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evanhereonearth · 8 days ago

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I hurt my own feelings with this fic. VEILGUARD SPOILERS!

This is the prologue of Veilguard from the POV of my Inquisitor, Ilaana Lavellan, who has spent the time since Trespasser working tirelessly to change the world. Her work with the Dalish and Rivaini seers and the Avvar augurs inspired the Veil Jumpers’ formation. She is a Dreamer and she is so endlessly tired.

Now betrayed by one of her dearest friends when it mattered the most.

I stare at the letters side by side. One from a beloved friend. One from my most trusted agent, which I have just decrypted. And one…

One I have had for a week and have been expecting. If not today, soon. It’s time. And I’m already too late to make a difference.

Varric’s letter fills me with cold. Cold like the Elfsblood River in Emprise du Lion spiked with red lyrium, its rage hot against the frigid ice that has settled over my skin.

He is too smart to think I will buy it, too canny to believe I don’t have my own methods of tracking Solas—yet still, here it is, another spun tale from the man who once told me I should have lied to the Right Hand of the Divine herself when I woke in Haven with a hole in the sky and a hole in my head and a hole in my hand that could heal all three.

I read it again, my body past reacting outwardly but my ribs screaming to hold back the fury in my heart.

Inquisitor,

Greetings from miserable, rainy Minrathous! (Don't tell Dorian I called it that.) The rotten weather here is making me nostalgic for Skyhold. The mountains were freezing, but at least the air didn't smell like wet garbage.

We'll have to get in another game of Wicked Grace soon.

Harding picked up the trail again. I'd tell you not to worry, but I know how useless that is. Instead, I'll just say: I've got a great team on this. Neve could stare down the Maker, and wait until you meet Rook. They're a natural: Smart, resourceful, completely unpredictable. You'd like them, as long as you don't try to beat them at cards. Chuckles'll never know what hit him.

I'll write again once we have something solid for you. Drinks at the Hanged Man are on me when this is over. Take care of yourself.

Varric

Then I read Charter’s. Charter is Leliana’s agent and also mine, one of the few who has come face to face with Solas since the events of the Qunari Dragon’s Breath plot. I trust Leliana implicitly—she’s earned that from me, my truest friend aside from Dorian and my most steadfast partner in all my intricate work for the past decade, by my side by choice as I walk my own din’an shiral—and until five minutes ago when I got Charter’s, I also trusted Varric Tethras.

Charter’s words are brief, using only my code name and seven others she pulsed through the sending crystal only minutes ago.

Lathi,

Our Lady of Victory. Looking glass. Haste.

I’m already too late. Haste means immediately. Even if I have an eluvian directly into the centre of Minrathous, I cannot run fast enough to beat Varric to Our Lady of Victory. Morrigan cannot fly fast enough.

Varric told me not to come to Minrathous yet.

And I know, without any doubt, that he sent his message barely an hour ago; Irelin must have been holding on to it until he told her to send it.

I am frozen like that horrid river, my own Elvhen blood a block of ice in every vein. How many times have I tried to explain to Varric the stakes here? How many hours have I spent begging him to listen to anything beyond his own narrative?

Something cracks within me, and my body begins to vibrate like a hummingbird’s wings as I force myself to reread the final letter.

Vhenan, I do not know if you will see these words. My ritual is ready and will soon be set in motion. Perhaps when you read this the world will be as it once was, and you will see why all I did was necessary. I cannot ask your forgiveness, but I hope you come to understand. That night in Crestwood, when I shared the truth about your vallaslin…you do not know how close I came to breaking. I could have shared the truth, or even put my plans aside and simply stayed with you as Solas…as I wanted.

I regret the pain I caused you.

What I feel for you will never change.

This, I have read a thousand times in the days since I found it in the Crossroads. I knew he sensed me close to his Lighthouse, knew he felt as I always do when we enter each other’s orbits.

It is the closest thing to an invitation he will ever send me; Solas once pushed me from his own din’an shiral out of fear I would come to regret loving him, that his steps would poison our love and the safety we built in each other’s hearts. He knew, when he sent this letter, that he had been wrong then about my motivations—or at least that my motivations have had the time to reveal to him my truth. He remembers how I said, “Let me help you, Solas.” And he is no fool. He knows every threat to his course, every passing breeze, and he knows every deliberate step I have taken on the journey I chose for myself these last ten years. He knows it’s not for him alone; he knows my mind is my own. He also knows I am free to choose and have chosen.

And now in my own foolish trust of an old friend, I will be too late to help him after all this time. Because Varric knows if I show up at Solas’s ritual, the Void take me, it will not be to stop my love at all costs.

I take a single steadying breath. Too late or not, I have to try. He will feel me coming to him. Perhaps that will be enough.

I summon a trio of wisps as I turn and sprint for my eluvian, whispering, begging, imbuing them with all the love in my heart and praying it is enough to stall whatever Varric has set in motion with this betrayal.

***

Varric’s letter and Charter’s, I drop into the warded message box I share with Leliana and Morrigan. Morrigan is deep in Arlathan Forest with Strife and Irelin, and Leliana—Divine Victoria—is leading the entire Chantry of Southern Thedas. They will both know soon enough.

Slipping through the mirror buzzes against the surface of my skin, enveloping me in the magic of the Fade, of the in-between place that is the Crossroads. We do not have Solas’s Vi’Revas, and our small section of the eluvian network is ours at his sufferance, unacknowledged for the sake of our plausible deniability—something we are all well aware of. The wisps I summoned are already gone, whirring through the Fade to find my love with as much haste as they can muster.

Time moves differently here. My feet pound over its ancient paths, rainbows glimmering and shimmering in the raw magic that surrounds me, but I still cannot move fast enough. With a thought, I slip into wolf form; I may not truly be faster this way, but I feel faster.

The mental boost gives me strength. It is not far to the Minrathous eluvian, but what lies on the other side is the true terror in my soul. Dorian’s manor is across the city from Our Lady of Victory. Even with all the magic in Thedas, I cannot simply appear where I want to appear.

When I reach the eluvian, I launch myself through, transforming myself back into the shape of Ilaana Lavellan that the world knows as the Inquisitor.

And what I hear makes me almost trip and sprawl out onto my face.

“Citizens of Minrathous!” The voice booms through the air from the Archon’s Palace.

I don’t hear the rest of the message, because Dorian throws open the door to the warded eluvian room, pinged by the wards that recognise my mana.

“It’s started,” he says. “Ilaana—”

“Varric lied,” I tell him shortly. “Did you know?”

I’ve never heard the razor-sharp edge to my voice that slices through the air between me and my dearest friend. He gapes at me, piecing together what I’m saying as horror twists his expression before he can answer.

“Dorian, did you know?”

My voice cracks the second time, and he flinches at my anguish.

“No, Lathi. I trust you above all else in this Maker-forsaken world. Into the Fade and Beyond.”

The weary smile he gives me is enough; Dorian cannot lie to my face.

That last bit is a joke, one I didn’t know I needed in this moment. Humans call it the Fade, elves call it the Beyond, and right now, the veil between our world and the spirit world, regardless of what anyone calls it, is about to vanish. My love is trying to heal the wound he inflicted upon this world to save it so long ago. The immense trust Dorian has in me, to believe the veil falling is survivable?

I can return that trust. I will return that trust.

“I need to get to Our Lady of Victory,” I tell him, forcing the mask back on—if I am going to survive tonight, that mask will be my lifeline.

I am too late already. But I have to try. I am too late already. But for Solas, for all of us and everyone we love on both sides of the veil, I have to try.

***

It is the quiet that tells me I’m too late.

Dorian and I burst through the eluvian into the wilds of Arlathan to find it over—but the Veil still stands. In the shellshocked broken statues, in the stink of blight that stings at my nostrils in a whiff on the wind, we are late enough that the scene has grown quiet.

Not silent. The storm of magic that fills the air with the familiar feel of the Fade—Solas’s mana, so known to me, permeating every pore—remains an echo.

An argument with Varric from last month springs back into my mind.

“Varric, the veil is already failing. It will fall whether you want it or not, and only Solas knows how to do this in a way that will not release the entire reason he created it in the first place.” My temples bloomed with the headache I was nursing at the time, circular arguments that could find no purchase on the smooth, blunted surface of Varric’s stubbornness. “It’s the Blight. The blighted Evanuris, whoever of them remains. If we find him, we cannot risk their escape.”

“We don’t know that,” Varric insisted for the hundredth time. “He’s trying to drown the world in demons—we can’t just let him because you believe his propaganda.”

“I believe the decade of my own studies! Everything I have found independently on both sides of the veil confirms it, that the Evanuris created or unleashed the Blight and weaponised it. And that the veil kept them from using it to destroy the entire world. Every living being in Thedas owes Solas their very existence.”

“And he’s taking the veil down and will let the blight out again—”

“He will do no such thing! It would defeat the purpose of everything he has done so far, and you are not listening to me. You have decided, wrongly, that you understand this better than I do, better than he does, better than the Veil Jumpers and the seers, better than Morrigan, who holds the memories of Mythal herself.”

“Look, Ilaana, I know you and Chuckles were in love, but he lied to you all that time. You’re too close to this to be objective. He’s the literal god of lies.”

“Or none of the rest of you bothered to truly know him. If you had, you might have been forced to accept that he is right. You see only the version of him you wish to see; I at least can differentiate between the man and the mask he wears.”

That was it, I realise, as Dorian and I warily pick our way towards the ritual site.

That was the moment Varric decided he would keep me from this. He has always believed me to be delusional. He has always been unable to accept that he is wrong. Wrong about Cole’s personhood, wrong about Bianca. I can see him projecting that upon me; he trusted Bianca, a woman who married someone else instead of him, a woman who leaked red lyrium into the world to Corypheus, a woman who deluded him, kept him begging for scraps for years. A woman more delighted by her own cleverness than any willingness to take responsibility for her actions. He thinks my relationship with Solas is the same.

It is not and never was.

In the past decade, much of the Inquisition has fallen away. Bull hasn’t much stayed in touch since he and Dorian ended things; Tevinter became too large for Bull to deal with. He returned to the Chargers, and as far as I know is somewhere in Antiva fighting the Antaam.

Some, I know still only to keep an eye on. Like Thom and Vivienne and Sera. Others are friends I keep close but not too close, like Cass and Josie and Cullen. Varric and Lace, I have trusted until now, if not to the degree I trust Dorian and Leliana and Merrill and Morrigan, enough to trust they would listen to me and my hard-won expertise.

Folly. The folly of my too-tender heart that gave me my nickname. Da’lath’in. Lathi.

Beside me, Dorian makes a small noise. I’m so caught up in my rampaging thoughts that I stop only when he throws out an arm across my chest

“What in the blazes is that?”

I smell the Blight before my eyes process the lumpen mass I’m seeing. My first thought is that it is a womb torn out and left pulsing on the ground, its umbilical cord winding away to attach to…something worse.

My second thought is that this impression is all too correct.

I incinerate it with a thought, Dorian’s barrier protecting us from any spray of the explosion, and fire races along the umbilical cord to the larger mass, lighting it up with a gurgling pulse that makes every pore on my body raise itself into gooseflesh.

“The veil remains, but the blight got out,” I say, my voice hollow, numb.

“Lathi, if you don’t want to see this—”

“I have to.”

It comes out almost as a gasp. I take three slow breaths, trying to build myself a cocoon of calm even as something deep within my spirit begins to shriek.

Dorian burns through the barrier, and I cast about for any threats that could remain. The blight here—this is unlike any blight I have encountered. My skin crawls like it’s trying to escape from my body.

Thom alerted me some time ago to a report from Wardens who seem to have encountered an ancient elven lab beneath a mountain that birthed horrors unlike any they’d encountered. Darkspawn twisted enough to make the usual hurlocks and genlocks and shrieks look downright friendly.

I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from screaming.

What has Varric done?

We see no actual darkspawn as we wind through the path, but that does nothing to settle my spirit. The entire place is hushed with creeping wrongness, echoes of magic like a tempest barely calmed. Or cut off abruptly.

I see footprints in the dirt. Dorian is no tracker, but I am still Dalish. Two dwarves—that’ll be Varric and Harding. One set is a boot and a hard imprint of something not a foot. Neve Gallus, most likely. She is known for having lost part of a leg much like I have lost part of an arm, though in entirely different circumstances.

One set that must be Rook’s. Grier Aldwir, a Veil Jumper who I encountered long ago in Rivain before the Veil Jumpers even existed. Not long after Dragon’s Breath, when I first ventured out to the those I thought might meet me with open minds.

