#like the rest of the countries that fought there were in shambles and stuff

[knights-unwelcommentary]

A pet peeve of mine is how the internet at large and a lot of countries took to using the term baby boomer for a generation wordlwide like it wasn't in a niche demographic of countries that in summary fought in ww2, got an economic boost and started making tons of babies

[in-arlathan]

Lessons Learned

Time period: 9:41 Dragon Characters: Female Lavellan, Sera, Dorian Chapter: 1/1, Length: 3,492 words Rating: PG-13

Summary: Sera was wounded in an attack by the darkspawn. Refusing to let Dorian heal her wounds, Lavellan steps into help her. As she patches her companion up, Lavellan tells Sera stories from the past, remembering her father’s legacy and her responsibility as Inquisitor.

A/N: I wanted this to be a short and cute piece about Sera and Lavellan getting to know each other, but it turned more into a Lavellan backstory exploration mid-way. Buuuttt I kind of like it. If been wanting to write more about my Elenara’s time with the Lavellan clan, so I’m glad this happened. I wish you a wonderful time reading this! <3

You can read this on AO3, too.

____

Even before she reaches the tent, she can hear Sera scream.

“Touch me and you'll be very sorry!” the young elf shrieks. “I don't need your help!”

“But you do,” the voice of Dorian insists. “Your arm needs proper treatment. With a quick healing spell ....”

“I said no,” Sera clarifies, sternly.

“I see the two of you are having a good time,” Elenara says as she enters the tent and takes a look around. The bedrolls are in shambles, except for the one that is occupied by Sera. One side of the tent was torn in half by a blade during the most recent fight, but someone has already patched it up. The stitches look like the job of an amateur, but they will do, at least for now.

“Inquisitor!” Sera yells. “Tell the Tevinter to go bother someone else.”

Dorian lets out an agitated huff, then turns to Elenara. “Maybe you can talk some sense into her,” he says. “If her wound is not treated quickly, she will catch an infection. The flesh will fester and…”

“I know,” she replies and places a hand on Dorian’s arm. “I’ve seen wounds like these before.”

“Then you know how dire her situation is,” Dorian says. “She is lucky the darkspawn didn’t give her the blight. But even something simple like the cut of blade can be fatal.”

“Oh, yeah, thanks!” Sera grumbles. “Thanks for reminding me how lucky I am to be alive. If we had people guard the camp, like I said, we could’ve fought them in no time.”

Elenara swallows, steeling herself against Sera’s wrath. As much as she hates to admit it, her companion is right. There should have been soldiers patrolling the perimeter. It was her, Elenara, who had chosen to not give the command.  She was under the impression that their recent conquest of Caer Bronach was enough to keep her troops safe, but she was wrong.

So very wrong.

While she and three of her companions were out scouting for any sign of Hawke and his mysterious contact with the Grey Wardens, a group of darkspawn had emerged. They had attacked the camp shortly after sunset when all of the soldiers were preparing for the night. Only a small number of scouts had been set for the nights watch, all of them killed by genlock archers. It was thanks to Dorian, Sera, and the Iron Bull that the camp was not erased from the face of the earth in its entirety. When the darkspawn had crept up the hill and murdered more and more scouts, they had taken command over the remaining soldiers to prevent them from panicking. With fire and iron and a cascade of arrows, the three of them had managed to cast back the tide of tainted creatures.

Their bravado saved them. Yet, most of the tents were torn down or shredded. Dozens of new requisitions were destroyed. Even some of the food supplies took serious damage. Now, the group will need to ration until new goods arrive from Caer Bronach.

There is a bright spot to this mess. Considering the number of darkspawn that attacked the camp, the damage to the people and the supplies could be a lot bigger. Still, Elenara hates herself for not expecting an attack in the first place.

“It’s no use to thinking about what could have been,” she says, not quite sure if she is talking to her companions or herself. “I’m just happy you’re alive and well. As for the wound,” she nods towards Sera, “I can take care of that, if you like.”

Sera’s brows furrow in a way that seldom means anything good. For a moment, Elenara expects the younger elf to jump up from her bedroll and through a temper tantrum. But instead, Sera simply lets her shoulders drop and sighs deeply.

