#jesse trevelyan

[clairedelune-13]

You know when you’ve put 110% of your energy crafting backstories for your OCs and they start to feel like your children and you’d die for them?

That’s me with my OCs.

[leviiackrman]

ORIGINAL CHARACTER CRITTERS;

You’ve seen the kids, now get ready for their fluffy (or scaley) friends!!

more art || my ocs || commissions

tag list (ask to be added or removed): @risingsh0t @sstewyhosseini @chuckhansen @statichvm @roofgeese @unholymilf @florbelles @confidentandgood @arklay @jinfromyarikawa @shellibisshe @simonxriley @queennymeria @marivenah @faerune @feypacts @mrdekarios @liurnia @thedeadthree @jacobseed @jackiesarch @heroofpenamstan @morvaris @jillvalentinesday @shadowglens @fenharel @alexxmason

[partystoragechest]

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

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

(Masterpost. Beginning. Previous entry. Next entry. Words: 3,410. Rating: all audiences, bar one swear.)

Chapter 48: Playing Nicely

The light of sunrise trickled through the window, and stirred Trevelyan from her slumber.

It took a moment for her waking mind to recognise where she was—but when she did, she smiled. This was her bed. Her room. Her Skyhold. Her home.

No one came to dress her or tidy her hair. She did it herself, selecting from the clothes her wages had bought her in Val Royeaux. New attire, of leather and linen, for the work of an Arcanist.

In the reflection of her window, she admired her appearance, then that of the mountains beyond. With a smile and a kiss, she bid them farewell, to gather up her notes from the bureau, and leave for the Undercroft.

Though not at peak activity so early in the morn, the place already hummed. Workers skirted out of her way as Trevelyan wound around their benches, with a nod of respect, and a greeting of, “Arcanist!”

This greeting she herself gave, as she sailed past Dagna—who was, quite naturally, in the midst of an intricate-looking enchantment.

“Morning!” she replied. “You look nice. You okay with trashing that?”

Trevelyan smiled. “I count on it!”

Dagna snorted. “That’s the spirit!”

Her laughter carried Trevelyan on her way, to a workbench of her own—and the assistant who anticipated her there.

“Good morning, Arcanist,” greeted Herzt. “I prepared for your arrival.”

“Thank you, Herzt.” She dropped her papers onto the bench. “Shall we?”

Their morning would be spent attempting to organise her many scattered notes into a coherent plan. The journey to and from Val Royeaux had been… ample, to put it politely, and Trevelyan had spent much of it thinking upon her theories regarding red lyrium.

(And a smaller, yet significant, portion of it thinking about the Commander.)

No—Cullen! Cullen. By Andraste, such a simple request ought not be so taxing! She really should be more practiced, before she saw him again.

Speaking of which.

As morning gave way to noon, Herzt departed her side. Trevelyan thought nothing of it; he had come and gone throughout the morn, scurrying off to collect materials, or put in an order for those in low supply. Yet, when he returned this time, he did not do so with a bundle of deathroot or a revenant’s heart, but a message:

“Arcanist, you have a visitor.”

Trevelyan glanced up, expecting Dagna—peeking over for the twentieth time—or the wonderfully nosy Dorian. Neither. Instead, her gaze followed Herzt’s indication, to the entryway of the Undercroft. To where an unexpected Commander stood.

No, Cullen! Fuck.

Trevelyan thanked Herzt, and stepped away. He did offer to have Cullen brought to her, but no. Not when she worked with at least a dozen eavesdroppers. The sight of him alone would have their ears on alert.

“Cullen,” she greeted, forcing herself to get it right. “How may we help you?”

“Arcanist,” he replied. “You, ah—you’re busy?”

Trevelyan glanced at the workbench she’d left behind, and the papers strewn across it.

“No, not at all,” she told him.

“Oh, good—then, would you, perhaps, like to play chess? With me.”

Trevelyan smiled. Poor man. Josephine had done all the asking for him until now, and he was not one so accustomed to seeking out company. The effort was appreciated nonetheless, and the interruption was worth its purpose.

“Of course,” she said. “When?”

“I have some time now, if that’s…”

“Give me a moment, to finish my work.”

“Of course,” he told her. “I’ll wait for you, in the garden.”

“Perfect.”

Satisfied, and a little more sure on his feet, the Commander slipped from the Undercroft. A little unsteady on hers, Trevelyan returned to her bench.

She saw her papers into some kind of temporary order, and entrusted their guardianship to Herzt. He was offered a respite, of course—if she was to take one, he ought to, as well—but knowing his habits, it was best to leave him with a task. Just in case.

Free from her duties, Trevelyan hurried for the Great Hall. She would not keep Cullen waiting.

It was this very eagerness that caused her keen mind to momentarily lapse in its perception. For she did note, as she wove through the hall, the seemingly increased number of nobles who crowded its space. But—perhaps drowned out by the noise of their chatter—she paid no attention to the drumming against the window panes, and the streaks that marred the stained glass. It was only when she threw open the garden door, that Trevelyan did realise it was raining.

Though not just raining—pouring.

The garden was devoid of life, save for the critters that thrived in such weather, and the occasional song of a rain-soaked bird who sought them. But through the downpour, Trevelyan could see another. On the other side of the garden, sheltered beneath the arcade, stood her Commander. Waiting; patient.

She offered a smile, and made her way around the arcade, glad of its existence. The rain trickled in rivers down its roof-tiles, draining into the garden beyond. With the gift of their protection, Trevelyan arrived at the meeting-place quite intact. Cullen, however, had caught a little of the rain upon his mantle, and was attempting to pat it dry.

“Arcanist,” he said, “I’m sorry about the weather.”

“I hardly think that is your fault,” she told him. “Besides, I don’t mind.”

The rain fell like a waterfall, drawing a translucent curtain over them, creating an air of precious privacy. Its soothing sound provided accompaniment, in the pitter-patter of droplets against ivy leaves, and upon the once-dry earth.

She did not mind at all. Indeed, she quite liked it.

“Good. Then, shall we?” Cullen gestured to the chess table, neatly prepared. Its armies stood to attention, hungering for battle. Trevelyan took her seat, and the command it bestowed.

Her mind passed over the pieces. Though she had had some opportunity to play against Giles and Erridge before their departure, she was certainly not to the level of her Circle days. And Cullen came to sit with such predictable confidence, that she wondered if she had been too hasty, in her provocation to play.

“Would you like me to begin?” she asked.

He encouraged her to, with a wave of his hand. She trotted a cavalryman forward.

“I must admit, I had not expected an invitation so soon,” she told him. “It was quite the surprise.”

“Oh”—Cullen rubbed the back of his neck—“forgive me, I thought it best to remain in the habit.”

Out came his own cavalry, opening the line for his knight and chanter behind.

“I think that sensible,” Trevelyan said.

“I hope I did not trespass upon your work.”

“These are the early stages,” she reassured him. “There is little to trespass upon.”

Opening gambits played out between their words. Chanters shifted and knights lanced forth. Castles came to protect their emperors. Empresses watched from on high.

“I read Dagna’s initial report regarding your aims,” Cullen said. “I was fascinated by your ideas.”

The cavalry Trevelyan was in the midst of moving almost tumbled over. “Oh—good. Well, if there is anything I could elucidate further for you, Commander—Cullen—please do say.”