Varric seems to have somehow thought I wouldn’t find out about the people he intended to take to disrupt my love’s ritual, but I admit surprise at Rook’s identity.

I would have thought Grier would have more sense.

Not that my first impression of them was anything more than passing; Grier was starstruck to be in the presence of the Inquisitor, and I noted the way they asked stupid questions that others seemed to expect of them as much as I noted the sharp intelligence behind those blue-green eyes. I recognised something of myself in that; it has often behooved me to allow others to make assumptions about my own capacity. Better people underestimate you, especially as an elf in Thedas.

The thoughts are as much distraction as anything. That shrieking part of my soul has not ceased its panicked noise.

Dorian and I pick our ways forwards still, combing the path for evidence. Some residue of demons, more blight, though the blight seems to be leading away from here, almost like tracks in and of itself. It veers off into Arlathan Forest, which is something I am likely to hear about sooner rather than later. I will get word to Irelin and Strife after we discover what happened here at this ritual.

I don’t let myself wonder about Solas. I cannot.

If I do, I will break.

We come to an old ruin, and even from where I stand, I can see the evidence of cataclysm. I have been here once before when tracking Solas, so I know that the enormous statues of the ancient Evanuris were standing not long ago.

Now only a few still stand upright; the rest have toppled like bookshelves in a library when one is pushed to fall upon the others in a cascade of destruction.

My skin grows cold even as my analytical mind puts together pieces of what must have happened.

“Surely even dwarves could not be so foolish as to drop a statue on a ritual of that magnitude of volatility,” Dorian says, his own mind making the same connection as mine. “One does not need magical acuity to understand that such a thing would—”

I waggle my prosthetic hand at him. “Have unintended consequences?”

“My dear, you are far more gracious than I.”

I am, of course, referring to my own inadvertent interruption of a ritual of a tenth this size: Corypheus sacrificing Divine Justinia to tear open the Fade. The moment I tripped and landed in the role of Herald of Andraste, later Inquisitor. The moment I fell into the Fade in the flesh and tumbled back out of it a miracle. The moment my fate became irrevocably bound to Solas’s.

“They had two mages with them, as well,” I murmur. “Dock Town’s Neve Gallus and a Veil Jumper called Grier Aldwir. Rook, as Varric calls them. Either one of them ought to have known better.”

“Neve certainly should have,” Dorian murmurs. “I don’t know her well, but enough to know she doesn’t take chances. That said, she has not had the benefit of knowing someone who lives and breathes the Fade, let alone two someones. Three if we count Cole.”

“Even so,” I say shakily. My ability to compartmentalise is cracking along its fault lines.

“Even so,” Dorian agrees.

I can feel spirits pressing against the veil, drawn to me as always. Especially when there has been enormous magic brought to bear, and there has been more enormous magic brought to bear here than any time in history since the day Solas made the veil itself.

“Dorian.”

He pulls his gaze from the toppled statues to look at me, his own demeanour showing he’s as aware of the activity in the Fade as much as I am.

“Don’t worry,” he says, a sardonic smile quirking his lips without reaching his eyes as he quotes a line he once said to me when we were torn out of time in a red lyrium nightmare of Redcliffe. “I’ll protect you.”

He knows I need to see.

We both know I may not be able to bear it.

***

A decade of practice has made slipping across the veil into the Fade as simple as lighting a candle with my magic.

It feels like home here, and that thought wrenches a yearning sob from me at my decade-long hope crushed.

“Imagine a world where the Fade is not somewhere you go, but a state of nature, like the wind. Where spirits are as common as trees or grass.”

Solas’s words to me, a lifetime ago in Haven.

My first wild glimmer of possibility.

The spirits around me reflect my sorrow, my fear, but they know me. They know me or know of me, and they do not turn into demons when my emotions are stormy; instead, they pull close around me. Compassion and Valour and Courage and Determination.

“Show me,” I whisper to my friends.

The world of now falls away.

I feel the germination of Solas’s ritual, feel his magic grow, spreading in undulating waves from where he stands atop a ritual platform raised on a flight of stone-hewn stairs.

The sight of him wrenches at my heart. Oh, I have had glimpses of him over the years; we are ghosts of the wolves I carved for him in Skyhold so long ago, always circling each other, never without each other’s scents. I have seen him echoed in memories in the Fade, regrets and tears, his and my own both, seen him in truth, from afar, gazing upon me and allowing for scattered moments of longing we both knew must be brief. Whether as a wolf or a man, I know him always, as he knows me. He has never hidden from me, nor I from him.

But seeing him in this memory, only a bare hour or two ago, is different.

His name means both Pride and One Who Stands Tall, and in this moment, it is only the latter the spirits see. Thus it is only the latter I see. The spirits are here, and they are ready, because he has prepared them for this. Pride blooms in me—pride that my love has not an army, but a tribe thousands strong of spirits ready to help—spirit self seeing self—ready to heal the wound he inflicted on the world, ready to help the bone knit back together after it has been re-broken and reset.

They know the risks. They know what lies beyond the door.

Corruption and death.

For all of us.

Still, they are here, and they are ready.

The scope of Solas’s power staggers me as it grows. It eclipses the ritual site, so much raw magic it is as if the veil already does not exist. This—this is what remained of a fragment of Mythal?

My own power is not negligible; my connection to the Fade has grown to the point that I am virtually untouchable to anyone who tries to harm me.

But this?

No wonder the Evanuris convinced the ancient Elvhen that they were gods.

I can also feel that it reaches the limits of his strength.

He has been counted among them, but he has never been their peer.

Yet he bested them anyway.

Magic, raw and awe-inspiring, pours out of the Fade, permeating the earth, the ritual site, the air, everything for miles around. It is a beacon of pure power to anything with an awareness, anything with a connection to the Fade and, I suspect, even to anything without.

I’m so caught up in the torrent of energies that I almost miss Varric’s approach.

Not all spirits have the fortitude to resist change in the face of such enormous magical shifts; some few, so desperate to reunite with the physical world the veil sundered them from, tear their way through the tattered veil, the violence of it twisting them into demons on the way. Like with the rifts I spent years closing with the Anchor. Like the Breach.

Varric and his team fight their way through. Neve is an adept ice mage, her mana elegant and efficient. Rook is electric, using the newly emerged orb-and-dagger fighting style rather than a staff like I prefer, and their attacks seem fitting to what Varric said in his letter about the eponymous chess piece: thinking in straight lines.

The observation fills me with dread.

I don’t want to see this. I do not want to witness.

I have no choice.

I owe him this, because Varric fooled me, and I was too late to stop it. If I allow myself to freeze in inaction with my own regrets now, I will never leave this place.

Even as I think it, I hear Varric’s voice.

“All right,” he says to Rook. “I’ll take it from here.”

“Are you sure?” Neve asks after blasting away a demon who ventured too close.

“Positive. You three just keep the demons off me while I talk to him.”

“Varric,” a breathless Lace Harding cuts in, “Solas isn’t going to stop just because an old friend asks nicely.”

“Solas needs someone to sell him another option, to justify him changing his mind.” Varric sounds so sure of himself, and the sheer weight of knowledge that he left me behind on purpose threatens to capsize me.

I miss what Rook says in the flash of fury that nearly blinds me, but Grier must be encouraging Varric, because Varric’s answer adds fuel to my fire.

“Thanks, Rook. Whatever else he is, he’s my friend. And if he won’t listen to me, he’ll hear from Bianca.”

No. No, no, no, no, no-no-no.

I cannot think of a worse way to approach Solas at this moment, but I cannot stop it from happening.

It has already happened. Already brought this night to ruin.

“Hey, Chuckles! Hope I’m not interrupting!”

Visions in the Fade shift perspective, and I’m suddenly between Varric and Solas, looking up at my love when he turns to face the fool of a dwarf. I have not seen Solas this close since Dragon’s Breath, and all the air leaves my lungs as his face shifts through a hundred micro expressions from one heartbeat to the next.

Weariness. Genuine surprise. A glance behind Varric—looking for me and not seeing me—turning to anger as my instincts scream that my love, my vhen’an’ara, has correctly deduced in that moment that Varric is why I am not with him.

And finally, rage, quickly pushed down.

My ears ring as their fragmented conversation continues, as Varric barrels ahead with Bianca levelled at Solas’s heart.

At my heart. My heart. My heart.

Vhenan.

Bianca shatters as Solas destroys the unique crossbow with a thought, leaving Varric untouched. Solas lifts his ritual dagger once more to the ritual.

“People are always dying, Varric,” Solas says in answer to something I did not hear, the weight of an eternity on every word, “it is what they do.”

The spirits around me wrap me in what comfort they can, soothing Compassion and stalwart Courage tethering me to my own existence so I don’t shatter like that fucking crossbow.

Worse is coming. If Varric is here, he didn’t bring down the statues.

Even as I think it, I hear Rook’s voice.

“We need a better plan.”

Then Harding: “Do you want me to take the shot?”

I cannot allow myself to feel this additional betrayal. No part of me cares that they genuinely think they are the good guys here; they are wrong, so deeply wrong and will never know it.

“Won’t work,” Neve is saying. “He’s too powerful.”

“What if we disrupt the ritual?” Rook says, pointing…at the statues.

I cannot listen to them, to this asinine stupidity, this mockery of heroism. “Please,” I beg the spirits. “Don’t make me hear them.”

I already know what they are going to do; I only don’t know how it ends.

One more message, says a spirit of Valour. Be brave.

Solas’s voice. “We shared a journey years ago. Do you think I would do this if there were some other, better option? You came a long way and made a valiant effort, but this story does not end with my downfall.”

Some part of me unclenches. A wave of gratitude encompasses Valour; the spirit would not have echoed those words except to bolster me.

Banal nadas, whispers Possibility in my ear. Banal nadas.

Nothing is inevitable. The lesson Possibility came to teach me so long ago.

I see the first statue begin to fall.

It cracks through the air, breaking stone shattering, stone that has stood for millennia. The statue crashes into the next one, then the next.

I don’t have to hear Solas to know he is screaming, “No. No, no!”

He catches the closest statue with pure will, hefting it backwards from where it is about to crash down upon him. Resolute, implacable. He raises his dagger once more—and Varric throws himself at Solas.

I watch them tussle, Varric with his mere few decades of experience against the Dread Wolf, who has commanded armies and outwitted would-be gods for ages untold.

It is only ever going to end one way, and Varric has reached the final boundary of Solas’s forbearance and patience.

The dagger plunges into Varric’s chest, above the heart but a mortal wound nonetheless.

My body is shaking, shuddering with the sight of it, but my emotions are too numb, too jumbled; this isn’t over. This isn’t the end.

Then I see it.

Behind Solas.

A tear in the veil, like that rift into the Fade at Adamant, and like that rift, horror waits on the other side.

One form I immediately recognise from his iconography, and if I didn’t recognise that, I would know the sheer force of his presence.

Elgar’nan, first of the Evanuris.

His power is a force that cannot be contained or reckoned with; the weight of it has density, the enormity of his will threaded with something I only just tasted.

Blight.

Beside him is…a monster. My first thought is that perhaps it is Andruil, whose Void-touched armour drove her insane. This gangly, long-limbed creature dangling tentacles—but no.

No.

This is Ghilan’nain.

Mother of the fucking halla, my Dalish arse. Mother of monsters. Mother of nightmares.

A cataclysmic concussion rends the air. Dimly, I am aware of Rook soaring into a pillar with the sheer force of it.

I cannot see Solas. I cannot see Solas. I cannot see Solas.

Elgar’nan and Ghilan’nain are out.

The blighted gods are out.

Varric, what have you done?

I don’t realise I’m screaming myself hoarse until hands shake my shoulders. Human hands. Dorian’s hands.

He pulls me back to the present, out of the Fade. I taste blood where I have chewed through the inner flesh of my cheek.

Through the Fade, the spirits push one more message through to me. It is a message for me, from them. To tell me my love lives. I feel with it a sense of terror beyond anything I have imagined. Beyond the lair of the Nightmare at Adamant, beyond the mind-breaking horrors of seeing a blighted Solas tossed dead on the floor in a future that never came to pass, beyond the pitiful ploy for godhood that was Corypheus, beyond anything I’ve faced since.

The message comes from within the prison he built to contain the blighted gods.

It comes with the force of my love’s voice resonant with terrible calm in every word—words meant not for me, but for someone else.

For Rook.

“You have no idea what you have done.”

#I hurt my own feelings #solavellan #solas #veilguard spoilers #solas x female lavellan #da4 spoilers #solas x inquisitor

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blarrghe · 8 months ago

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haven't promoted this story in a minute because idk I got tired of tumblr and took a sort of break. Tomorrow I will be posting ch. 14, which is halfway through the story, so it's a great time to pick up...