“Alright, patch me up,” she says. “As long as you don’t use magic. Don’t want any of that frigging stuff near me.”

“Don’t worry, I have as much magical talent as a nest of nugs,” Elenara assures her with an encouraging smile. To Dorian, she adds. “Please bring me water, a bottle of alcohol – the strongest you can find – as well as threads and a needle. Oh, and also a clean piece of cloth, if you can find one in this mess. The lieutenant should know where to find these things.”

Dorian’s gaze flicks to Sera, then back to the Inquisitor. “Fine,” he breathes, finally giving up on forcing his magical help on Sera. “I’ll be back.”

“Thank you, Dorian.”

“You’re welcome.”

The Tevinter mage secures his staff behind his back and steps outside. The tent’s flaps rustle as they fall back into place.

Once they are alone, Elenara steps up to Sera’s bedroll and drops to her knees beside it. “Let me take a look,” she says softly and gestures towards Sera’s wound with one hand. Reluctantly, the younger elf lowers the old piece of cloth someone gave her to stop the bleeding and lets Elenara examine the cut on her right upper arm.

“It’s deep, but it looks like the blade didn’t hit the bone,” Lavellan explains. “I’ll sterilize the wound with alcohol and stitch you up. It’ll hurt for a while, but when you give yourself a little time to rest, everything should be back to normal soon.”

Sera gives her a quizzical look but is robbed of the chance to say something when Dorian returns.

He hands Elenara a small satchel containing various items including a waterskin, a bottle of Antivan brandy and a sewing kit. Miraculously, he also found a piece of cloth that was relatively clean.

The tools are far from ideal, but she will try her best regardless.

“You’re sure you can manage with that?”, Dorian asks, sounding skeptical. “Shouldn’t we send for a healer from a nearby village or something like that?”

Elenara shakes her head. “We’re too far out in open country,” she replies. “Even on horse, it would take a day to get back to Crestwood to get help. We cannot wait that long.”

Sera lets out a huff. “That’s reassuring.”

“Don’t worry, I’ve stitched up people under more adverse conditions.”

That gets both Sera’s and Dorian’s attention. “How so?” the younger elf asks, seizing Elenara up and down. “Thought you were a hunter or something before joining the Inquisition?”

Elenara removes her gloves and cleans her hands with a few drops of water from the skin. “That’s right,” she admits, then starts to imbue the cloth with the Antivan brandy. “This might hurt a bit,” she warns and presses the soaked cloth onto Sera’s wound.

The younger elf inhales sharply. “Andraste’s breeches!”, she hisses. “‘A bit’? That’s a frigging understatement.”

“You wouldn’t have to endure this if you’d just let me use magic on you,” Dorian points out, lips twisted in a disgruntled way.

“Your magic can go endure itself,” Sera spits, then comes up with more colorful swearwords as Elenara’s cleans her wound. “Holy shit-crap… Maker…”

Despite himself, Dorian laughs.

“Hold still,” Elenara says as gently as possible. “I’m almost done.”

She rubs the wound one more time, then tugs the cloth in her belt and reaches for the sewing kit. With the needle between her lips, she measures an arm’s length of yarn from the reel and yanks it off. It takes her two attempts to thread the needle, but then she is good to go. Out of practice already? she askes herself.

Before she gets to work, she grabs the bottle of brandy and holds it out to Sera.

“Here, have a sip and relax. What comes next won’t be very pleasant either.”

“Oh, great…” Sera moans. The young elf takes a giant gulp from the bottle and shakes from head to toe as the alcohol burns its way down her throat.

“I’ll leave you to it,” Dorian says. “Now that our young archer is in safe hands, I can go and find some other way to clean up the mess these darkspawn made.”

Elenara gives him a warm smile. “Thanks, Dorian. I appreciate that.”

He dismisses her gratitude with a casual wave of the hand and sly smile. “Don’t thank me yet. The night is still young, after all. If we don’t find the darkspawn nest, everything can go tits-up as our young friend here likes to call it,” he says.

“Well, it’ll be great, if it didn’t.”