“What did you mean,” he wondered, searching for a place to land his knight, “when you spoke of directionality in lyrium?”

Trevelyan’s brain buzzed with excitement. “Oh! Well—as I’m certain you know—lyrium energy is directional, and its users are a conduit. Templars direct it towards our world, and mages toward the Fade...”

She trailed off, and glanced at his face. With Dorian and Dagna, she could well assume interest, but for him—she simply wished to check. He met her gaze, and smiled.

“Go on.”

She continued: “Well, too much lyrium, and it overwhelms your ability to direct it. Your mind is pulled apart. Tranquil and dwarves may handle more potent raw lyrium because they lack connection to the Fade—therefore, it is harder to be torn asunder. Mages’ strength of connection results in the opposite.”

“So, what about red lyrium?” he asked. “Which direction does it take?”

“Both.”

“Both?”

“It nullifies magic, yet thins the Veil where it grows”—Trevelyan recalled that feeling, of being near it; of confusion, and haze; of a distant song, crying for help—“it’s almost as if it’s tearing itself apart.”

“Why would it do that?”

“To fight the infection,” she told him. “In our own bodily response to infection, inflammation is caused not by the sickness itself, but the body. Blood flows to the infected area, which causes the flesh to redden and heat.”

“Like red lyrium,” Cullen muttered.

“Like red lyrium,” Trevelyan echoed. “Lyrium is no ordinary mineral. Whatever has adulterated it, I do not know—but the lyrium is trying to cure itself of it. It may be pulling in one direction, and the sickness in the other.”

“The sickness could be magical, then,” Cullen mused. “The lyrium may be trying to reassert reality to nullify it.”

“Indeed—which may be an avenue to curing it,” Trevelyan replied. “If we could weaken the sickness, even aid the nullification, the lyrium may have the strength to overcome it itself.”

“At which point, we could entreat Orzammar to remove the cured lyrium safely.”

Trevelyan smiled. There was never so great a feeling, as being understood. “That is the hope.”

“A good thing you were made Arcanist, then.”

With that, Cullen’s eyes returned to the board. At last, some attention for the poor, neglected thing. No piece had moved in some time. They had sat and listened, just as their leader had.

It was somewhat difficult to recall if it was truly Cullen’s turn, but Trevelyan cared little about that. She was more concerned with her analysis of the words he had just spoken—for there was a quiet suspicion she’d been holding onto, waiting to confirm.

He was distracted with his chanter, in the midst of capturing a cavalryman. The moment was opportune.

“I wonder, Cullen—did you, perhaps, know I was to be made Arcanist?”

Cullen froze. “Well, I…” He sank into his seat, and sighed. “Yes. Whilst you were in the Dales, Josephine and I discussed finding some way for you to remain at Skyhold—if you wished to, of course. Then, when Dagna returned, she proposed your new position.”

With the tip of her finger, Trevelyan slid a castle forward, and toppled his knight. “Whilst I was in the Dales?”

“Yes.”

“But we were… not exactly on the best of terms, whilst I was in the Dales.”

Cullen stared at the board. “Your safety was priority. We could not, in good conscience, return you to Ostwick without presenting another option first. Had you refused Skyhold, we would have found you employment elsewhere.”

“But I didn’t.”

“No.”

She quirked an eyebrow. “That didn’t concern you?”

“As I say”—a chanter avenged his knight—“your safety was priority. My greatest concern was that you would refuse our help.”

Strange, his ability to say the sweetest things, whilst sounding so business-like. Trevelyan contemplated her next move.

“You don’t mind, then?” she asked.

“Mind what?”

“That I’m a mage?”

The words resounded as they fell, and shattered upon the ground. Whatever Cullen’s reaction, Trevelyan avoided it. Her eyes remained upon the board, as if in ponderance of her play. But her move consisted of a cavalry’s banal march, and any illusion that she thought of chess was dispelled in an instant.

“Why would I—?” he whispered, in utter confusion. And yet he must have realised, for he continued aloud, “No, of course not… that’s not—”

“I have just reclaimed who I am, Commander,” she told him, some kind of explanation. “I should not wish to suppress it again.”

“I wouldn’t ask you to.”

She toyed with one of the captured knights. “So it may seem. But, it’s… it’s simply that, when you were suffering with your withdrawal, you said, ‘no magic’.”

“Oh.”

There was nothing, for a moment. No moves made. No words said. No bird’s song. Only quiet breathing, and the staccato rainfall of shifting clouds. The world knew, that whatever should come next, it was important.

“There was a time I was afraid of mages,” Cullen said at last. “The rebellion at Kinloch Hold left me scarred… in more ways than the physical.”

Pain contorted his face, as if the thought alone reopened those very wounds. Trevelyan murmured, “I’m sorry.”

“What I suffered… it was hard to recover.” His eyes shut, his head shook. “I no longer harbour that fear of mages—but I cannot seem to shake the fear of what magic might do in the wrong hands.”

The last ten years of history had certainly been no panacea to such an ill. “I see.”

“But,” he added, “whatever I might still fear of magic—I see none of it in you. I’m sorry for how I reacted that day. I wasn’t… myself.”

“So you don’t mind, then?” She turned her palm, and kindled a tender flame within. “That I’m..?”

He gazed at that flame, the reflection of its light dancing in his eyes. “No, I…”

His words trailed away. Instead, he shifted. A hand moved to the other; teased at the the fingers of his glove until the entire thing could slip away.

His rough skin laid bare, he reached for her palm. His hand mirrored her own, hovered above. The very tip of the flame touched his skin.

But there was no pain. Just warmth.

As if drawn to it, Cullen’s hand sank. Trevelyan let the flame lull, ebbing ever further as he came ever nearer. The pads of his fingers brushed upon her own, and there came to rest.

His hand lingered no more than an inch from hers. The flame yet burned between them.

Trevelyan smiled.

She fidgeted her fingers, puppeting the flame to lap at his hand, a streak of gentle heat sent skimming across the surface. That warmth repeated on his face, in the smile that blessed it.

Yet, it sombred. Cullen’s fingers curled in on themselves, and receded.

“I… should admit,” he muttered, “of the man I was in Kirkwall.”

Trevelyan’s flame flickered its last. Her quieted heart gained pace once more.

“I was Knight-Captain,” he told her, “of the Circle. Our Knight-Commander, she—she allowed atrocities to occur. Committed them herself. She claimed she was protecting people, and I believed her. I did nothing stop her, until it was too late. Until too many had already suffered—”

His breath quickened; his hand twisted and strained around the glove it had abandoned. Before any more words could leave his mouth, Trevelyan stretched over the table—hand yet warm, from the flame—and enclosed her fingers around his fist.

“Cullen,” she said, “I know.”

He glanced up at her, eyes searching. “Know what?”

“Mages talk.” And they had talked to her plenty, whenever she had done runs to their tower. “I never sought out any information about Kirkwall; that would have gone against your wishes. But there is much I was told, without ever asking.”

“Ah.”

“Varric, as well…”

His notes on red lyrium had not merely covered the subject of red lyrium. There were other parts of Kirkwall’s history that he had believed she ought to know.

“I see,” said Cullen. Something of defeat settled upon his face. And yet, their game was still at play.