The Hunter The Snake and the Fox

Rating: M | Category: M/M | Words: 27 081 | Chapters 13/28

Summary:

When Magister Dorian Pavus' expedition meets unexpectedly with a clan of unhappy Dalish elves, First Taren Lavellan may be the unhappiest among them. Unhappier still to be put to the task of helping to see his quest through. This is the tale of how a fortnight in the forests of the Free Marches can change everything.

And here's a long snippet from Ch. 3 for some Drama:

A sliver of light shone briefly in from a crack in the tent, and a leather-clad elf stomped through it. The elf barked something out towards the tent flap, and before Dorian could muster more than a groan, he stomped out again. Dorian blinked a few times after the fading blur of light.

Minutes went by. Possibly hours. Dorian’s head hurt. He tugged on the binds at his wrists, bending them uncomfortably this way and that. It only seemed to tighten them, so he stopped. His head began to clear. More time passed. He attempted to count the minutes. When the elf returned again, Dorian managed a few inquiring calls for attention. Things like, “Where are the others?”, and, “damnit, I’m talking to you!” His calls went ignored.

The elf poked his head back out into the bright daylight beyond the dark tent, and shouted something in grumpy Elvhen. Another elf soon pushed through the flap, they stomped grimly forward together, and then one on either side hoisted Dorian up by the elbows.

Dorian’s legs were half asleep and still bound, painfully tingling with each jostling step as the two elves dragged him forward. He groaned. The elf on his right barked back something he was sure was an insult. His unwilling legs were dragged on.

Dorian did his best to make his case for answers and mercy as they went. “We have no qualms with you," he pleaded, " I know Tevinter hasn’t historically been kind to your people, but really, this expedition wants nothing to do with you, so if you’d simply let us go on our way…”

Sharp grunt.

“You’re making a huge mistake. Kill me, and you’d be inviting a war, do you have any idea who I am?”

Angry Elvish epithet.

“Dorian of house Pavus,” he said proudly, “ Magister Pavus as of recently, I have a fortune, you could be handsomely rewarded and —”

Big knife.

“— and a wife! And children! Please!”

The big knife pressed closer to his throat. There was a bandage there already.

“Alright! So I don’t have children, or a wife, but I am engaged, and —”

Dorian was shoved through a tent flap by the elf holding the knife, who wound up at his back as his second captor pushed his unstable and bound legs down into a kneel.

“Relax, shemlin,” said a low voice.

Thank the Maker, Dorian thought, blinking now at the woven mat he’d been forced upon, its zigzagged pattern slowly coming into view in his still foggy vision. Finally, here was someone who spoke the Trade speech. King's Tongue, they called it in the south. Crude. In Tevinter, the nobility still had its own.

Dorian’s eyes rose from the ground to take in warmly lit canvas walls draped in soft pelts and colourful woven blankets. He knelt near a smouldering fire pit. Smoke was rising up through a narrow hole in the tent’s roof. Through its haze, in a grand and intricately carved wooden seat, sat a man. The man stood, and Dorian watched leather-wrapped feet pace forward, around, circling him. There were more seats, less grand but still intricately carved, all around the fire pit. None sat in them except for one old woman. She sat still and proud, squinting at him through the smoke.

Dorian lifted his gaze all the way up to the face of the man who was just now finishing his pacing examination of him. An elvhen mage stood before Dorian with his staff planted firmly on the ground between them. He was not tall, but stood in towering regalness over Dorian all the same. His posture was straight, his shoulders strongly set and covered with a heavy green cloak woven through with threads of blue and gold. He wore his deep auburn hair in a long, thick braid hung over one shoulder, and he held his carved, spiralling wooden staff in both hands, emanating power.

“You are Master Pavus ,” said the standing elf, speaking down to him.

“Master Pavus was my father,” Dorian replied, flashing the man a winning smile, “as I am evidently your prisoner, it seems only fitting that you simply call me Dorian.”

DAFF tags list: @warpedlegacy @rakshadow @rosella-writes @effelants @bluewren @breninarthur @ar-lath-ma-cully @dreadfutures @ir0n-angel @inquisimer @crackinglamb @theluckywizard @nirikeehan @oxygenforthewicked @exalted-dawn-drabbles @melisusthewee @agentkatie @delicatefade @leggywillow @about2dance @plisuu

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more-cardigan-than-woman · 4 months ago

Text

Uncertainty

Solas confronts Lavellan after she decides to ride the Bull because hes a but hurt little bitch and they makeout about it

AN: Dear Everyone who told me to romance this EGG. Fuck you (I love you. but I miss the Bull)

Lavellan is resting, her lids heavy after her recent tryst with the Iron Bull. He was kind in ways she hadn't expected after the rough way he had handled her proposition. He had stayed for near an hour, cuddling, praising and soothing the light bruises he had left on her delicate skin. He had seemed surprised when she approached the idea, mentioning the flirtation he had noticed between her and the elven apostate. But well, she knew that Solas would just continue to push her advances, while also managing to push her buttons at the same time. This was concrete though. Surely, the stuck up, snob nosed Elf would have nothing to do with her aside from counsel now that she had made her intentions quite clear.

She lays, reflecting on her decision. Searching her mind and heart for a hint of regret, finding it absent. She had made a decision and just as Casandra said when she elected her inquisitor, any is decision is better than sitting idling by and waiting for the world to end.

A knock sounds on her chamber door. It cannot be Bull back, he had said that he needed to train with Krem. "One moment." she calls out, from her place on the bed. Reaching for her robe she barely has an arm in the sleeve before noticing the person climbing the stairs to her private chamber. "I said one moment." she snips, turning around and covering herself from his view.

"And I do not have a moment." he stops at the top of the stairway, leaning himself onto the railing. "I had to see for myself."

"See what?" she turns to face him, her eyes narrowing at the way he is regarding her. "You cannot just walk yourself in here whenever you please, Solas."

"It seems I am merely to late, vhenan." he signs, regretfully. "I had hoped that the rumors were simply that, falsehoods, spread by a people bored by the lack of battle."

"I see, so you think it appropriate to barge into my quarters unannounced, because of rumors?" her voice raising at the fucking audacity of his actions. "And pray tell, what are these rumors, that have caused you so much trouble that you think this a wise course of action?"

"The rumor." he steps forward, eyes glancing so quickly at the mess on her bed that had she been anyone else she may have missed it, "about you and the Qunari, but I thought." his arm reaches out almost close enough to touch your face. "vhenan, I did not wish to believe it."

"believe? Whats believe have to do with it?" Lavellan steps back increasing the distance once again. "You made me do this." she spits, almost as venomous as wyrm.

"I did no such thing."

"oh, of course not." she feigns sarcastically, dropping her arm for effect, "You did not hold a blade to my throat or threaten my family or send the dread wolf for me. But this is a result of your actions and to say less is doing yourself a disservice."

She is so enraptured with her dramatic declaration that she doesn't notice how close he is to her. How can he move so fast, she thinks before his hand is on her wrist. "You did this." he spits at her, "I did not want this for you."

"want?" she tries to yank her arm free to no avail. "Who knows what you want." she yanks again, but it only draws him closer, "One minute your kissing me,m the next pushing me away." he releases her arm, but she does not step back this time, she stays right in his face, daring him to prove her wrong, "then you kiss me and push me away again. its almost like you enjoy the chase more than claiming your prey."

"Prey? is that what you are vhenan?" he steps forward, closing the remaining distance and looming over her, "did you wish to be chased?"

"No." she stares into his eyes in defiance, "I wanted to be cherished!"

"and the Iron Bull?" his eyes spark, lightening growing at the edges of his pupils.

"Doesn't run away from me every time he has a fucking feeling!"

"Vhenan-" he's cut off by her slap to his face, though he does not stop staring into her.

"Stop calling me that. You cannot have a revelation." her voice raising so high shes sure others would hear were they not so high in the castle, "It is too late Solas. I am not your heart. I am your Inquisitor!"

"Indeed you are." his voice his soft, but his hands are rough. One wraps around her middle, the other the back of her neck, pulling her so close as he lips collide with hers.

She had thought, that if this ever happened again she would stop him, would protest. That she was stronger than any feeling she could ever harbour for a man. But with his lips on hers she felt whole again. His hands on her skin were putting her back together and the warmth of his body melting the frozen tundra that seemed to engulf her anytime she was alone. Her arms fall around his shoulders as he begins to walk them back towards the bed, her soft signs of contentment filling the room as her legs hit the edge of the bed.

Gently he lays her down, his sweet kisses trailing from her lips down her neck to her collarbone and she feels a light tingling in every place, "Solas, what are you-" she peers down at him, rolling her eyes as she seems the green shimmer on his lips.

"The beast hurt you." he presses another soft kiss into her chest, "I will heal you."

"I liked it." she tries to reassure him, but her words are almost breathless as his thigh slips between her legs.

"You liked to be marked?" he glances up at her quizzically, while his calloused fingers heal the marks on her arms.

"I did."

"May I?"

"I-" she thinks completely sure of what she wants, but still. Is he just going to leave again after this? is he? "will you stay?"

#dragon age inquisition #solas #solas x female lavellan #dragon age #dragon age fic #dragon age fanfic #fanfic

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crabs-with-sticks · 3 months ago

Note

Happy Friday! If this inspires you how about - [ knowing ] sender has been holding receiver's hand all this time without realizing it and hurries to let go - for Ghilara Lavellan and Solas?

Hope you enjoy angst hehe :P The context is that Solas was injured from the ritual before Ghilara stopped it and faked both their deaths. @dadrunkwriting

536 words

He was going to die and there was nothing she could do about it. There were no creators who cared to listen, no last trick she could pull. It was up to chance and all she could do was sit, watch, cool his fever with damp cloth, try to feed him watery soup and sugared water inbetween his fevered tossing. The stream- where she was now- was as far out as she dared to venture. When- no. If he died, she wanted to be close. She wanted to be there to see the person she had thrown away everything for passed over.

The icy cold of the water shocked the thoughts out of her head as she waded in barefoot, one of the clay pots in her hand. She dipped it in, listening to the gurgle and glug as the water flowed in, fingers going numb from the snow melt waters. She hauled it back onto the river bank next to the second one- already filled. It was hard work, and she probably spilled a good quarter of the contents trying to get it back into place on the carrying pole. Checking the rope attachments were secure she hoisted the pole up onto her shoulders, let the hanging pots stabilise from the initial swing and then began trudging back to the cottage. It was only a few minutes walk, even laden as she was, and she set about the mundane activities of bringing the water inside, pouring it into bowls, some which would go onto the small stove to warm, others which would be used to try fight the fever. She didn’t look at the man lying in the bed as she did it. He was still right now, and without the tossing and the turning, and the crying out in spiels of elven, she could pretend he wasn’t who he was. She could pretend he was just some poor anonymous soul she had given charity to. “Sathan! Sathan ar halani! Sathan ar halani sa’lin! Letha’len!” She rushed over and was by his side in three quick steps. Her eyes swept over him, checking, checking to see if anything had changed, if anything was wrong. “Halani letha’len! Ane ar rya’halani!” She sat next to him on the bed, feeling it sink underneath her. “Ir abelas Solas,” she whispered, tears in her eyes, “I am doing all I can. You have to fight. You must. Please Solas. Endure Solas. You must endure this. Please.” It was only when she stood, only when she went to make some desperate attempt at being useful, to weigh the dice in their favour however she could, that she noticed. She noticed her hand clasping his, gripping it so tight she must have been afraid that he was going to float away. Her eyes stared down at it. The pallour of his skin against hers, the faint sheen of sweat and the heat radiating into her skin. Her hand released his as if she had been burned, letting it fall back down onto the bed. She couldn’t afford to let her grief get in the way. She had to be useful. He was just another patient. He had to be. She couldn't afford to break. Even if it wouldn't change anything.

#dadwc #dragon age #fanfiction #au: the end and the beginning #oc: ghilara lavellan #solavellan

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stardustandash · 10 months ago

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First of the Febuwhump stories has arrived!!

For @natsora, CPR featuring Cassandra/F!Inquisitor. I hope you like it!! It's been so long since I've played around in Dragon Age and this was very fun to write (and ended up way longer than intended lol).

Words: 2,012

Tags: near-drowning, hypothermia, hurt/comfort, Cassandra's gay panic

ao3 link

when is a kiss not truly a kiss?

