled. 

"Do you like red apples or yellow apples?"

"Hmm.” Taren considered the question, come to think of it, he did have a preference. “Red apples."

"I like yellow ones!" Kiara volunteered happily. 

"Okay, I'll give you all my yellow apples and you give me your red ones, deal?"

"Okay!" Another thoughtful pause. "Do you know any songs? Sing one! There's a singer lady in the big building but papa says I can't go there..."

He taught her a repetitive song about ducks, and he was pretty sure he caught Theo glaring at him some minutes later while she laughed and danced about the gardens singing it on a loop.

Cassandra had slipped away when Theo had taken his daughter from her care, and she must have arranged for them to be left unbothered, because by sunset no one had come to them with any work requiring attention, and the little girl had found her way onto her father's lap, still sleepily singing about ducks.Theo gathered up the little bundle of sunkissed limbs and dark hair who was falling asleep on top of him, and brought her inside. Taren followed him up to his chambers, waiting outside for what was sure to be a very long conversation.

---

"So I guess I have to stop calling you da'len." Taren said with a nudge at Theo's shoulder. They sat on the battlements just outside the door to Theo's room, while the sun dipping low behind the mountains cast the whole fortress in a soft violet glow.

Theo chuckled, and his smile was real. Peaceful. "I think you're her new favourite uncle. I'm never going to get that song out of my head, thanks to you."

"She's incredible. I can't believe you have a daughter. You!" He smiled, but there was silence for a moment, as soft rose coloured clouds drifted by overhead.

"You aren't mad, are you?" It was a silly thing for Theo to ask, but the nervousness in the question was serious enough.

"Why would I be mad?"

Theo shrugged. "Because I didn't tell you, didn't tell anyone..."

Taren frowned. "I'm not mad, Theo. But why didn't you?"

Another shrug, this one sadder. "We were going to. But after her mother... we weren't even bonded." He shook his head.

Taren sighed. The girl couldn’t have been more than four, which would have made his father only a teenager when she had been born, barely of age. As for not being bonded, well, perhaps there were some who might have cared, little as he liked to admit it, but it did hurt to think he might have been included in such fears.

"You think I'd care about that? Really? Me?" He nudged Theo again, prodding the smile back out of him.

"I just... didn't want us to be a burden." What an even sillier thing to say, but he supposed he understood it. Her birth would have coincided with the breaking of Kirkwall's Chantry; the beginning of the war between the mages and Templars. The chaos of the human world had been hard on the clans of the Free Marches. In those days they had been moving again, more frequently than ever; hunting was dangerous and food more scarce. Even Taren had taken to spending long stretches away from the clan, aiding their sister clans and gathering information when the fighting lessened the numbers of their scouts. Children born in those turbulent times did put a stress on the clan, but never anything but a welcome one. He wished he could have known then, had the chance to help.

"What happened to her? Kiara's mother?" The question had been in the back of his mind all afternoon. She was present in her daughter's skin and thick brown hair, in the colour of her eyes and the laugh that fell heavier than Theo's did, bold on such a little thing. But she was missing from Skyhold, and she was missing, as well, Taren realised now, from Theo's smile.

"She died." It wasn't a real explanation, but the weight of it was heavy. Theo looked away as Taren peered imploringly at him, telling his story to the sky. "We were traveling with some of her friends, they wanted to join the clan but... in the end, only Kiara and I made it."

"You didn't stay." It must have happened while he was away, out on some mission of his own. Why had no one told him that Theo had been back and gone again, with a child, no less? "Theo, you know we would have taken care of her, no matter what." She could have grown up with friends, family, a whole clan to look after her.

Theo shook his head. "I know." the admittance fell reluctantly, his nervousness giving way to something more apologetic. "The clan was moving again, and I had to go. I couldn't just leave her."

Taren nodded in solemn understanding. That, Theo did not have to explain. One orphan need not explain such things to another. “Tell me about what happened.” He suggested it softly, a request more than a demand. He wanted to know the full story, just as he always did, but he sensed too that it was about time that Theo told it, for his own sake. 

Theo began by describing her, the short-lived and sunny love he’d found unexpectedly in his travels. He talked about how they had fallen together, become inseparable, made plans for a future she never got to see. He described some of her friends, too, the ones who had been their companions and which might have been a family, if things hadn’t turned against them so unfairly. Their deaths he got out with little detail, a quick summary of events that were violent and painful, his face twisting into a tortured grimace as he skimmed past that bit of the tale. It was a long story, full of sorrows and unfair circumstances. Some of the recollection was edged in anger, and even the threat of tears. But through it all, he returned always to Kiara, to seeing her grow and teaching her about the world as best as he could - how to be safe in it, but also how to appreciate its beauty; the names of plants and animals, badly remembered Dalish tales before she slept at night. 