For there was little of his past that was of her concern. What concerned her, truly, was the Cullen who sat before her at this moment. The Cullen she knew. The Cullen she told:

“Whoever that man was, I see none of him in you.”

He did not shift, did not stir. Only murmured, “If you’re certain.”

“The first time I saw you playing this game, your opponent was a Tevinter mage.” Trevelyan withdrew her hand, and smiled at him. “I am certain.”

The corner of his mouth finally twitched upward. “All right.”

The last of a lingering uncertainty washed away, replaced by a familiar sense of comfort and ease.

“Perhaps we needn’t be just a mage and a Templar, here,” Trevelyan mused, for they were more nuanced than that. “What if we were Cullen and Trevelyan, instead?”

“I’d like that,” Cullen said.

“So would I,” she replied.

The fall of the downpour began to wane; the cloud began to break. Sunlight pierced through, glittering over the rain-soaked garden. Trevelyan invited Cullen to make his next move.

Simple enough: he took her misplaced cavalry. She attempted to convert this mistake to an advantage, and laid a trap for his empress—but there was little use in it.

His confidence seemed to return with the sun, and he detected her trap before it had even sprung. Though it was dismantled with the demeaning ease she could expect from a player such as he, she took no offence—to know he was at peace was all she required.

Though ‘peace’ was not quite the word for how he played. Any of her attempts to regain an advantage were expressly forbidden. Her empress was taken, her cavalry line broken. The knights she brought to her aid were cut down by castles and chanters. Though pieces were lost on either side, hers were lost to defence—his, to noble sacrifice.

He ought to have had her, then and there—yet he brought himself to heel, and moved at disadvantage. Her pieces lay bare for his capture, and yet, he seemed to avoid them.

“A bold new strategy,” she said, with a smile. “What is this gambit called?”

He hesitated, and sent his castle off marching to the east—where not a single one of her troops stood.

“I don’t know,” he admitted.

“Are you stalling the end of our time together?” Trevelyan wondered. “Or do you think by allowing me to win, I’d be more inclined to play again?”

Indecision rumbled in his throat. “...Both.”

Trevelyan sent a knight far from the battlefield, and placed a finger purposefully on the tip of her emperor, to rock it back and forth.

“Do it,” she told him.

Reluctant, Cullen slid his empress forward. He had Trevelyan’s emperor caught, between her, a chanter, and a castle. No escape.

Trevelyan waited. “Say it.”

“Checkmate.”

Trevelyan let her emperor fall, a smirk spreading across her face. “Well played, Commander.”

She hadn’t forgotten that time. She simply thought he might like to hear her say his title, right now.

He relaxed in his seat. “Thank you, Arcanist.”

She reached her hand across the table, to shake that of her victorious enemy. “We shall have to do this again, sometime. Perhaps you can teach me a thing or tw—”

Oh.

Cullen had taken her hand, to be sure. But he had not shaken it. No, he raised it. To his lips. And kissed it. Square upon the knuckles.

Trevelyan blinked. Cullen’s eyes flicked up. He saw the shock of the moment upon her face, and the bravado—as well as the colour—drained from him in an instant.

“Forgive me,” he blurted, “I thought—”

“No, no!” Trevelyan hurried to say. “It’s, I, um—”

She wasn’t—she wasn’t upset, at all. No, no. It was very… nice. Quite warm, and pleasing, and he must have wet his lips beforehand because she felt it upon her skin even now and—

Oh, Maker.

“I should, I should return to my duties,” said Cullen, abandoning his seat.

“No, no,” she pleaded, rising from her own. “I was—about to ask if, that was, perhaps, how we are to say farewell, from now on?”

He stifled a laugh. Though his eyes could still not meet her own, and his hand sought the back of his neck—his embrassment was, at the very least, somewhat assuaged.

“Well...”

“Let us consider it a possibility,” she teased.

“All right.” He shifted, and asked, “Would you like to… play again, another day?”

“Yes,” she answered, “please.”

“Good. Good. Then… another time, Arcanist.”

“Another time, Cullen.”

The rain having ceased, Trevelyan was able to make her return over the garden path, as the first brave noble souls ventured out from the same Great Hall she headed for. Among their growing chatter, she slipped a glance back to the table, where Cullen tidied away their pieces, oblivious to her gaze.

Her thumb ran over the spot his lips had touched. She longed for that feeling again.

[minrathousrain]

Sabina Tabris / Jesse Hawke / Sylvan Trevelyan

[heroesvow]

muse list ( mobile friendly version )

ASSASSIN'S CREED - Ezio Auditore ( Faceclaim: Michele Morrone ) - Jacob Frye

BALDUR'S GATE 3 - Silas / Fighter ( Faceclaim: Charlie Hunnam )

DRAGON AGE - Alistair Theirin ( Faceclaim: Jesse Williams ) - Carver Hawke ( Faceclaim: Julian Morris ) - Eren Hawke / Mage ( Faceclaim: Oliver Jackson-Cohen ) - Eris Hawke / Mage ( Faceclaim: Anya Chalotra ) - Isabela - Jaina Trevelyan / Mage ( Faceclaim: Meghann Fahy ) - Nikolai Trevelyan / Rogue ( Faceclaim: Luke Thompson ) - Tarot Surana / Mage ( Faceclaim: Simone Ashley )

FALLOUT - Paladin Danse

FINAL FANTASY - Cidolfus Telamon ( XVI ) - Clive Rosfield ( XVI ) - Tifa Lockhart ( VII )

FIRE EMBLEM - Chrom ( Awakening ) - Diamant ( Engage ) - Dorothea Arnault ( Three Houses ) - Hector ( Blazing Blade ) - Ike ( Path of Radiance / Radiant Dawn ) - Micaiah ( Path of Radiance / Radiant Dawn ) - Nephenee ( Path of Radiance / Radiant Dawn ) - Saber ( Echoes ) - Xander ( Fates )

KINGDOM HEARTS - Luxord

LEAGUE OF LEGENDS - Garen Crownguard - Jayce Tallis - Malcolm Graves - Sarah Fortune

MASS EFFECT - Aisha Shepard ( Faceclaim: Tessa Thompson ) - John Shepard ( Faceclaim: Theo James ) - Kaidan Alenko - Miranda Lawson - Stefan Ryder ( Faceclaim: Luke Mitchell )

MORTAL KOMBAT - Johnny Cage ( Faceclaim: Lou Ferrigno Jr ) - Kitana - Kenshi Takahashi

POKEMON - Archie

STAR WARS ( KNIGHTS OF THE OLD REPUBLIC ) - Bastila Shan

UNCHARTED - Chloe Frazer - Nathan Drake ( Faceclaim: Colin Donnell )

THE WITCHER - Vesemir

[fereldan-kestrel]

First Lines

Thanks for the tag @kittynomsdeplume friend, I see once you out yourself as a writer there is no escape from writers tags!!! (jk jk I love these things TAG ME)

I was tagged to share the first line of my last ten published works or as many as I’m able and to see if there are any patterns!

Ok so in my entire life I published a grand total of 5 works that have WORDS and LINES in them soo:

1. Silence - Rylen/Farie Lavellan, T

It was not uncommon for Rylen to lie awake in his bed late into the night, thoughts racing through his mind. 