The Emprise du Lion is always cold. Cassandra has been through a handful of times in the past, and those few times only because it lies on one of the main routes from Orlais to Ferelden. There is not much of anything here, aside from some stunning mountain vistas. Of course, the cold did lend itself to nights in the tent spent huddled for warmth, just her and the Inquisitor. Not that Cassandra thought of it like that. It was simply nice to be able to cuddle with a warm body and try very hard not to think about all the books where the heroine got lost in the snow with her handsome love interest and they needed to keep each other warm. The Inquisitor is the Inquisitor. She is fearsome and strong and above all else, untouchable.

Cassandra shakes her head to clear it and follows after said Inquisitor. Among the snow Lavellan’s armour shines bright as her smile as she laughs at something Dorian has said. She watches them, jealous of the easy camaraderie between the two. And with her eyes forward she can ignore the glances from Varric. He has been exceptionally annoying of late, making crude innuendos about the sleeping arrangements whenever Lavellan is just out of earshot or raising his eyebrows suggestively whenever Cassandra’s eyes linger too long. She has tried pointing out that she is not about to let the Inquisitor share a tent with a man she is not in a relationship with, and that she must keep an eye on Lavellan as one of her guards. Yet as always Varric never listens. Ugh.

Today the cold in their boots is for getting rid of the rift over the lake. Lavellan had been trying to put it off during the colder months, but now that spring is on its way they needed to get rid of it before they end up fighting demons in rowboats. Maker knows that Lavellan would try.

The rift is visible from the edge of the lake as a distant green glow. Sahrnia sits behind them, its people still present despite the red lyrium and red Templars and all the evil conjured in the valley. At least with the rift gone there will be no more demons wandering close to town. Lavellan is in agreement as she strides across the frozen lake with a sense of purpose that has Varric struggling to keep pace.

“Inquisitor, slow down. We should face them together,” Cassandra calls.

It is not the first time she has made such a request of Lavellan, and with her luck it will not be the last. The words fall on deaf ears as Lavellan only moves faster, unsheathing her greatsword as she closes in on the demons wandering below the rift. Cassandra sighs, and chases after her.

The battle is quick and messy. While Cassandra and Lavellan lay waste to the demons with their swords Dorian picks them off at a distance while Varric times careful shots. It is a dance they have perfected on the battlefield. And while Cassandra never did get used to the ballgowns and flowing movements of a nobleman’s soiree, here she thrives. She slashes at a shade and uses her shield to bash it towards Lavellan. The Inquisitor does not hesitate, barely finishing parrying a blow from a terror demon before spinning to hack the shade in two with her massive blade. The rest of the fight continues much the same way and only minutes later Lavellan has her hand raised to the rift to close it. The air hums with a low rumble as the rift pulses once, twice, then slams closed. As it does Lavellan deflates, shaking out her arm and trying to regain steady legs. Cassandra hovers close at her side but doesn’t touch her. Just close, so that the Inquisitor knows she is there if she needs someone to hold on to.

“Well, what say you we head back to Sahrnia and see what kind of food they can scrounge up for their saviour. The rest of the weird shit in this valley can wait until tomorrow,” says Varric lightly as he hefts his absurd crossbow onto his back.

Cassandra glares at him. He is not the leader of this party, and if it were not the Inquisitor, it would be Cassandra who made the calls.

“Sounds great,” says Lavellan in a tired voice.

“It is far too cold out here, and I would like to be back by a fire sooner rather than later,” agrees Dorian.

“At least we don’t have too far to go,” says Varric as he takes up the lead.

Walking while staring at the dwarf’s broad back is aggravating, but Cassandra will not let herself move too far from the Inquisitor. Just in case. This is why, as they reach the bank nearest the town, Cassandra is the only one to hear the ice cracking.

She pauses first as the low, snapping sound meets her ears. Her eyes scan for potential enemies sneaking up on their flank before she realizes that the Inquisitor is no longer moving behind her. That the sound came from below.

Cassandra turns slowly to see Lavellan frozen on the ice. A crack spiderwebs below Lavellan’s boot and Cassandra is suddenly aware of how much weight the armour and sword that grace the Inquisitor must weigh.

“Stay very still,” says Cassandra in a calm, commanding tone. “You will be fine.”

The panic on Lavellan’s face says that she very much doubts the veracity of that statement, but the trust in her eyes nearly undoes all the calm resolve Cassandra’s trying to cling to. She nods, muscles tense and frozen. They are only mere feet from the shore, Cassandra could reach and grab her and lunge the rest of the ten feet or so to solid ground. But that might send both of them through the ice. No, she needs to be more cautious about this, and it doesn’t help that Lavellan is staring her down with those big, trusting, beautiful eyes.

“Very slowly slide your foot forward. Don’t take steps, just shift your weight across the ice. Slowly.”

Lavellan follows her orders. Cassandra can hardly breathe as she shifts her weight slowly across the ice. Though she cannot reach the Inquisitor she holds her hand out like she might spontaneously gain magic and pull her to safety. Lavellan’s hand reaches back for her, the distance between them so close and yet altogether too far.

A low twanging sound echoes from the ice. There is a pause like a deep breath, before Lavellan disappears under the broken ice.

“Lavellan!”

Three voices chorus in their fear. Cassandra goes to surge forward, to dive in after Lavellan if she must, to get her out of the water but finds Varric’s strong hands holding her back. Instead it is Dorian who sprints towards the hole through which the Inquisitor disappeared.

“Let me go,” Cassandra all but growls at Varric as she struggles against him.

“No way, Seeker. Your muscles plus your armour would mean you’d go straight to the bottom too.”

Straight to the bottom too. Lavellan, straight to the bottom of the lake. Maker, she doesn’t even know if the Inquisitor can swim. Something bitter and fearful claws its way up Cassandra’s throat but she cannot act on it. She must be strong. Instead she digs in her pouch for potions. The town is not far, but too far for whatever healing Lavellan might need. She stands at the ready, watching as Dorian kneels carefully at the edge of the ice and plunges a hand into the water. He searches around for a moment before his face lights up with determination and he begins trying to pull something.

“Some help would be nice,” he shouts back at them, voice strained with more than just effort.

“Help him, Varric,” says Cassandra.

For once there isn’t some kind of sarcastic remark as Varric carefully eases himself onto the ice and dunks his arms in the water too. Together he and Dorian manage to heave a boneless, fully armoured Lavellan out of the water. She lies limp on the ice as Dorian and Varric drag her to shore. As soon as she’s in reach Cassandra rips her out of their hands and kneels beside her.

The Inquisitor’s lips are blue. Her eyes closed and the lids are darkened to purple. Yet the most concerning thing is that Cassandra cannot tell if she is breathing. She unsheathes her dagger and holds it under Lavellan’s nose. Seconds pass but no air mists the blade. They did not have much time. Cassandra uses her dagger to slice the leather straps of Lavellan’s armour and tosses it aside. Without it she seems so small, but Cassandra cannot stop to think on it. Instead she tries to remember every bit of her training for such a scenario as she folds her hands together over Lavellan’s breastbone and presses down in what she hopes is the correct rhythm.

“What are you doing?” asks Dorian. He sounds on the edge of hysterical but if this is going to work Cassandra cannot stop.

Instead she murmurs to Lavellan. “Breathe, Lavellan. By the Maker you are not meant to die here. Please, breathe.”

Lavellan, ever ignoring Cassandra’s suggestions, only moves in small jolts as Cassandra presses down on her. After what she hopes is the correct amount of presses Cassandra leans down to breathe for her. Lavellan’s lips are icy cold against her own and Cassandra tries to ignore every thought in her brain that isn’t about trying to save her life. The world shrinks down to her, Lavellan, and the count of compressions and breaths. Varric and Dorian could be yelling blasphemy or dancing naked in the snow for all she knows. All that matters is trying to bring back Lavellan.

The cycle continues. For how long Cassandra cannot say. She cannot stop, she cannot let Lavellan die. The hope that Lavellan will breathe again fades with every compression, yet she will not stop. Then, at last, there is a tiny gasp before the body under her hands is suddenly alive and convulsing with coughs. Cassandra quickly rolls her onto her side and pats her back in a hopefully soothing manner. As she does the world comes back into sharp focus. Her hands are icy cold, and her knees are stiff against the snow. Both Varric and Dorian have swooped down upon Lavellan, potion bottles in hand and cloaks ready to wrap around her. Cassandra practically snatches the cloak from Dorians grip to gently tuck it around Lavellan. She isn’t shivering, and Cassandra knows this is not a good sign. She presses Lavellan as close to herself as she can and tries to haul them both upright. It doesn’t work. Lavellan can’t get her feet under herself no matter the effort she puts in.

So Cassandra simply shifts so she can put her arm under Lavellan’s knees and pull her up into her arms and against her chest. Her knees protest, but she can ignore them. The Inquisitor is her highest priority, and right now she needs to get her somewhere warm, and preferably with a healer.

“Dorian, run ahead and find us a place to stay in Sahrnia and get a fire going,” orders Cassandra.

To his credit, Dorian obeys without any witty remarks. He takes off towards the buildings as fast as he can though the snow.

Unfortunately, Cassandra cannot think of anything to get Varric to stop his worried hovering at her side as she strides towards Sahrnia. She does her best to ignore him, instead focusing on Lavellan. Her cheeks are pink with cold, even as her lips remain more purple. She’s far too cold. Cassandra tries holding her tighter, closer, and is rewarded by a cold nose against her neck. Feeling the Inquisitor’s skin against her own brings an odd heat to Cassandra’s cheeks. Yet she cannot let herself think on it. For now, she must take care of Lavellan.

(I intend to post this one to ao3 @natsora, if you want to give me your ao3 handle i will gift this to you there!)

#dragon age inquisition #dai #da:i #fanfic #fanfiction #febuwhump #cassandra pentaghast #female inquisitor #f!inquisitor #lavellan

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shivunin · 1 year ago

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Collected DAI Ficlets

Below are links to all of my Dragon Age: Inquisition ficlets on tumblr. They are organized by type/chronological order per the headings.(Longer works posted here on AO3 and cross-posted here where noted).

(If you're looking for more, here are links to my Origins and DA2 ficlets)

Please let me know if any links are broken!

Emmaera Lavellan/Cullen:

A Bond Beheld: (1,710 Words) The Commander pledges fealty to the new Inquisitor

Tipsy: (209 Words) Conversation overheard while drunk

Lavender Cakes: (236 Words) A codex entry describing a special request from the Commander; (collected with a codex entry on a marriage offer post-Inquisition and rumors circa Trespasser)

Not a Moment Sooner: (1,159 Words) Cullen wakes from a nightmare and grounds himself with the presence of his lover.

The Last Minute: (996 Words) Emma and Cullen say goodbye as the Inquisition's armies prepare to ride for the Arbor Wilds

To Build an End: (1,524 Words, Fluff) As the dust of Corypheus's destruction settles around her, Emmaera looks first for her Commander

A Letter from the Viscount: (368 Words) Varric writes to see how the Inquisitor has been, and to deliver an offer

Entanglements: (704 Words, Fluff) A quiet, simple morning in retirement

Just a Hair: (676 Words, Fluff) Emma trims Cullen’s hair

From Behind: (513 Words, Fluff) Cullen reflects on life as a father and husband

Structural Integrity: (4,300 Words, Fluff) Cullen and his daughter build a pillow fort—now all that’s left is to test it (also collected in my anthology fic here on AO3)

Letters from Adhlea: (527 Words, epistolary) While Cullen visits family in Ferelden, his daughter writes him a letter with updates.

Elowen Lavellan/Cullen

Hold Me Down: (1,206 Words) In the aftermath of Here Lies the Abyss, Cullen happens upon the Inquisitor in a vulnerable state.

Summer Tea: (897 Words) The Inquisitor takes a moment away from a party to rest on the balcony; Cullen joins her

A Sudden Squall: (1,613 Words) An abrupt storm forces Cullen and the Inquisitor into close quarters

A Storm’s Aftermath: (786 Words) Elowen tries to be normal after nearly kissing the Commander (she…doesn’t quite manage it, but neither does he)

At Your Side: (678 Words) As Elowen returns to her room in Skyhold, Leliana notices a new mannerism

Disarming: (773 Words) The Commander and Inquisitor spend a morning training

Falsehoods: (851 Words, Hurt/comfort) Elowen takes a wound in battle; Cullen visits her room at the inn to make sure she's alright

Call Your Mother: (515 Words) A letter from and to Elowen’s mother regarding her choice of beau

A Resolution: (1,086 Words) Elowen reflects on the consequences of having fallen in love with a human

Daybreak: (615 Words) After the events of Your Fate for Mine, Cullen wakes in bed with Elowen and finds himself with a small predicament.