“And now we’re here, and it’s safe...and, it’s time I let us stay in one place for a while, I think.” He looked at Taren, straight in the eye and full of determination. “She’s not going back to the clan, understand? She stays with me.” As though he would have it any other way. 

“I wouldn’t ask it even if I thought I had that power.” Taren replied, reassuring. 

Theo breathed out, calmer, now that he was empty of his secrets. “You’re supposed to be the next Keeper. Isn’t it your job to send us home?” 

“Da’len, you are home.”

[thievinghippo]

Daffodil for Bethroot and Blackwall

Rainier hoped their last day at Skyhold would have been sunny.

Instead the clouds overhead seem almost oppressive and the wind, cruel. They’ve had to tie down their trunks to ensure that none will fall off the wagon as they head down the mountains. He’s not looking forward to sitting out in the elements as they leave the area.

Only a handful of people are left in Skyhold. The mages have all relocated to Redcliffe, the majority of forces released from service or returned to their original patrons. Even all of the servants are gone, Bethroot taking the time to write out letter after letter of recommendation, to help them all find new positions.

Rainier wonders who will claim the fortress for their own after the Inquisition formally relinquishes it’s hold. Surely someone will try to set themselves up as lord of the Frostback Mountains. Or perhaps Ferelden or Orlais will try to sneak in and expand their territory before the other country notices.

Whatever Skyhold’s future brings, Rainier won’t be a part of it any longer.

Seems strange to think that. Skyhold’s been his home for almost four years now, the longest stretch he’s had in his adult life. His time in the Orlesian army was spent chasing after the next promotion and never settling down. Back then he was content to sleep in the barracks, close to the men and women under his command, hoarding his gold as best he could, never having enough.

“We just need the Inquisitor and we’ll be on our way,” Josephine says quietly. Next to her stands her husband, Adorno, his fingers curled into the fabric at her waist. Rainier didn’t quite understand why Lady Montilyet was willing to enter an arranged marriage, but it seems to have worked out for the two of them. And anyway, who is he to judge someone else’s choice.

“I suppose that means I should find her,” Rainier says.

He already knows exactly where she is; he saw her sneak into the barn not too long ago. The stables have been empty for weeks. Rainier can admit he misses the horses and especially misses the steady companionship of Horse Master Dennet.

His wife - and he will never tire of calling her that - has been quiet these past few days. Whenever Bethroot is quiet, there’s always a small part of him that worries. He’s grown so used to her talking about everything and anything under the sun, that when she chooses to keep her thoughts to herself, something feels off.

This quiet, though, he understands. She’s disbanded everything she’s built over the past four years. Not to mention the threat of bloody Solas lurking behind every piece of news they receive across the southern continent.

He can see her silhouette as he enters the barn. Bethroot is sitting on the stairs leading up to the loft. Before he even enters her line of sight, she asks, “It’s time?”

“Yes.”

When he stands before her, he’s not sure of what to expect. Will she be sad? Resigned? For what it’s worth, Rainier’s looking forward to a bit of an adventure. Bethroot gave away most of the Inquisition’s funds away to those leaving its service, leaving hardly any for herself. They won’t have much coin, and for someone once so controlled by gold, it’s absolutely liberating.

To his relief, she’s smiling. Not broadly, but enough that Rainier believes it’s real.

Bethroot glances up towards the loft. “How many times do you think we had sex up there over the years?”

Rainier holds out his hand. “I don’t think I can count that high, Bethy.”

She laughs, just like he hopes, and places her hand in hers. “We’ll have to find new places, won’t we?” she asks.

“I can show you a few of my old favorites in Markham,” he says.

Markham. Hard to believe he’s going back there by choice. But he and Bethroot want to tour the Free Marches a bit, see what sort of good they can do, before taking Varric up on his offer of a home in Kirkwall.

He must admit, he’s looking forward to introducing Bethroot to his cousins and the few aunts and uncles that are still in town. Perhaps they’ll have time to explore a few of his old haunts.

“I just… It’s hard to believe this day is finally here,” Bethroot says, squeezing his hand.

“Better days ahead, I think,” Rainier says, truly meaning the words. There’s a sense of freedom with the Inquisition disbanded. He and Bethroot can go wherever they want, do whatever they want. Solas, that bastard, still remains a threat, but they can still have a life of their own. Start a family of their own.

Bethroot nods and stops just as they leave the barn doors. She looks back and Rainier does, too. His woodworking table’s still there, though his tools are packed safely away. His chair in front of the fire. Four years, this had been home.

“Better days ahead,” she repeats, her voice full of promise.

She takes a breath and starts walking towards the wagon. Rainier matches her step by step and neither one of them look back.