2. A Hidden Oasis - Rylen/Farie Lavellan, E

The small bundle of food he spread out on the old worn out blanket seemed like too much of a luxury.

3. An Inquisitor Walks Into a Tavern - Cullen Rutherford/Thalia Trevelyan, Cullen Rutherford & Rylen, T

“I see.” Rylen sank back into his seat and raised a tankard full of nice cold beer to his lips.

4. Denerim Royal Library - Alistair Theirin/Miranda Cousland, E

Denerim Royal Library is the national library of Ferelden.

5. Silent miracle - Alistair Theirin/Morgan Cousland, G

They say it was such a loud morning in Denerim.

Tagging: @retrowondergirl | @thedastrash | @morganlefaye79 | @charlatron | @a-shakespearean-in-paris | @isk4649 | @charmcity-jess | @lavellanvibes | @amarmeme | @spooky-daggers | @silvanils | @inquisitoracorn | @author-a-holmes

[rowanisawriter]

wip title ask game

thank you @theluckywizard and @nirikeehan for the tags!

rules: reveal the titles of the documents in your wip folder and tag as many people as there are documents. let others ask questions about the ones that interest them and post snippets or explain the contents as you see fit!  

i’m in a pretty manageable spot with wips at the moment which is kinda unusual for me. just a lot of fandoms lol i can’t focus on anything not even a hyperfixation… also most of these are final titles because i am weird about titles and usually pick them early on

version control (dc/young justice) something about nightwing, zatanna, and the different people they become day to day

version control (ii) (dc/young justice) same story as above but i needed to restart it so i created a new doc and called it the same thing lol..

treasure hunter (dragon age) working title for my cullen/trevelyan treasure hunter au

fairy tale (dragon age) amell, alistair, and how love isn’t like how it is in the stories, i’ve had this gathering dust in the wip folder for almost a year so i really need to dust it off and just wrap it up 💀

almost prayer (dragon age) more cullen/trevelyan bonding over something that feels almost like prayer… also been languishing in the wip folder for a century and i kinda want to dump it but there’s some good stuff here so i’m keeping it to reuse pieces elsewhere at some point..

where there’s smoke (dragon age) working title for my murder mystery au

hanker sore (dragon age) rewrite of a drunk writing circle prompt fill so i can push it to ao3… it was pg when i wrote it to fill the prompt but now it’s slowly becoming a fuck fest… oops..

dry drowning (deathloop) something about fia and charlie and dreams breaking through their time loop

after (deathloop) fia and charlie again, before and after. this is the oldest wip in the folder rn it’s been collecting dust for a couple years but there’s some good in it so i’m just going to reuse pieces elsewhere lol

iteration (original work!) something about two unwell people finding and escaping different versions of each other over the years… scared to even discuss because the motivation to write outside of fandom is so fucking fleeting that even mentioning this work could give me the ick and i’ll just throw the whole thing away lol anyway! anyway

tagging… @charmcity-jess @samseabxrn @greypetrel @hannahmationstudios @zenstrike and YOU! if you’re reading this and want to play, tag me so i can read about your wips!!!!!!!

[kittynomsdeplume]

First Sentence tag game

Thanks for the tag @musetta3, @cleverblackcat and @morganlefaye79

Looking at the list of my last ten published fics on AO3 and almost all of them are gift fics! Which is not a bad thing by any means, other than the fact that my long fics continue to wallow in unfinished misery 😬

Apparently I need an exchange deadline to get anything done 😅

Rule: Post the first sentence of your last 10 fics.

Captured - Dragon age: Farie Lavellan and Captain Rylen (Explicit)

They splash from the river, buoyant in each other’s arms. 

2. The Inquisitor's Gift - Dragon Age: Jonathan Trevelyan and Dorian Pavus (Mature)

Dorian collapses with a heavy whoosh into the plush leather chair in his father’s office — the solid, old wood creaking in protest at such disrespect. 

3. Ding Dong Desk Dick Down - Dragon Age: Kiara Trevelyan, Cullen Rutherford, Warden!Alistair (Explicit)

“Who’s ready for round two?” Alistair asks with a mischievous grin and Cullen lets out an exhausted groan. 

4. I'll crawl home to her - Dragon Age: Kiara Hawke and Anders (Teen+)

Anders thumbs through the loose pages of his manifesto, the light of a single candle dancing across the parchment. 

5. Nobody's Fool - Dragon Age: Arthur Trevelyan and Dorian Pavus (Teen+)

The sunlight begins to slant low and amber through the library window, and Dorian rests his book in his lap, blinking his weary eyes. 

6. Excuse me, Archdemon - Dragon Age: Warden!Alistair and Elissa Cousland (General)

Alistair wakes in a cold sweat, heart hammering in his chest as remnants of his nightmare slither through his mind.

7. Working out the kinks - Mass Effect: Fem!Shepard, Garrus Vakarian, Nihlus Kryik (Explicit)

“I don't mind the recoil on the M-29 so much, I’d only ever use it at mid-range anyway,” Shepard shrugs as she leads them out of the shuttle bay, wiping the sweat from her flushed face with the end of the towel that hangs around her neck. 

8. Templar Vows - Dragon Age: Cullen Rutherford, Warden!Alistair (Teen+)

Cullen leaps up the steps leading to the novitiate quarters.

9. Wounded Pride - Dragon Age: Solona Amell, Cullen Rutherford (Explicit)

Cullen steered his trusted steed, Kilead, away from the city gates of Kirkwall, and the stallion traversed the pitted earth with a smooth and steady gait. 

10. Dread Wolf Guides You - Dragon Age: Ellana Lavellan and Solas (General)

Solas ambles along the path leading from their camp toward Lake Luthias. 

Tagging: @sidhelives | @rosella-writes | @queenaeducan | @isk4649 | @dreadfutures | @pikapeppa | @noire-pandora | @charmcity-jess | @kemvee | @raflesia65 | @wardenari

And anyone else that wants to share!

[monsterthalia]

WIP Whenever

@theluckywizard tagged me to share part of a WIP (thank you!) so this seems as good as time as any to share part of a Dragon Age Inquisition fic I've been noodling away on whilst having Covid.

I don't have a list of people to tag, but if you have a WIP, please consider this your prompt to share it if you wish.

Isidore and Jessamine Trevelyan are twins. Jess is a mage, sent off to the Circle as a child, whilst Iz was promised to the Templars once he came of age - plans that went up in smoke when the Mage/Templar war began. When both end up at the Conclave, it's a reunion neither of them want - nor does it go how they might expect.

---

He grabbed her elbow, not gently, and pulled her away from the crowd. “What are you doing here?”

“What are you doing here?” she shot back at him, snatching back her elbow and clutching it.

“I asked first!” he snapped, and immediately flushed with embarrassment, even before she rolled her eyes. 

“Real mature, Iz-”

“I’m here as guard for the Ostwick Chantry delegation. Let me guess, you’re here with your rebel chums? Planning to stir up trouble?”

She just flashed a grin, that smug grin she’d had since she was a smug little five-year-old. For a moment, he could see the pigtails. “Doubt they’ll need my help.”

He pressed a hand to his forehead. A sharp pain was already starting up behind his eyes. “Jess - this is serious - it IS,” he added, more firmly, as she just snorted. “The Divine is here-”

She snorted again. “Sure, so she can wring her hands and say how she did all she could before declaring an Exalted March.”