Salshira Lavellan/Cullen

Slander: (547 Words) Codex entry detailing several complaints about the Inquisitor

The Fire at the Center: (556 Words) Cullen tries to focus on his prayers, with some difficulty

Wait: (621 Words, Fluff) Salshira passes through Cullen’s office on the way to other tasks

Fires of Battle: (846 Words) Salshira closes the last distance before the Temple of Mythal and meets the Commander on the battlefield

A Hand Outstretched: (1,510 Words, T) Salshira struggles with the lack of news from Wycome; Cullen finds her when she needs him most.

News from Wycome: (740 Words, Emotional hurt/comfort) Cullen rushes to deliver a crucial bit of news

Don’t Look Down: (448 Words, Hurt/comfort) Salshira regains consciousness after a nasty fall

After the Dark: (841 Words, Hurt/comfort) Salshira returns from the Deep Roads; she is not doing well

A Story Chosen: (2,245 Words) Cullen and Salshira's daughter asks about adventuring and heroism while they wait for Salshira to come home from the market

Adahlena Lavellan/Cullen (aka the arranged marriage au):

Pip: (2,611 Words) Adahlena Lavellan and Cullen meet for the first time in the Elvhen lands at Halamshiral

The Morning Mist: (820 Words) Cullen and Adahlena take breakfast together in the gardens

Miscellaneous Mini-Fics:

Profane (Salshira)

Winnow (Salshira)

Cliff (Emma)

Truth (Elowen), Profane (Emma), and Initiative (Salshira)

Sweet Pea (Elowen)

Witch Hazel (750 Words) Emmaera discusses her daughter's magic with Vivienne

#cullavellan #emmaera lavellan #salshira lavellan #elowen lavellan #adahlena lavellan #shivunin scrivening #dai

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rightsaidmanfred · 3 days ago

Note

15 for your inquisitor & their love interest? 🫶

15. soothing kisses ty ty! i'll be using my girl ellora lavellan and her man solas during the inquisition era, specifically after clan lavellan is wiped out!

this got away from me and is messy 700+ words that i pulled outta my ass in like the 30 minutes since i saw this so please take that with a grain of salt i havent written in a hot minute!

Her veins are alight—even more than when she has lightning crackling at her fingertips. It had been a rush of bone-deep frigidity before fury burned her to a sweltering heat. Her clan was dead, and sadness and tears would come in the wake of anger. It has, after all, always been the easiest of her emotions to wrangle. It shook through her fingertips as she flitted around her room in Skyhold, packing things here and there for a trip to Wycome.

Deshanna never taught her retribution, but she had learned it anyways. She can almost hear the ghostly whisper of her mentor telling her to cool her rage for who would it serve, how would it benefit the People. It means little to her, now. Her people were dead and gone now—what care did she need to have for the benefits of revenge when it would sooth her so completely?

She’d been meant to lead them, one day. Raised to shepherd them as Deshanna always had. But they were gone now—stolen, as so many elven lives have been. It seemed a constant throughout history that her people were meant to suffer.

But now, she had power. She had the divine blessing of a dead woman she had no faith in. Who would question the herald of their beloved Andraste in doling out righteous justice? She angrily wipes at the wetness on her ruddy cheeks. Tears had never served her, but they certainly loved to taunt her. Always there at even a brush of strong emotion, disarming and distracting enough that she did not hear her vhenan until he’s just over her shoulder, a cool hand making her pause.

“Don’t.” She chokes out. There might have been a time when she’d have sent him away completely—where his wisdom and his calm would have done nothing more but see her oppose it at every turn. She didn’t have the energy to test him this time, to needle at him in a way that mirrored her earliest dismay towards him.

No, she simply lets her shoulders slump as he turns her to face him, white lashes tacky with tears and violet eyes blooming red. She’s a pitiful sight, one that she’d have liked to shield him from, but his eyes take her in with just as much awe as they ever do. He looks at her as if he can’t quite believe what he’s looking at, and she’s never sure how to feel about it.

“Vhenan,” He says the diminutive softly, his hands reaching for her cheeks as if she’s a spooked halla likely to bolt at any given reason.

“They deserve to pay, Solas.” Her throat is tight, and his brow furrows to match it. “Those shemlen hunted like animals! What use is being the herald of their Makers bride if I can’t use that power to get justice?” Her voice is a furious hiss, breathless for her tears but no less filled with conviction. She doesn’t want comfort, doesn’t want to give him the chance to talk her down. But her eyes flutter shut to the sensation of his thumbs gently wiping around them and she sways into him, clutching the fabric of his tunic and trying to keep her sobs in with a trembling lip.

“Yes, but do you deserve the burden of their blood on your hands?” He says with that insurmountable sadness that she’s noticed before—maybe one day she’ll know its source. For the moment, she is too busy fighting against herself and the comfort he offers, releasing her grip on his tunic to grab his wrists and move herself from his grasp. But when her eyes open again and the tears clear away, the look in his eyes makes her crumble.

She’s buried her face into his chest and let her grief shake through her bones, one anguished cry as he holds her close—not like something delicate and broken, never that, but with a firmness that anchors her to the moment, to him, to herself and all the regrets he knows would follow her rash plans. He whispers sweet nothings to her between kisses to her temple, across her hair.

His lips are a balm but hardly a cure, each soft touch that jostles at her crown sending a soothing shiver down her spine.

When she opens her eyes again, it’s to a dream much more pleasant than reality.

#my writing #ellora lavellan #solavellan #angsty ish i guess #this is my first time writing her omg #this is unedited please i just wanted the ghost of writing to enter this mortal form #and let me write #it worked tho ty i feel good after getting SOMETHING out #the way its mostly her just being like IMMA KILL THEM and then i get to vague the soothing kisses rip #sorry i immediately thought of this concept and had to

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greypetrel · 1 year ago

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Sera and Solas for the opinions meme? c:<

Ooooooh you asked me to spill the tea!

Thank you for asking about the elves, I'm glad they can rest together hating on each other in this ask. uwu

Sera:

First impression: *starts singing Anarchy in the UK* Beside that, I didn't like her all that much at first. I liked her points of view, but playing as a Lavellan... At first it was a "Yeah but why you're so hostile". She grew on me like moss.

Impression now: I love her your honour, she's such a nuanced and complex characters, and with Dorian one of the most caring people around Inquisition, if you spend the time to build a good relationship with her. Her point of views on politics are genuinely good and much more rooted in reality than Solas' (for obvious reasons)

Favorite moment: Her whole set of reactions in Trespasser. The way she notices Inky is feeling all but well but still does her best to cheer them up and remind them that there is an after that they can shape how they want, she's there to help. The way she's genuinely worried sick for you and is there to help... It was the moment she became a ride or die for me. Also all her banters with Dorian. All of it.

Idea for a story: Anything expanding what we see of her character, really. Anything. Little things, her learning to cope and interact with an Inquisitor who is a mage and/or a Dalish, she spending time with the Chargers and finding the family she always lacked. Cookies experiments. Flirting with Dagna. Anything. Some expansion over her War Table mission and having Cullen saying "Do you know what, I'll do it. I'll send soldiers to hold drills as loud as possible under that noble's windows. Yes.".

Unpopular opinion: She's one of the most emotionally intelligent characters around. She is closed and abrasive, sure, but show her you care and are sincerely interested in having some kind of relationship with her and BOOM. Don't know how unpopular it is tho, LOL. And: she and Solas could actually get along and have more similar opinions that they would admit. It's just that Solas is not a people person (he's 24/7 screaming internally, there's no mental space for much else) and approaches her in the wrong way.

Favorite relationship: I'll say three. She and Dorian gives me life, you see the prince and the pauper going on and learning to live together and finding points in commons and enjoying each other's company. She and Cullen. I am sure Cullen is the one who has the most fun in the Red Jenny missions (not that he will admit it), and they are both commoners and simple people at heart. She sees right through the hard shell of pretending he's a serious knight of course no no he's the expert here, uh-uh. He's totally at level with the other advisors. She is there to take him down a notch. Also. She and Solas. Listen. They share quite some opinions. Sera is more rooted in the actual reality of things, while Solas just has theoretical knowledge. They say the same things and have a lot of things in common (both are solidly against the establishment, both renounced to position of richness to just go and play hobo, both are artists and imaginative. He's a marxist, she's an anarchist, but as above: she's rooted in reality, he isn't). Solas just chose the wrong way to approach her and doesn't know how to fix it, and she's not making a step towards him either.

Favorite headcanon: She's the little girl that got the painted box from the Warden in Denerim.

Solas:

First impression: I was heavily influenced by @karmicblackhole, who is the friend that brought me into the saga and my number one Solas authority. So I got to know him in theory before and came knowing who he is exactly. I was curious when I first play to see him finally in game.

Impression now: I like his character A LOT. Wouldn't romance him, I recognise the fascination but personally there's a "You're not like other girls" theme that is really not my cup of tea. Again, if you're not here from 5 minutes you all know I love him as a platonical friend figure, I love his character and I'm firmly convinced he may be your local trickster and obscure character... But a villain? Evil? No. Not at all. Man is going on of pure inertia screaming internally. And also he's the worst liar around Skyhold. Worst of them all. I sniffed there was something weird with Blackwall, but at least Blackwall doesn't let slip things about his past that don't add up with the story he told you and disapproves when you call him out.

Favorite moment: The last cutscene pre final battle when he's there panicking and asking you advices about how to deal with horrible mistakes. The façade cracks a little and he's just... A scared person not knowing how to fix his mess. Also the way he treats you in Trespasser if you had a positive relationship with him during the game. He's a cuor di panna, he's very tender, he's just so horribly bad at people.

Idea for a story: I am pondering from months on a short ficlet about him going back to watch the Inquisitor as time goes by. Because yes he may be resolved... But he's bad at plans. Also DadWolf, but I'm drawing/writing it. Basically, anything that lets him find something he may use to stop running in circles in guilt and self-commiseration and learn that hey, it went how it went that's ok.

Unpopular opinion: He's not a villain and he's not evil. I can see why people think of that and he's in that grey zone that's grey enough that he can easily fall in both parts... But in my opinion he's not. He's just panicking HARD and starved for human contact. Again, I can see why people treat him as a villain... But I think we saw him only up to the middle of his narrative arc. It would be like judging Cullen stopping at DA2 before the final battle and the mutiny. You can but we're all missing the second half of it. I may be wrong in my opinions and I read some great fics that has him as the villain. He could double, again, I just like to think that people are fundamentally good.

Favorite relationship: As above. Him and Sera. Him and Varric co-parenting Cole gives me life. I recently brought him on a mission with Blackwall and they had the funniest banter ever, BOTH sweating profusely and lying. x°D

Favorite headcanon: He's a huge softie and hugely touch starved and it will take very little to bring him back to the good side. Also, I'd love to see him... Doing something to the Veil and actually making elves mages. Also, he's a terrible hugger, but will appreciate being hugged greatly.

#characters opinion meme #dragon age #dragon age inquisition #solas #sera #oh no I like both who would have THOUGHT #Aisling: “He will surely redeem himself and stop if I can hug him enough. è_é”

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heniareth · 2 years ago

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Inquisitor as a Companion: Banter

MARELAS OF CLAN ELNORA (ORIGINALLY LAVELLAN)

From the template of dextronoms (original here)

Voice:

Marelas tends to speak quietly and gently, with his voice coming either from his chest or his throat. He enunciates clearly and his voice is warm. He can sing very well, but you will never get to hear it; he's too shy for that. Still, there is a rhythm and a tempo to the way he speaks. Sometimes, it sounds a bit like he's performing theater

Cole’s reflection on their thoughts:

Cole: "Cold, ice and darkness, whirling water all around. It pushes, pulls, presses into-"

Marelas: "Cole, please. This is not helping."

Cole: "It's alright. You don't have to fear the water forever. I can help."

Marelas: (gently) "You are speaking out loud, and dragging me back into that moment, Cole. That is not helping. It's quite violent, in fact."

Cole: "I... it is?

Marelas: "I understand that you didn’t mean to. But if you truly want to help someone, speak to them when you two are alone. Offer your help and detail the kind of help you want to give first. Then let them choose if they want to accept it or not. Don't just jump in."

Cole: "That is better?"

Marelas: "For the big hurts, it is. You can keep hiding the daggers of drunk soldiers, though."

Cole: "But the death I'm avoiding there is not a small hurt!"

Marelas: "That's true. But the help that you offer brings only a small hurt. Talking out loud about other people's painful memories and forcing them to accept help is a much bigger hurt than a lost dagger."

Cole: "I... don't know if I understand. But..."

Marelas: "You can feel our distress. You will learn which of the things you do to help cause more or less hurt. Keep an eye on that."

Cole: "Yes... I will."