“Only if the mages won’t be reasonable!” he snapped, “They’ve been offered terms over and over-”

“The terms are bullshit and you know it!” she shot back, “Or you would if you weren’t so lost up your own arse. Do you want them to lock me back up in a Circle?”

“That’s - I d- I don’t -” He was struggling for words, for breath, and his heart was racing. Dammit, not now, not now. Words felt impossible, tangling in his tongue. His breaths became tight, lungs clamped in obsidian, and heat flushed across his face even as his clenched fists felt cold. And Jessamine just watched him, aloof and uncaring, her face like he was a nug rolling in its own shit.

“I’m going to save you some trouble,” she sneered, “If your answer wasn’t just ‘Of course not, dear sister’, then I have nothing to say to you. Tell Mother I said hello. Tell Father I said ‘go fuck yourself’.”

She turned on her heel and strode off down the nearest empty corridor. Isidore stared after her, still frozen as he struggled for a clear breath.

“Hey, that area’s off limits!” he heard someone nearby call after her. A Grey Warden? Just their luck if she managed to piss them off as well. 

He rolled his eyes. “I’ll go get her,” he called back, then took off down the corridor after her. He heard the Grey Warden shout something, but ignored it as Jessamine picked up the pace ahead of him, having to break into a run to catch up with her.

He came level with her just as she approached a pair of double doors. “Leave me alone!” she snapped at him, and he was astonished to see that her eyes were actually bright, full of tears.

He didn’t have time to decipher if she was genuinely upset over their encounter or just having a tantrum. He took her elbow again, gentler this time. “Jess, come on, we’re not allowed down here. We need to get back to-”

“I said leave me alone!” she shouted, ripping her elbow from him and shoving open the doors-

And that was the last thing he remembered.

----

[amarmeme]

I joined the Templartations Exchange this year and was honored with four incredible gifts. I encourage you to check out the exchange as a whole if you enjoy Dragon Age's resident templars, including Cullen, Alistair, Rylen, and even some smexy Samson. :) Dinner and a Show by @replicatortrash Bethany Hawke/Alistair Theirin, Rated E, 5,400 words MMMMMM this was so delightful. Everything you want in this ship -- two wardens stumbling through feelings and f*cking. A true GEM and exactly what I was hoping for with these idiots.

Your move, Commander by Toshi_Nama Cullen Rutherford/Original Female Character, Rated E, 5,000 words What a freaking sumptuous story — Cullen gets hounded at the Winter Palace and OC cuts him a deal that protects both of them. The OC is an Orlesian noble and I will not spoil it ...

The Whole World by @knuttydraws Cullen Rutherford/Lotte Trevelyan, ART! This gorgeous art by Knutty made my heart melt. The warmth, the colors, the satisfied looks and wholesome touches. Go feast your eyes on Knutty's lovely art style. It is so good.

Save Tonight by @charmcity-jess Cullen Rutherford/Female Trevelyan, Rated M, 2,500 words So sorry Cullen, we love to torture you with a bad time. But, it all makes good in the end with another lady saving you from the Orlesians — a non-Inquisitor Trevelyan. I was head over heels for this one. Go readdddd.

This was such a delightful exchange with a delightful group of writers and artists. I'll share my contributions separately, as this is already a longer post, but THANK YOU to @knuttydraws for hosting and for everyone else listed above. You are all lovely, talented people.

[clairedelune-13]

Watching a Youtuber who was boasting about how long it took him to design his Inquisitor.

Know how long it apparently took him?

Only fifteen minutes.

What an amateur.

It took me three months to perfect my OCs.

THREE MONTHS. Three months of back-and-forth to the Black Emporium until I felt satisfied enough.

[jozstankovich]

for the ask game: 100% !!!

100%. Does your character resemble anybody famous?

A few of my ocs have famous/mildly famous face claims lol

Win Lewis - Kailee Morgue Delilah Edwards - Emma Roberts Aevryn Davey-Swift - Emily Rudd Ji-ae Yeong - CHUU Julia Stevens - Kristen Stewart Jesse DeLaurenta - Avan Jogia Josie Parker - a mix of Keira Knightley and Natalie Portman Sera Darling - Olivia Holt Thompson Blum - Tom Waits Phifer Montivan - Ruby Rose Lorelai Trevelyan - Lily Collins

[ oc questions ]

[partystoragechest]

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

Canon divergent fic in which Josephine solves the matter of post-Wicked Hearts attention by inviting invites four noblewomen to compete for Cullen's affections. In this chapter, the Ladies say their farewells. But--

(Masterpost. Beginning. Previous entry. Next entry. Words: 2,750. Rating: all audiences.)

Chapter 44: Not Over Yet

Despite their late night, the Ladies were duty-bound to wake early. Lady Samient was to leave before the sun rose. They all had to be there to see her off.

They gathered in the courtyard, the first rays of light creeping over the mountains. It would be that light which would guide her retinue—no more than a dozen troops, for small was discreet—to the Free Marches.

“Do you think Vichy will be glad to see me, looking like this?” Samient asked, of the Inquisition armour she wore—identical to that of the soldiers who lingered nearby.

“I think it shan’t matter what you wear,” said Trevelyan, “he will simply be happy it’s you.”

“And at least you shall be matching,” Lady Erridge teased.

Samient laughed, the joke causing her to settle somewhat. Trevelyan had never seen her Ladyship quite so nervous as this. It was a shame she would miss the reunion, for she so wished to know what Samient was like in the presence of her lover. What a happy, silly mess she might be!

“Do not worry about your father,” the Baroness reassured her. “Lady Montilyet and I shall deal with all that. You focus upon the journey home.”

Samient nodded. “Thank you.”

A Captain shouted out orders, drawing attention to the retinue as it shifted into formation. The time was nigh. Samient brought her hair up, and tied it into a bun atop her head. Her ears exposed, she ran a finger over the very tips—pointed and proud.

“Shame they’ll have to go straight back under a helm,” she muttered.

“Though not for much longer,” Trevelyand reminded her.

Samient smiled. “And never again after that.”

Such preparations did not go unnoticed, for her Dalish liaison—a young Elven man called Loranil—took the opportunity to hurry up, and report in. “Your Ladyship,” he said, “we’re ready to march.”

“I suppose I should make my way, then,” Samient mumbled. She sighed, and stared at the Ladies. “I, um… I don’t know what to say...”

“Oh, come here!” Lady Erridge cried. She threw her arms around Samient, smothering her with a hug. “Come on, you two!”

Trevelyan and the Baroness joined her, for Lady Erridge had the right of it. No words were necessary. Their embrace said it all. It was a promise of unflinching devotion, no matter how far apart.

“We love you,” whispered Erridge.

“I know.” Samient sniffled back tears. “I love you too.”

“Have a safe journey,” Trevelyan said.

“And write as soon as you can,” the Baroness added. “Tell us everything of your Clan.”

Samient parted. “I will. I will.” Taking a deep breath, she managed to say it. That inevitable word. “Farewell, all of you. I love you. Be happy. Please.”

Though they longed to keep her, and though she longed to stay, forever was impossible. But, in an attempt to delay its end, the Ladies remained, and would wait until Lady Samient was truly gone.

No, Giles. She wished to be remembered as Giles.

Giles found her place within the regiment. A few words were spoken between her and the soldiers, which caused her to smile. She placed her helm upon her head—it concealed the tears—and, with one final look back, she marched out of Skyhold.

May Ghila’nain guide her home.

***

No sooner than the remaining Ladies had recovered from this, than it was Lady Erridge’s turn.

Her carriage had arrived. They all had gathered. Her things were packed. Orroat’s horse was hitched. It was time.

Naturally, Lady Erridge was inconsolable. Whimpering, tear-stained, and red, she threw herself into Orroat’s arms, and begged: “Can’t we stay just one week more?”

But Lady Orroat shook her head. “I would agree to your every request, my love, but I am afraid if I say yes, you shall never leave.” She tapped Erridge lovingly upon the nose. “And I do not know how the Bann will continue to survive without you. Your poor mother had to sew a dozen more handkerchiefs for him, last time I visited.”

“Oh, dear.”

“Don’t worry”—Orroat dabbed her dear Lady’s eyes, ineffective as it was—“we always managed to see each other as children, so this will be done as well—and we’ll pass through here plenty, I imagine!” She turned to Trevelyan and Touledy. “And you are always welcome in Coldon, of course!”

“I would be glad to visit,” said the Baroness.

“As would I,” Trevelyan agreed.

Lady Erridge whirled, and grabbed hold of their hands. “Oh, please do! I do not wish this to be our last meeting!”

Trevelyan feigned shock. “Why, are we uninvited from your wedding!?”

“Oh, no, no! Of course you are invited. What a wonderful day that shall be. No—a week! It shall be an entire week of festivities! I promise you.” She looked at Orroat. “Don’t you think?”

“If you so wish, my love.”

“Thank you, my love.”

Their outrageously saccharine nature was the only thing, at that moment, keeping Trevelyan from crying, for she could not help but smile to see it.

“I’m afraid the carriage is ready, Tam,” said Orroat, solemnly. “We’ll need to clear the mountain range before sundown, so we’ll have to be gone soon.”

“Oh, dear!” cried Erridge.

Petrified by the weight of the knowledge that her next moments with the Ladies would be her last, she almost hesitated. But such moments as these were not to be squandered! Lady Erridge surged forward, bundling both Trevelyan and Touledy into her arms. The loveliest, warmest, kindest hug yet.

“You know,” murmured Erridge, “were it not for you, I would have never known myself in love with dear Hul. It was only in befriending you that I realised my feelings for her were different.” She snuggled in closer. “Though just as precious.”

“We love you,” whispered Trevelyan.

“We do,” said Touledy.

“I love you both,” Erridge replied.

It was this sentiment that seemed to provide her the strength to step away, for nothing could be so enduring. But even as her fingers slipped from Trevelyan’s arm, she whispered to her:

“I’ll miss you terribly, Wicky.”

Trevelyan smiled, a tear in her eye. “And I you.”

But missing her would have to do—the carriage was loaded, the drivers seated. Lady Orroat opened the door.

“Are you ready, my love?”

“I think so,” Erridge replied.

She offered her hand. Lady Orroat took it, and kissed it, and guided Lady Erridge into the carriage—but did not follow. Not yet. Instead, she looked to the Ladies.

“Thank you for caring for my dear Tam so well,” she told them. “I cannot express how much it means, to know she is loved. I hope to make her even half as happy as you have.”

Trevelyan nodded. “Good. For if you break her heart, we shall kill you.”

“Painfully,” the Baroness added.

Lady Orroat grinned. “I would expect no more and deserve no less.”

She clambered into the carriage, settling in beside her dear Lady. Trevelyan watched, quite satisfied that their message had been heard, and that Lady Erridge was in good hands.

And those good hands kept her stable, as Erridge fumbled over Orroat’s lap, to poke her head out of the window. “Farewell!” she called. “We shall meet again! I love you!”

The signal was given, the reins taken up. The carriage began to trundle away.

“We shall meet again!” Erridge repeated, as it slipped into the gatehouse. Her voice echoed off the stone. “Farewell!”

“Farewell!” the Ladies cried. “Safe journey! Farewell!”

She vanished, the carriage rumbling over the old stone bridge. Trevelyan imagined that, within it, at that very moment, Lady Orroat had taken Lady Erridge’s hand, and held it tight. It was not so hard to believe.

Good. The sooner they were married, the sooner they would all see each other again. For now, though, sadness remained a most stalwart companion.

Trevelyan pulled her napkin from a pocket—the poor little cloth only just having dried from its use earlier in the morning—and dabbed at her eyes. It was a wonder she had any tears left! The Baroness dried her own, and looked to Lady Trevelyan. Wordlessly, they linked their arms together. Two Ladies left.

“Come,” she said, “my carriage will not be ready for another hour, so let us pass the time. May I see your new quarters, before I go?”

A good distraction. Trevelyan nodded.

Together, they wandered back towards the keep, and into the Great Hall. It was much calmer today than yesterday. Only the ordinary sort of rumpus and ruckus.

In search of Trevelyan’s new quarters, the Ladies headed not for the rotunda door and the guest suites above, but for the door to Montilyet’s parlour. Tucked within, they knew well enough, was the landing that preceded her lounge. And off this landing, there were two sets of stairs.

They took the ascending route, to where a different set of suites awaited. Stretching out above the parlour, snaking into the Inquisitor’s tower, this corridor housed the rooms of the Inquisition’s innermost circle.

“I couldn’t quite believe it, when she told me where it was,” Trevelyan admitted.

“It is a privilege to be amongst them,” mused Touledy.

They turned into the tower, ascended a little ways up… and soon enough, came across a door.

“This is it,” Trevelyan said, turning the key. “Though I warn you—it’s not mightily impressive.”

She opened it, and shuffled in. The Baroness followed, and put on a good show of admiration—but Trevelyan knew it was merely politeness.

This room she’d been given was a touch smaller than her guest room. Understandable, really. Guests were to be impressed with comfort; residents simply needed somewhere to sleep. The furnishings were more basic, too—but better than the ones she’d had in the Circle, by far.

The bed, though not four-poster, was of a sufficient size. “Though you’ll not test this one,” she teased the Baroness.

“Oh, I believe that is someone else’s duty.”

Trevelyan laughed. “And here is my desk!” she quickly continued, proudly showing off the little bureau. “I’m so pleased to have this. I’ll be able to work here, should the Undercroft be too busy. Oh, and look!”

She pointed to the window just above it, that permitted morning light to filter into the room. The Baroness peered out, and gasped at what she saw.

“Oh! Are these not the same mountains we saw from your stargazing spot?”

Trevelyan nodded emphatically. “Yes! I can sit here, on a night, and look out—without having to get so cold!”

Touledy smirked. “But how then will you secretly rendezvous with the Commander, hm?”

“I believe you’ve already suggested a method!”

They laughed, and Touledy regarded the room once more. There was little else of note—a trunk and drawers, for storage, and a pair of chairs—but she nodded approvingly nevertheless.

“It may not be much, but I think it is lovely.”

Trevelyan grinned. “I know. So do I. And—”

There was a rapid knock at the door. Trevelyan perked. The Baroness’ carriage could not have been ready so soon? She hurried over, and opened the door. A scout stood on the other side.