Comment(s) on Mages:

(entreating) “Inquisitor, look closely. This is no camp. This is a refuge.”

“No food storage, no tents. Magic can make for warmth when the nights are cold, but these conditions are unlivable in even for a mage.”

Comment(s) on Templars:

(very faintly bitter) “They say mages are dangerous. Are they any better?”

(shocked) “They dragged this poor girl all the way here...”

When looking for something:

"What's that? Inquisitor, moment have a look around?"

"I think taking a closer look might get us something interesting."

When finding a campsite:

“This should do. What do you think?”

“It’s getting late. How about setting up camp?”

“My feet would appreciate some rest. Shall we set up camp?”

"If we make camp now, I might be able to finish that translation I was working on."

When the Inquisitor Falls:

“Inquisitor! Hold on!”

“Cover the Inquisitor!"

If he is friends with a non-elvhen Inquisitor:

"Stay with us, my friend!"

If he is friends with an elvhen Inquisitor:

"Rem syla, lethallin/lethallan!" (Hold on to life, my friend)

If he is in a romance with the Inquisitor:

"Ma vhenan! No!"

(frantic) "Stay awake! Stay awake!"

When they are low on health:

"I need help!"

(groaned) "Mythal las'halani." (Mythal, grant [me] help)

(whimper) "Falon'Din ulielas'el." (Falon'Din, have mercy)

(weak, disjointed) "Falon'Din, Lethanavir..." (beginning of a prayer for the dead to Falon'Din. The full translated prayer can be found here)

When they see a Dragon:

(quietly, in awe) "Mythal ulielas'el!"

"The dragons are just coming back, do we really have to... of course we have to."

When during their small side quest:

"Do we have a moment to take a closer look at this?"

(in quiet awe) "Look at these colors! The symbology! Just one minute, please!"

"I'm so close to figuring out the meaning of these symbols, I just need one more quick look."

Default saying (when you want to talk to them in Skyhold, how do they respond?):

"Hello, Inquisitor."

"Anything I can help with?"

"How are things going?"

"Inquisitor! How are you?"

If the Inquisitor is an elf:

"Aneth ara, amae'len." (Hello, fellow elf [one-who-i-recognize]. It's not a cheeky thing, it's just that lethallin/lethallan/lethallen seems to be reserved for friends and I wanted something similar but more geared towards acquanitances of coworkers)

When greeting a low-approval Inquisitor:

"One moment, please."

(polite, formal) "To what do I owe this visit?"

(hesitant) "I'm afraid I'm a bit busy..."

(undercurrent of fear or annoyance) "Something the matter?"

When greeting a friend:

"Hello, my friend."

(genuine) "It's good to see you."

(happy) "You found time to come by! How good."

If the Inquisitor is an elf:

(warmly) "Creators watch your path, lethallin/lethallan/lethallen."

If he is in a romance with the Inquisitor:

(softly) "Nehn'alas, ma vhenan." (You bring joy, my heart)

(happy) "Ma'latha. I missed you."

(cheeky) "Looking for me, vhenan?"

Travel Banter with Canon Companions of your choice:

Marelas: "Cassandra, I had a... well, actually, nevermind."

Cassandra: "What is it?"

Marelas: "I had a question, but I realize it's... highly likely to be insensitive. Apologies."

Cassandra: "I'm in a good mood. What was it about?"

Marelas: "Well... You believe the Maker has abandoned this world, yes?"

Cassandra: "You wish to know how we believe in an absent god? I thought your gods were absent as well."

Marelas: "They were banished. There is a difference between being forced to leave and leaving voluntarily."

Cassandra: "That we can agree on. But it's not true that the Maker abandoned us entirely. He still hears our prayers. He may grant you His favor."

Marelas: "You, individually?"

Cassandra: "Yes, like He did with Andraste, speaking in very general terms. Do your gods not prefer some individuals over others?"

Marelas: (Brief pause) "Individuals may prefer or fear one of the Creators over the other. But the Creators as a whole guide the People as a whole, as well as the individual people who make them up."

Cassandra: "And what if two elves are opposed to one another? Or two factions of your people?"

Marelas: (not quite sure where this is going) "Then one is in the wrong and one is in the right, although those two usually tend to blend and mix."

Cassandra: "Your Creators do not choose sides and show one greater favor?"

Marelas: "That depends what either side is fighting for."

Cassandra: "But one was right and one was wrong!"

Marelas: "As I said, those two tend to blend very heavily. And to state that the Creators are interested in right or wrong is not entirely true. It is... more complicated than that."

Friendship?: (what they call the PC if they are friends or the dialog)

"When I first arrived in Haven I had little hopes of finding a friendly face in the Inquisition. Thank you for taking me in. Thank you for trusting me. I am honored to call you my friend."

Leaving the Inquisition (what do they say or do if the approval is low enough for them to leave?):

Before they leave, Marelas will confront the Inquisitor, express his wish to leave and ask them if they will allow him to take his notes with him. Depending on the direction the conversation takes, there are several possible outcomes:

1) The Inquisitor doesn’t allow Marelas to take his research notes and convinces him to stay to keep an eye on how they are used. Marelas agrees, albeit reluctantly.

2) The Inquisitor allows Marelas to leave with his research notes. They part on more or less amiable terms.

3) The Inquisitor doesn’t allow Marelas to leave with his research OR doesn’t allow Marelas to leave at all. In this case, Marelas waits until the Inquisitor leaves, then packs as much of his research as he can carry and makes a run for it. The Inquisitor decides if they let him go or try to follow him. If they try to follow him, they will enter combat. The Inquisitor will defeat Marelas, and will have the opportunity to submit him to judgement. As a result of the judgement, the Inquisitor may a) execute him, b) imprison him, c) make him tranquil and have him work for the Inquisition or d) release him without his research notes.

If Marelas is executed or made tranquil, Hawen’s clan in the Exalted Plains disappears and the Inquisitor is unable to access Din’an Hanin if the area has remained unexplored.

If Marelas has been imprisoned, his Keeper will ask the Inquisitor to release Marelas to them in a war table mission. Josephine suggests asking the Dalish for something of value in return. Leliana advises to keep Marelas as leverage. Cullen argues that entering a potential conflict with the Dalish over one elf is not worth their time or resources and suggests to return Marelas without further conditions. Taking Josephine's route will garner the Inquisition a new and unique rune. Clan Elnora's Keeper states: "We value our knowledge, but one of the People will always take precedent. I trust this sharing of knowledge will keep our relationship amiable." This route will, however, also incur in a loss of approval with Haven's clan. The rewards for Cullen's route are the same as the one for Josephine's, but without the drawbacks. If Leliana's option is taken, a small group of Dalish elves will infiltrate Skyhold to try and free Marelas, and manage to escape with him. Clan Elnora denies any knowledge of the plan and Leliana's spies confirm that the group wasn't traveling back to clan Elnora. Leliana suspects this may be a smoke screen, but without further proof, the Inquisition's hands are tied.

If Marelas is made tranquil, a similar war table mission will be available. Josephine and Leliana will counsel the same approach. Cullen however will deem it too dangerous to give a Dalish clan access to a powerful enchanter and suggest placing Marelas under watch. If Josephine's route is chosen, the Inquisitor receives a powerful mage armor. The clan had made it for Marelas, to take on when he returned, but now he will never get to wear it. If Leliana's or Cullen's options are taken, a small group of Dalish elves tries to free Marelas, but fails. Both Marelas and the would-be liberators die in the ensuing scuffle.

#marelas lavellan #dai #dragon age #inquisitor as companion

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razzberrydazz · 7 months ago

Text

Penmanship

A Dragon Age Inquisition fic - Josephine and OT Lavellan, genfic

"Inquisitor, I encourage you to work on your penmanship. These reports are illegible. I was wondering why you kept putting off turning in your mission reports, but this? I implore you to rewrite them with a more careful hand."

Josephine hands the stack of unreadable parchment back to Inquisitor Lavellan, exasperation furrowing her brow.

"Oh, right, about that... you know how the Mark is on my left hand? Well I happen to be left handed. It makes writing, well, quite a painful endeavor." Inquisitor OT sheepishly takes the parchments back, clearly not intending to rewrite any of them.

"You're left handed? Have you been writing them with your marked hand this whole time?!"

OT stifles a chuckle at the indignation from their dear ambassador. They hold up their hands in mock surrender, that characteristic lopsided grin on their face.

"I've actually been practicing with my right hand, since the Mark hurts to write with. It's, ah, going slowly, learning to write legibly and all. I promise I'm trying, Josie!"

Josephine sighs, then pushes herself out of her chair to approach them. She takes Lavellan's hands into hers, frowning at the marred green and darkened veins spreading over their left hand.

It's gone up their wrist by now, creeping up their arm day by day. What will happen if the mark takes over their whole body? Will they die? Should they nip the problem in the bud by amputating so that the Mark poses a threat to their life no longer?

The ambassador shakes the worrying thought away, instead focusing on sitting the Inquisitor down and handing them a quill and parchment to practice with.

"I know as a Dalish elf, you never went through finishing school. I had to learn to write both in print and cursive, and write both perfectly legibly. I also learned how to do calligraphy, but that's besides the point. It's nigh time you learn to improve your penmanship."

"Are you posing as my penmanship teacher, dear Ambassador? I'm flattered you'd want to take the time to teach me, I know how busy you can get with all your responsibilities."

"I doubt you'll practice this otherwise, judging by how many reports you haven't turned in, and your general avoidance of writing in general."

That earns a nervous chuckle from the Inquisitor. They pick up the quill with their left hand, then palm it into their right. Their hands tremble slightly with each movement. While they've been able to still the tremor in their Marked hand in order to cast spells, it doesn't seem to translate to their right hand for ease of writing.

"Alright. Start by writing out the Common alphabet, lower and uppercase. Try it with both hands so I can see what you're working with."

It takes a few minutes of effort for them to write with their right hand and make it even half legible. With their left hand, they write very quickly, grimacing in pain as they do so, and the resulting hurried cursive is just as illegible as the chicken scrawl script from their right hand. Even a cypher would do little to decipher the markings their pen leaves on the parchment.

"Tell me, inquisitor, can you even read your own handwriting?"

After a pause of squinting at the still drying lines of writing, OT shakes their head no.

Josephine sighs and pinches the bridge of her nose with exasperation. "Okay, try again. You need to practice this until not only you can read your handwriting, but other people as well. Specifically me, since I have to sort through your reports."

"I can practice this in my own time, Josie. Pinky promise, I'm not going to blow it off. I know you should have a meeting with that board game loving noble soon, and I'd hate to eat into your card game playtime with her!"

"Inquisitor, before you-" OT places the quill and parchment back on Josephine's desk and steps past her back towards the hallway, much to Josephine's chagrin. Never resting, never content staying in one place long, so busy all the time. Do they get enough sleep? Do they sleep? The bags under their eyes are evidence against that.

Well, Lavellan was right, Josephine does have a meeting with said noble soon, and she must prepare for the resulting headache of dealing with her. Seems she'll have to address their penmanship at another time.

---

Several days pass, and both the Inquisitor and Ambassador have been too busy to even sit down and chat for more than their daily briefings in the war room. She's seen the Inquisitor speaking with Leliana in the main hall, walking from the library in the main tower of after having talked with Dorian or Solas, walking the ramparts beside Cullen's office, sparring with Cassandra and Iron Bull in the newly built sparring ring by the Herald's Rest tavern. Sitting on the roof of said tavern with Sera and Cole eating cookies. Feeding the horses treats in the stables while joking with Blackwall. Gossiping with Vivvienne.

One day while Josephine walks out from her office by the war room down the main hall and host of steps, she spots Lavellan sitting on the roof of Herald's Rest with parchment and ink. They're using a piece of wood as backing to write, face scrunched in concentration as they etch into the parchment with a quill.

Oh, they're practicing on their own after all. A smile flits on Josie's face as she makes her way down the steps and OT notices her in the distance and waves. She waves back.

The next day, Josephine finds a stack of reports on her desk, addressed from Inquisitor Lavellan. From a quick leaf through, the writing is legible. The bottom of the stack is a letter from them, in deliberate and careful cursive.

Like the finish on a fine piece of woodwork, I will finish what I started.

I jest, I jest, but I did want a way to show you I've been trying, and I care. Hope your report readings go more smoothly from now on, my dear Josie. xoxo

~ Inky OT

Underneath the writing is a crude drawing of cheese, and stick figures of the Inquisitor sitting on a bench with Josephine with hearts drawn around them. Such a cheesy romantic, that elf. Sera's been rubbing off on them with the margin drawings on their reports.