“Morning, your Ladyship. This just arrived for you—urgent.”

They handed over a small scrap of vellum. She could tell by the scrawled writing that it was a bird-message, transcribed.

“Thank you,” she said, letting them hurry on their way. She shut the door, and returned to Touledy.

“Who is it from?” her Ladyship asked.

Trevelyan steeled herself. There was no seal to warn her, but the timing itself was enough. “I think I know.

Though her soul screamed not to, her eyes began to scan the words:

Daughter,

If there is no engagment, there is no reason for you to stay. We shall be travelling to Val Royeaux. Meet us there, or we shall have you fetched.

Bann Trevelyan

Trevelyan’s lungs stopped. The paper fell from her hand, spinning to the ground. They couldn’t—she gasped—they couldn’t just come for her? They couldn’t take her away. No, no—

Touledy, leaning hard on her cane, managed to collect the message from the floor, and read it for herself. Her eyes widened.

“Stay calm, Lady Trevelyan. Everything will be all right.”

Trevelyan shook her head. “But they—but they… I didn’t think they would come get me! I thought they would just leave me be. Why won’t they leave me be?”

Shaking, she found the arm of a chair. The Baroness guided her into it.

“Shh, stay calm. It is all right. You are of the Inquisition now. You have protection. They cannot simply pluck you from Skyhold. We should tell Lady Montilyet of this. She still owes you a debt.”

The Baroness rose, and hurried to the door, sticking her head out. Grunting, she rushed back.

“The scout is gone,” she explained, “so I shall find Montilyet myself. You remain here. Stay calm, all right? Breathe. All right? Breathe.”

Trevelyan did as instructed, taking breaths in, and pushing them forcefully back out.

“Good,” cooed Touledy, stroking her arm, “very good. I will be a moment. Just a moment. We will have this sorted, I promise you.”

Touledy gathered herself, and left the room. Her cane tapped away at a heightened rhythm. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

But when it quieted at last, Trevelyan was left with only the sound of her own breathing. She clasped her hands together, until her knuckles turned pale, and held them against her chest. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

A knock at the door. Touledy was sooner than promised.

“Come in!” she cried.

“Arcanist?” came the reply.

Trevelyan turned. The Commander stood in her door. She lost her breath again.

“Are you all right?” he said, abandoning what he carried upon her dresser, and pulling a chair up beside her. “What’s wrong?”

She pressed a hand to her mouth, unable to say it without crying. “My parents…”

No use. She passed him the message, instead. He read it. His face fell. His head shook.

“No,” he said. “They cannot take you from Skyhold.”

“They’ll try.”

“Then what if…” He tried to catch her eye. “What if you simply told them we were engaged? Would that settle them? If that is, if that’s what they want?”

“No!” Trevelyan stood, tears falling anew. “I don’t want to do what they want! I want to do what I want! I wanted to be done with them! I just…” She bowed her head, and wept. “I wanted to be free.”

She felt her body buckle—but no sooner than it had, than it was held upright. The Commander enveloped her in his arms, and held her tight against his chest. She clung to him in turn, buried her head within the fur of his mantle. It was all him, keeping her together.

“No one can take you from Skyhold without your consent,” he murmured. “I promised, you are safe within these walls. They could send an army. They will not take you from m—here.”

Trevelyan nodded. Her breathing slowed. She believed him. She believed him.

Footsteps—hurried, heeled footsteps—neared.

“Lady Trevelyan!” came Montilyet’s voice, as she rounded into the room. “The Baroness has just told me! Are you well?”

Trevelyan shook her head. The Commander, slowly, gently released her into Lady Montilyet’s arms.

“It’s all right, Lady Trevelyan,” she told her. “I will go to Val Royeaux myself if I have to! You are an Arcanist of the Inquisition, and you belong here.”

Trevelyan muttered, “I want to stay.”

“I know. You will.”

Further footsteps. Trevelyan glanced toward the door, and saw the Baroness had arrived as well. But—the Commander was gone.

“Where is he?” she asked.

“He slipped away,” the Baroness said. She wandered over to the dresser, and admired the bouquet of flowers that had appeared upon it. “But it seems he left you a gift. I shall find someone to fetch a vase of water.”

The Baroness withdrew. Lady Montilyet sat Trevelyan down, and brought the flowers to her. Trevelyan accepted the arrangement, gladly. Such a beautiful little bouquet. Poppies and spinwort, crystal grace and daisies. Put together by one with no knowledge of floristry. Ever more beautiful for it.

“Trust me,” said Lady Montilyet, sitting beside her. “I can deal with the Bann and Lady Trevelyan. In my sleep.”

But Trevelyan shook her head. “No,” she said. “I want to deal with them myself.”

[dalekofchaos]

Bond Villain fancast

Fun fancast where I fancast iconic Bond villains for the modern day or if they were apart of the Craig era/next Bond's era

BD Wong as Dr Julius No

Michelle Gomez as Rosa Klebb

Alexander Skarsgard as Red Grant

Brendan Gleeson as Auric Goldfinger

Benedict Wong as Oddjob

Kyle MacLachlan as Emilio Largo

Christoph Waltz, Pedro Pascal and Mark Gatiss as Ernst Stavro Blofeld

Jason Schwartzman as Mr. Wint

Jesse Plemons as Mr. Kidd

Daniel Kaluuya as Dr Kananga/Mr Big

Rory McCann as Jaws

Chiwetel Ejiofor as Francisco Scaramanga

Stellan Skarsgard as Karl Stromberg

Peter Dinklage as Hugo Drax

Mark Strong as Aris Kristatos

Oded Fehr as Kamal Khan

John Malkovich as General Orlov

Jade Cargill as May Day

Benicio del Toro as Franz Sanchez

Timothy Granaderos as Dario

Jean Dujardin as Georgi Koskov

Georges St-Pierre as Necros

Dean Norris as Brad Whittaker

Ewan McGregor as Alec Trevelyan

Jodie Comer as Xenia Onatopp

Jeremy Irons as Elliot Carver

Daniel Radcliffe as Renard

Daisy Ridley as Elektra King

James Norton as Gustav Graves

Andrew Koji as Zao

Florence Pugh as Miranda Frost

[wankerwatch]

Commons Vote

On: Holocaust Memorial Bill Committee: New Clause 1

Ayes: 11 (100.0% Con) Noes: 182 (98.4% Con, 0.5% DUP, 0.5% Ind, 0.5% LD) Absent: ~457

Likely Referenced Bill: Holocaust Memorial Bill

Description: A Bill to make provision for expenditure by the Secretary of State and the removal of restrictions in respect of certain land for or in connection with the construction of a Holocaust Memorial and Learning Centre.

Originating house: Commons Current house: Lords Bill Stage: 1st reading

Individual Votes:

Ayes

Conservative (11 votes)

Bernard Jenkin Charles Walker Geoffrey Clifton-Brown Henry Smith Jacob Rees-Mogg John Stevenson Karl McCartney Lia Nici Peter Bottomley Richard Graham Tom Randall

Noes

Conservative (179 votes)

Aaron Bell Alan Mak Alberto Costa Alex Burghart Alicia Kearns Alok Sharma Amanda Milling Amanda Solloway Andrew Lewer Andrew Murrison Andrew Percy Andrew Rosindell Andrew Stephenson Andy Carter Anna Firth Anne-Marie Trevelyan Anthony Browne Antony Higginbotham Ben Everitt Ben Spencer Bill Wiggin Bob Blackman Bob Seely Brandon Lewis Brendan Clarke-Smith Caroline Ansell Caroline Dinenage Caroline Johnson Caroline Nokes Cherilyn Mackrory Chris Clarkson Chris Grayling Chris Green Chris Loder Chris Philp Craig Tracey Craig Williams Damian Collins Damian Green Damian Hinds Danny Kruger David Duguid David Jones David Simmonds Dean Russell Dehenna Davison Derek Thomas Duncan Baker Eddie Hughes Edward Argar Edward Timpson Fay Jones Felicity Buchan Fiona Bruce Gagan Mohindra Gareth Bacon Gareth Davies Gary Sambrook George Eustice Gordon Henderson Graham Stuart Greg Smith Guy Opperman Heather Wheeler Helen Grant Helen Whately Holly Mumby-Croft Huw Merriman Iain Duncan Smith Iain Stewart Jack Brereton Jackie Doyle-Price Jacob Young James Davies James Grundy James Morris James Wild Jamie Wallis Jane Hunt Jeremy Quin Jeremy Wright Jerome Mayhew Jesse Norman John Hayes John Howell John Lamont John Whittingdale Jonathan Djanogly Julian Lewis Julian Sturdy Julie Marson Justin Tomlinson Karen Bradley Katherine Fletcher Kelly Tolhurst Kevin Foster Kevin Hollinrake Kieran Mullan Laura Farris Laurence Robertson Leo Docherty Lisa Cameron Louie French Luke Hall Maggie Throup Marcus Jones Maria Caulfield Mark Fletcher Mark Logan Mark Spencer Martin Vickers Mary Robinson Matt Warman Matthew Offord Michael Ellis Michael Fabricant Mike Freer Mike Wood Mims Davies Miriam Cates Nadhim Zahawi Neil Hudson Neil O'Brien Nick Fletcher Nicola Richards Nigel Huddleston Nigel Mills Paul Holmes Paul Howell Paul Scully Penny Mordaunt Peter Aldous Philip Dunne Philip Hollobone Priti Patel Rebecca Harris Rebecca Pow Richard Drax Richard Fuller Robbie Moore Robert Courts Robert Halfon Robert Largan Robert Neill Robert Syms Robin Millar Robin Walker Ruth Edwards Sally-Ann Hart Saqib Bhatti Sara Britcliffe Sarah Dines Scott Mann Selaine Saxby Shailesh Vara Shaun Bailey Sheryll Murray Simon Baynes Simon Clarke Simon Fell Simon Hart Simon Hoare Simon Jupp Stephen Metcalfe Steve Baker Steve Brine Steve Double Steve Tuckwell Stuart Anderson Stuart Andrew Theo Clarke Theresa Villiers Tobias Ellwood Tom Hunt Tom Pursglove Tracey Crouch Trudy Harrison Will Quince William Cash

Democratic Unionist Party (1 vote)

Ian Paisley

Independent (1 vote)

William Wragg

Liberal Democrat (1 vote)

Wera Hobhouse

[fademirrored]

alpha: Inquisitor

“Considering the demon-spewing holes scattered all over the place, I want to ask you, very seriously, ‘what’s the worst that could happen?’”

Owain Deiniol Trevelyan (‘Oh’ if you’re Aneirin) Herald of Andraste. Inquisitor. Human mage.

Male. He/Him/His. Panromantic demisexual, polyamorous 13 Justinian, 9:14 Dragon. Ostwick, Freemarches. Mage; storm mage, Knight-Enchanter.

FC: Jesse Williams, loosely. Eyes: Bright, very clear green. Large. Hair: White, almost silver, very curly. Chin length by Haven, partially braided and partially shaved on the right. Skin: Dark, gold-ish undertones. Fairly smooth skin, but with calloused fingers. Height: 5'10" Build: Stocky. Broad shoulders. Not accustomed to up-close physical combat, but in good enough shape to beat someone with his staff in a pinch. Notable Details: Cheekbones you could break glass on. Pointed nose. Small scars all over his hands. Green, glowing scars gradually spreading up his left arm, getting brighter (until the arm is removed). Voice: Narrator from The Stanley Parable.

Positive Traits: Observant, clever, adaptable, and a quick learner; remembers information and picks up skills quickly, and he’s good at holding onto inane details. Tenacious, passionate, and not going to compromise when he knows he can do something better; he’s going to help or fix something if it’s in his power to do so. Sees the best in people and the world around him and considers ‘irredeemable’ something of a foreign concept; will hand out an almost endless number of second chances until someone well and truly jumps off the slippery slope to monsterhood. Negative Traits: Control freak; he likes when things are done a particular way and gets antsy when he knows that isn’t what’s happening. Horrible coping methods; tends to use Aneirin as an emotional punching bag, though he’s not really aware he’s doing this. Short-tempered and impatient, with a deficit of tact early on; diplomacy does not come naturally to him, and even once he learns the skill he doesn’t always care to use it. Bullheaded and loath to change his mind if a very good case for doing so isn’t presented to him; may ignore that very good case if it comes at the wrong time or from the wrong source. Naive, sheltered, good at denial; tends to be of the assumption he’s a much nicer, sweeter person than he is and that he knows more about the world than he does. Neutral Traits: Opinionated and very willing to be heard. Very romantic. Extrovert. Playfully sarcastic. Considers personal space optional. Optimist vs. Pessimist: Generally optimistic, though it gets a bit pyrrhic at times. Quirks: Hates when people move his stuff when he isn’t there to see them do it; has recurring intrusive thoughts that everything since the Ostwick Circle has been a dream and he’ll eventually wake up. Has several tactile stims to deal with the anxiety.

Religion: Andrastian. Initially moderately so, more devoutly so when he was declared the Herald, and then decreasingly so after he had to bury Haven. Likes: Good food. Good company. Laughter. Open spaces. The sky, stormy weather, cloudless nights. The moon and stars. A good book. Venison. Most sweets (“Ooh, cake!”). Cream-based soups. Cocoa. Mulled wine, and especially chocolate wine. Food in general; will try most things at least once he tried dragon meat on a dare once. New magic. Dislikes: People with no sense of humor. Being treated like a child. People touching or moving his things. Surprises. Other people mocking or hassling Aneirin. Confined spaces, being cooped up for too long. Most Templars. Favorite Colors: Azure. Spring green. Golden poppy. Hobbies: Fencing. Reading. Gardening. Target practice. Aimless socializing. Will try most things at least once.

Family: Nia Trevelyan (mother). Bran Trevelyan (father). Gwyneira Trevelyan (sister). Aneirin Trevelyan (twin brother). Ellis Trevelyan (brother). Steed: Moo, wild hart. Romance: Dorian. Friends: Blackwall. Cassandra. Cole. Solas. Varric.Note: Wasn’t especially fond of Sera, and flat out disliked Vivienne, though he tried to be polite. Found Iron Bull sort of intimidating. Friendship with Varric occasionally fluctuated due to finding some of his well-meaning advice a bit too pointed. *everything in this sectioncan of course be tweaked or disregarded entirely for specific threads, if you’d rather.