#razz writes #fanfic #fanfiction #dragon age inquisition #inquisitor lavellan #dasovertaker #inquisitor OT #josephine montilyet

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bearlytolerant · 1 year ago

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makathi prompt #1 - saying "I love you" for the first time 🥰

Fandom: Dragon Age

Rating: Mature for sexual references

Pairing: Athi Lavellan x Makon (Makathi)

Word Count: 1,403

unbridled

Just a notion on a rainy day when her sighs are lost in the patter pat pat of the rain against the glass. His tongue slides along her inner thigh but then pauses so he can take a peek up at her through his lashes. She’s spread before him open and vulnerable. Eyes closed and she trusts him.

I love you.

It’s too soon. So he lets his tongue utter it against her, eliciting a pleasurable groan.

—

A month later he knocks on her apartment door. A muffled, “come in”, and he twists the handle, pushing himself into her world again. Sera’s out and maybe that’s for the best because he only made the space for one person in his life today.

He should wait for her there on the couch. Thinks that’s what social etiquette is or maybe how it should go. But then again, that blanket sitting there on the couch is the one he tasted her under yesterday. He is Makon and she is Athi. They are them. Do the same rules apply if there are even any rules?

So he searches. His path already marked out by her voice just moments before.

The bathroom door is ajar and she’s climbing out of the shower, hair dry and fully clothed and at first it doesn’t register quite right in his mind. Probably because his body’s holding the thought.

She beams at him with pride and he glances up to see she’s installed a new shower head. She’s only thought of him.

I love you.

He knows that’s what she’s saying so he takes her face in his hands and kisses her.

Her lips. Her eyelids. Her neck.

Lips again.

He turns on the shower, tugging her and her laughter in with him. If it were possible, he’d kiss her soul but he finds that making love to her under the water will do for now.

—

He asks her to meet his family.

“I thought I might be too unworthy to meet your family,” she had said. Such a ridiculous thing to say.

He had opened up a crack and let her light in. What it revealed, he had shared. He was scared. What if he wasn’t what she wanted?

What’s ifs and too soons sounded off as excuses but she’d left space for him to be understood.

He still doesn’t realize that too soon stopped applying to them after the first week.

They are here now, though. To see his family. She seems a little nervous, playing with the back of her earring stud as they stand on the porch waiting for someone to open the door. He squeezes her hand and kisses the top of her head. A brush of his thumb along her skin is a measure of reassurance.

When that door opens, it’s only a matter of minutes before she’s drawn into the arms of those he calls brother and sister, swept up in their admiration of her.

Three months in and he smiles at her from across the room. She’s chatting with Vilanti and he knows from the match in energy, that his family loves her too. The notion of soulmates is laughable but there’s something to be said about the way they fill up the spaces that neither of them knew needed filled.

I love you.

He says it with his eyes when, once again, they lock with hers.

—

“It might be easier if you have this.” Athi dangles a key before him and drops it in his open palm. He tucks it away in his back pocket. Pulls her in. Kisses her forehead. Tucks her hair behind her ear to have a good look at her before he kisses her on the lips.

She smiles and then hops onto the edge of the counter as she includes him in the breakdown of her day. It’s been a long time since there was a fight at the bar and even though it was just a few slaps, he can tell it’s the most excitement that place has seen in months. He asks if she’s okay and she shrugs it off because of course she is. She was only pouring drinks. Wiping the counters. A bystander.

“Red or white?” he asks as he plates their dinner and pulls the wine and glasses from the cupboard.

“Red. Always,” she says and sometimes he doesn’t know where he ends and she begins. Maybe he’s just in love with himself.

But then she jumps on his back and kisses his neck.

“What have you been up to mountain man?”

It’s not a matter of beginning or ending. He is Makon and she is Athi. They are them. He is certain that he is in love with her.

“This and that,” he says. “Nothing as exciting as a fight.”

Just briefly he thinks, what if this life he gives her is boring. What if he’s boring? He’ll just have to make sure he isn’t.

She spots the fresh bouquet on the counter and climbs back down to give it a little sniff. “These are beautiful.”

“Not as beautiful as you,” he says, depositing her wine glass in her hand.

“I bet you say that to all the girls.”

“Just one woman.”

She smiles. He lives for those smiles and he takes her hand, yanking her into himself and letting the red wine spill down the front of his apron. He searches those beautiful eyes of hers where moss meets bark and wishes he could belong to that whole inner world behind her irises. It almost comes out then.

I love you.

But the apartment door swings open and they’re pulled apart with the sound of Sera’s mock disgust.

“What’s for dinner lovebirds?”

—

It is not falling or flying. It is like when he first discovered he had magic. It is awe and revel.

That is what it is to be with Athi Lavellan.

There isn’t a discussion about it. Not really. She just asks him if he wants to help her do a little rearranging in her room. He agrees of course and brings a pothos in a hanging basket to put over by the window.

“You know I can’t keep plants alive. You’ll have to do it.”

“I know.”

“Well good. Then it’s not wasted space I made in the dresser for your clothes. You can have the left side of the closet too.”

He’s quiet for a moment—too quiet for one like this and her hands are stuffed into the pockets of her jeans.

“If you want,” she tacks on. Too quiet too. Eyes on the floor.

I love you.

It’s whispered in her grand small gesture and he’s moving for her, hands on her hips, bringing her into himself.

“If I want? That’s like saying I can breathe, if I want.”

“Well, do you?” She is earnest and she is glorious.

“Yes,” he answers. “I like breathing.”

He’s rewarded with a smile and a kiss and he knows that answer will suffice.

—

Six months in and his hands are in her hair and moonlight washes over their bodies.

Enough is enough and too soon is stupid.

“I love you,” they say in tandem, out loud just as their lips pull apart.

His forehead touches hers, long dark hair falling over his shoulder and brushing across her breast. Makon lets out a small laugh then rolls over next to her. He props himself up on an elbow.

“How long did you fight with yourself that you would not be the first to say it out loud?”

A pillow comes flying at his head which he blocks before she shoves him onto his back and straddles him.

“That sort of information will cost you.”

“Will a secret be good enough of an exchange?”

“Depends on the secret. I need at least a medium sized one.”

“So not too big?”

“Just tell me already.”

“I’ve wanted to say I love you since the day I met you.”

“I’ll be honest. That would have scared the shit out of me but I still would have gone on a date with you.”

Makon lets out a laugh that shakes both their bodies. Then he says, “gods, I love you so much,” and it keeps spilling off his lips, pouring over their intertwined bodies.

He’s not sure she can sop it all up. All this love.

But he’s certain she will try.

#dragon age #oc x oc #Makathi #Athi Lavellan #Makon #bear writes #5+1 #prompt fill

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makerscockandballs · 2 years ago

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For the oc questionnaire thing, I'd like to know #1, #3 (preferably physical traits), #31 and #43 for all of your guys if you have the time!

oooh this is gonna be a long one :D (related to this ask meme)

1: What is their go-to comfort food?

Maison Surana: Orlesian chocolate truffles. Tried them once at a banquet he was performing at and got obsessed. You could bribe him with them.

Orev Hawke: Hearty, heavy Fereldan stew like they used to make in Lothering. It’s just potato and turnip and whatever veggies are in season, doesn’t even taste like much but keeps you warm and fed.

Thelrael Lavellan: Sweets of any kind, but most of all a certain Dalish dessert made primarily from wild honey & roasted fruit.

Magnolia Trevelyan: Tomato soup but with tons of hot pepper powder – a classic she’s used to from the Circle, but the spice is her own twist to make it more interesting. Overall, she loves spicy & heavily seasoned cooking, the more the better even if it makes her eyes water. If habanero potato chips were a thing in Thedas she’d eat three bags a day.

3: What is something they really like about themselves and what is something you really like about them? (Physical Traits)

Maison: He doesn’t care too much about his appearance aside from looking neat and presentable but takes some joy in his teeth being pointier than normal. Part of it is just how they always looked, part of it is Warden Weirdness. I love his facial scars, both the characterization aspect (refuses to cover them up yet hates seeing them in the mirror) and from a “looks badass” aspect.

Orev: He really likes his hair and tries out all kinds of styles with it once he has the time and money. And honestly I agree, it’s also my favourite thing about him to draw :D

Thelrael: He really, really likes his legs, all his outfits are built around making his legs stand out (haha get it. stand out). I really like his profile, it’s overall flat and a bit round — a bit of a babyface that absolutely works for him and makes him look mischievous.

Magnolia: She really likes her overall build, especially her muscular arms. Worked lots and carried around lots of things when she was tranquil which sucked, but at least now it helps her defend herself. Josephine’s obvious glances are a big plus too. I really like her eyes, they’re big and a very dark deep brown.

31: What would make them blush?

Maison: Compliments and reassuring words about him as a person. He holds himself to impossibly high standards and is never satisfied, but hearing that others think positively about him means so much.

Orev: Coming from the right person, almost everything. Friend telling him they care about him or thanking him? Red. Anders kissing him or even just giving him the smallest compliment? Bright fucking red. Meanwhile anyone outside his close social circle could blatantly and passionately flirt with him and get nothing more than a friendly smile or some playful flirting back. All or nothing babe

Thelrael: It takes *a lot* to get this bastard flustered. A lot. He also has no sense of shame. Whoever tries to make him blush ends up being the actually flustered one within minutes. Nobody has figured out a way to do it yet, but Dorian is certainly trying.

Magnolia: Getting nice personal gifts, especially accessories and flowers. Makes her feel special and courted like a princess. She’s not used to having such nice things and wears them with pride. Getting compliments about how that new hairpin or earring fits her is the cherry on top.

43: And what would you say to comfort them?

Maison: You cannot save everyone, but what matters is that you tried. You helped more people by trying and sometimes failing than you would have through inaction. Let yourself off the hook.

Orev: It’s not your fault. Kirkwall was a sinking ship, and one man alone cannot plug all its leaks no matter how hard he tries. Drowning along with it would not have helped anyone.

Thelrael: It’s okay to be angry. But it is still real, even if the gods were not gods at all, it all still mattered. Every celebration, every story, every ritual still brought your people together.

Magnolia: You’re safe now, and not alone anymore. Nothing can force you back into tranquility or hiding. It’s okay to finally let your guard down and breathe.

#these were fun as hell i dont know why i didnt finish em sooner!! thank you dude #i got mail :D #maison surana #orev hawke #thelrael lavellan #magnolia trevelyan

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bushelofmuses · 3 months ago

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Regrets HCs

Myrna Lavellan:

She regrets listening to her advisors when it concerns her clan. She should have just gone herself and solved the problem in person. She should have never trusted a group of humans to do it correctly. At the very least, someone with Dalish roots should have been sent to lead whoever else was there with them to fix everything. They would have been cautious. They would have been respectful and not seen as a threat from the get-go. After she read the letter telling her clan Lavellan was gone, she went to her quarters and didn't come out for three days, curled up in bed and fluctuating between sobbing and staring into space, exhausted. Cole tried to visit a few times, but she wanted him to just sit on the bed beside her and hold his hand to ground her. When she finally came out, she was quiet in the War Room for several days, only speaking to the other three when she had to. She blames mostly herself, but also them for their ignorance and lack of caution.

Cole:

He mostly understands now that he could do nothing to save the real Cole. It wasn't his fault, and it couldn't be helped. However, there's still a pang of guilt when he eats something. It puts him off food sometimes. He tries his best to ignore it. For Survived!Cole, it's not saving his sister. He was supposed to save her, to keep her safe, and instead, he was the reason her life was cut short. Some big brother he was. He was a murderer, one who could never go home, one who could never return to mourn his mother and sister at their graves.

Ameridan:

His inability to defeat Hakkon. It meant he never got to see Telana or Drakon again. It meant he and Telana never had the chance to start a family. It meant he lost Orina and Haran. So much potential for a good and long life with his loved ones was lost in just mere minutes. If only he had been stronger, faster, anything, then maybe he wouldn't be here, and he'd have died peacefully as an old man with a family of his own.

#hcs #myrna hcs #cole hcs #ameridan hcs #ooc

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ollifree · 4 years ago

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30 OTP Questions - Fanari/Solas

1. Who is the most affectionate?

Fanari’s mistaken to be because she’s more open about seeking it, but they’re on even ground.

2. Big spoon/Little spoon?

Fanari/Solas

3. Most common argument?

“Solas I love you, but I swear to fuck say one more thing about the Dalish.”

4. Favorite non-sexual physical activity?

Doing their own thing in each other’s presence.

5. Who is most likely to carry the other?

Fanari could pick Solas up, and did so a few times for funsies, but she required both arms for it.

6. What is their favorite feature of their partner’s?

Fanari’s got freckles and the best profile in Thedas. She has a lot of small scars from her day-to-day life with the clan that Solas likes to hear about. He knows where her one ticklish spot is on her spine and he will exploit it to his own nefarious ends like the trickster folk figure he is.

Concept art Solas best Solas. Fanari likes playing/helping him with his dreads, and she has a preference for her partners to be taller than her.

7. What’s the first thing that changes when they realize they have feelings for the other?

Fanari goes for it with determination. She wasn’t spoiled, but she and her sister Elnara were both indulged by pretty much everyone older than them for having magic. It gave Fanari a stubborn “will be mine” approach to things she wanted; though had Solas not reciprocated she’d have respected it and let the matter rest.

Solas panics.

8. Nicknames? & if so, how did they originate?

They stick with the classic vhenan. Fanari still sometimes uses haren if she’s being playful, and Solas uses Inquisitor/Keeper in the same vein.

9. Who worries the most?

Solas does, but in the vague “my squishy mortal partner has a fragile existence that could end at any moment by sheer coincidence” way. It isn’t at the forefront of his mind most of the time.

10. Who remembers what the other one always orders at a restaurant?

If they’re ever at a restaurant it’s only for Orlesian cakes and at that point it’s a trial of keeping Fanari away from the strawberry ones.

11. Who tops?

ACE RIGHTS

12. Who initiates kisses?

Both.

13. Who reaches for the other’s hand first?

Fanari, but one of her stims is feeling textures so she usually reaches for his sleeve.

14. Who kisses the hardest?

Solas.

15. Who wakes up first?

They wake up about the same time, especially once Fanari figures out the whole Dreamer thing.

16. Who wants to stay in bed just a little longer?

Shock of all shocks, it's Fanari. Don’t make her get up there are responsibilities out there.

17. Who says I love you first?

Solas.

18. Who leaves little notes in the other’s one lunch? (Bonus: what does it usually say?)

No notes, but they do find trinkets for one another.

19. Who tells their family/friends about their relationship first?

Fanari mentioned it to her immediate family (her three parents, two siblings, and Deshanna) in letters, and word made its way around the clan. The two never went out of their way to tell people in the Inquisition, but they weren’t hiding it.

20. What do their family/friends think of their relationship?

You know those pairings that are like? Clearly meant to be? They gell right and each person is getting something out of the relationship that improves their lives and gives them the incentive to be their better selves? Imagine knowing that couple in real life and then one of them breaks it off out of the blue and doesn’t even give the other person a reason why. And then you have to work on the same team with the both of them.

The group gets very cold towards Solas after he pulls that. When he resurfaces after being presumed dead for a number of years (see final question) and the two get back together, Fanari very specifically does not ask for opinions from their old Inquisition buddies. Fortunately, my own OCs don’t count, so she gets those.

Darrell’s concerned, but while it’s not the choice he would have made he knows he can’t go making choices for her. (Fanari does get a tetchy crystal call from Dorian, who’s mostly angry he heard about the thing from a letter Kendra wrote Darrell.) Kendra knows Fanari’s an adult who can make her own choices, but she’s still there for Fanari if needed in any capacity. (Bull is not at all happy with the arrangement.) Again, see a later question, but Fanari usually refrains from saying Dread Wolf jokes. Kendra, however, has Fanari’s blessing.

Solas retains an aloof affiliation with Clan Lavellan. Many hate him on principle, and the majority of them barely tolerate him so they don’t lose their Keeper. He and Elnara are openly hostile towards each other, and only with other clans will she put up a front of accepting him for Fanari’s sake. Ma’non, their brother, is one of the few who comes to have an appreciation for Solas as a person. Of Fanari’s parents, Lamel is the only one who can have a conversation with him that isn’t ice cold. Deshanna, unfortunately, has passed by this point. Had she still been alive, under no circumstance would Solas have been able to live anywhere near Wycome.

@greyvvardenfell this is a request nay a demand nay a requirement

Jak?

21. Who is more likely to start dancing with the other?

They’ll dance at celebrations within the clan when it’s part of the festivities, but despite what Wicked Eyes and Wicked Hearts would lead you to believe they’re not big on it. If Fanari has to dance her first choice of partner is going to be Elnara.

22. Who cooks more/who is better at cooking?

Solas is the better cook, but Fanari knows more dishes. Fanari’s the type of person who can look at a meal and know it’s ready whereas Solas has to time out the duration.

23. Who comes up with cheesy pick up lines?

Fuck it they’re to ace for this.

24. Who whispers inappropriate things in the other’s ear during inappropriate times?

Fuck it they’re

Fanari has free reign on any Dread Wolf jokes. She usually refrains out of consideration. Usually.

25. Who needs more assurance?

Maybe don’t break things off with your partner and give her deep-seated insecurities about your relationship, Solas. Maybe don’t do that.

26. What would be their theme song?

Take Me To Church - Hozier

Let Me Remind You - Sugarland

The songs are from Solas’ and Fanari’s points of view respectively. Honorable mentions to Skillet’s Comatose and Florence + the Machine’s Howl. Actually...go check Fanari’s playlist. Any song you can apply to a relationship fits at some point in their timeline.

27. Who would sing to their child back to sleep?

28. What do they do when they’re away from each other?

Fanari’s got her hands full heading the Inquisition, and later her hand full as the clan’s Keeper. Solas has his Fade-walking, and they both enjoy quiet moments of solitude.

29. One headcanon about this OTP that breaks your heart

I mean fuck, dude.

30. One headcanon about this OTP that mends it

And now it’s time for plot outlines with Olli

-Shit happens in Tevinter -Solas goes into Odin sleep for a lil over a decade, is presumed dead -Wakes up -Fanari more or less threatens leaving the clan to get Lavellan to agree to let the Dead Fucking Wolf live there -Profit

Fanari physically manifested in my home and called me a bitch to my face and that’s why Solas doesn’t actually die.

#dragon age #solas #inquisitor #fanari lavellan #oc things #otp: like the stars #yes that Should have been read in the cadence of silly songs with larry #ostwick and wycome are relatively close so guess who gets visits #lavellan: fen'harel can't live here he's fen'harel #fanari: i understand it's why i'm already packed #lavellan: now hold on just a minute #solas knows p much going in that once fanari's gone so is he so he never goes out of his way to improve that

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greypetrel · 2 years ago

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By the Dread Wolf’s ugly wig!

When you want to go check on your Lethallan, but your funds allows you to buy just the cheapest wig from Flying Tiger.

Explanation: @karmicblackhole and I took a personality test over Dragon Age Characters. Her result was Cole, but we both agreed that she’s definitely a Solas. So the idea of a Solas dressed as Cole came out.

And since my result was Varric... Here we go. (unedited because life’s too short. It’s not smutty because my Lavellan didn’t romance Solas and I know yet too little about hers to write some smutty, Seeker-conquering, solavellan thing.) Not so long after Corypheus was defeated.

********

Solas had not planned to get back. By all means, he should NOT get back. Not even close, not even for a minute. Stay the heck away from Skyhold or anything that vaguely smells of Inquisition, track Lavellan’s movement, go in the opposite direction.

Except, his plans were more behind than he thought, with the Orb destroyed and the cheery elf still wielding the Anchor, and the Korcari Witch having somehow access to Eluvians and a pair of eyes that were too keen for his likings. And the Inquisitor having befriended said perceptive Korcari witch because OF COURSE she had.

But one night like any other, when he woke up in a makeshift camp in the middle of some ruined Guesthouse he remembered in full glory and now laid barren and crumpled in the middle of the Exalted Planes, he realised he felt lonely, and decided that a little curiosity couldn’t harm no one, with dued precautions.

His plans could wait some weeks more for this quick -very quick!- detour, he thought while buying an old wig from a rundown merchant in a village he didn’t know the name of. It wasn’t that much of a wig, the quality extremely poor and he was sure the material would have caught on fire if he had but stared at it long enough. But it was the right colour, so it would have had to do.

Skyhold was more or less how he left it. Still buzzing with activity, if the atmosphere was more relaxed and laid back. It was lucky: he could slip inside the hold using an old passageway that hasn’t been found by the Inquisition - very dusty, very full of spiderwebs, he cursed when the wig got into one and undid all the work he had done to make it… Well, it was not presentable, he would have defined it barely acceptable, but still. It had not loose cobwebs sticking to the fringe and keeping it stubbornly upward.

Cole must have felt his irritation, since he was waiting for him in the cellar the passage ended up in. The spirit boy freed the door -from the outside a normal wall- from the craters and barrels that had been stored against it, and smiled at him. Happy to see him. Cole took his hat from his head -his hair were silky and smooth, he noticed with a grimace- and silently placed it over his own head.

---

Wig and hat in place, the right clothes he had to mimick -adding a fake amulet on the heart as well- he stood in the courtyard, observing activities and life in the keep going on without him. He kept in a corner, knowing that Cole would have done the same, and hoping that the distance could help him blend in and being mistaken for the spirit. Even if he was taller and lither than Cole, and the stupid fringe of the wig didn’t want to sit down on his forehead, and his head itched. Life bustled, quieted and smoothed down after the threat of Corypheus stopped being a dooming cloud, but lively as ever. Cassandra coming early to start practicing with the hay dummies, the Iron Bull exiting the Tavern to go assist the soldiers in the training ring, followed suit by Krem. Dorian watching left and right, out of the door of said Tavern, the smallest frown on his forehead indicating he was nervous, before going out and making a quick way to the Great Hall, chest puffed up.

And then, there she was. Hopping down the stairs gingerly, humming a folk song, and grinning knowingly from one ear to the other at the Tevinter mage, which she caught midway on the stairs. He couldn’t hear, but judging from body language and the fact that she left giggling with a hand over her mouth, he could swear it was a jest. She seemed fine, he noticed, her left hand gloved and covered, he couldn’t assess how much the Anchor had worsened yet. By all means he should have left when she entered the Tavern.

He was there, she looked fine and happy - happy happy, not that smile strained at the corners which she donned when she was upset but didn’t want to show it. She wouldn’t put her weight on the marked hand when accommodating with Sera… On the roof? Well, she wouldn’t have put her weight on her hand if it hurt, and kept on eating cookies with the other elf, chatting and laughing and swinging their legs above the courtyard.

She was fine, he could go.

Except, he was still there when the Inquisitor ended her roof breakfast and got out of the Herald’s Rest.

Those “ten more minutes” were his undoing.

Aisling stopped briefly, just out of the door, pointing her hands on her hips and looking around, most likely trying to assess where she was needed first that morning. And then she noticed him.

He schooled himself at best as he could. Lowered his gaze and waved lightly at her in his best Cole impression, hunching his shoulders down. She squinted, bending her head on the side and trying to look closer.

Please don’t come here. Please someone remind her of better things to do.

“Solas!” a feminine voice he knew chided. She sounded elated and… Reliefed?

“Mythal’s tits, you’re back! Where have you been?!” Looking down, he could see her feet on the ground right in front of his, a second before she jumped at him in a tight hug. He staggered back, not hugging her.

“I’m Cole.” He replied.

“Yes, I can see it… Cole.” She giggled, trying and failing to keep serious. She squeezed his shoulders, before letting him go and taking a step back.

“Happy. Elated. Ehr- Relief in seeing an old friend. Everything is fine?” He tried his best in imitating the spirit, wildly guessing and raising the pitch of his voice for good measure.

“Everything is fine, yes. But Cole, if you start asking what you already know, your friends will start to worry about you, you know?” She looked less happy and a little melancholic, looking at him in the eyes.

He didn’t reply.

“Look, Cole, I know I already told you but… I’m free for lunch, if you felt to - you know.” She shrugged. “Stick around with me. You can tell me about whom did you help, and I can help you with your sociality.”

He didn’t know whether to feel embarrassed or regretful that she was smoothly playing along with his farce without a hint of judgement, respecting his space. He wanted to tell her for the tenth time that he wasn’t a skittish horse, she couldn’t befriend him like one, just staying constantly in sight on the limit of his comfort zone with a casket of apples, waiting for him to approach. He wouldn’t approach.

“Or, we can do something about your hair, did you help a family of spiders?” She giggled, trying herself to smooth the incriminated fringe down -and failing- and patting his shoulder before stepping further back and starting to walk away.

She spared him another glance and another smile.

“Well, see you around, if you want I’d be happy to. We all would. You don’t need to be alone all the time, you know.”

She waved and left.

He hated to admit that her horse-girl method worked.

#dragon age #dragon age fanart #solas #da fanarts #dragon age inquisition #solavellan #traditional art #doodle #inquisitor lavellan #lavellan #cole #dragon age cole #fanarts #shitposting #dreadwolf

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