“I agree,” he says, a soft glimmer in his eyes. “See you later, Inquisitor.”

And with that, he leaves.

She takes in a long breath, then turns to Sera once more. The young elf watches her intently, the corners of her mouth pointing downwards in an expression that got caught somewhere between anger and suspicion.

“Alright, let’s get this over with,” Sera says and rolls her eyes.

“I’ll do my best,” Elenara promises and leans forward. Ever so carefully, she punctures Sera’s skin with the needle and pulls the thread through. Fully focusing on her work, she doesn’t hear Sera hiss and swear under her breath as Elenara patches her up, stitch by stitch.

She is halfway through, when Sera looks at her once more and Elenara’s gaze flicks up to meet hers. Some of the anger has vanished from her companion’s face, she notices. It is a relief, truly. More than she likes to admit. There are days, in which Elenara half expects Sera to steal her breeches and pepper her body with arrows just for being “too elfy”.

“How did you learn to stitch up people like that?” Sera asks.

“Back with my clan,” Elenara explains. “Hunters cut themselves all the time. Sometimes they slip and fall, scraping themselves on a rock. Sometimes they run into bandits and have to fight them off. More often than not, they get cut by a knife or stabbed with an arrow, with no time to get back to camp. That is when a talent for needlework comes in handy.”

She waits for Sera to say something, but when her companion stays silent, she continues.

“Most of my practice didn’t come from patching up other hunters, though,” she admits and lifts her chin, so her companion can see the ragged scar that runs from Elenara’s left ear down her jawbone. “I was twelve when my father took me out on a hunt for the first time. He told me to set up traps in the forest and I did as he commanded, but I was not what you would call focused. My mind wandered around, thinking about this and that, no care in the world. I didn’t hear the bear coming for me until it was too late.”

Sera’s eyes go wide. “You fought with a bear? As a girl?”

“I was attacked by a bear,” Elenara corrects. “When I heard it charging, I sprang to my feet and turned around but I had no time to draw my bow. The bear jumped toward me and all I could do was dodge. Then I felt a sharp pang at my jaw and blood spilling over my chin and neck. The bear had hit me with one of its claws and cut my skin in half.”

“Ugh!” Sera exclaims. “Sounds nasty.”

“It was. I only survived because my father was close-by and took down the bear with three clean shots. I was still lying on the ground with blood gushing all over my clothes when he killed it.”

“He was quite the archer, your old man, then?”

“Yes, he was.”

“And he made you patch yourself up?” Sera asks, curious.

Elenara nods. “My father could have brought me back to camp for our keeper to take care of my injury, but he didn’t. Instead, he took me to a small creek in the woods where I could wash my face and told me to stitch the wound myself. So you may learn to take better care next time, he told me.”

Sera snorts. “How very kind of him.”

“He wasn’t wrong, though.”

“Yeah, how so?”

“My father wasn’t the best hunter in my clan because he was could shot a deer from twenty leagues away. He was the best because he had nothing but the deepest respect for all living things,” Elenara says as she goes back to work. “And while I sat by the creek and tried to stitch my own wound, he told that even predators such as bears had their place within the natural order of things. To him, it was obvious that, in my carelessness, I had posed a potential threat to the bear. Therefore, it was only natural for the beast to attack me. It wanted to fend me off to protect itself. I felt deeply ashamed of myself. I knew I had disappointed him. The only good thing to come of this was that I never trod lightly in the forest again, afterward.”

Elenara feels her cheeks color as she remembers the expression on her father’s face. Even after all these years, she still felt the pang of guilt that had hit her that day by the creek.

What would he think of his daughter now?

She had gotten an entire squad of Inquisition soldiers into trouble with her recklessness. And not only that, if her friends hadn’t been there to fight in her stead, the entire camp would’ve been wiped out. It was the bear attack all-over again. She, wandering around, lost in thought, too carried away to remember even the most basic dangers of this world.

Take better care next time, she hears him say.

Elenara makes the final stitch on Sera’s arm and ties the loose ends of the thread into a knot. “Done,” she announces and cleans the needle with a few more drops of water before putting it back into the sewing kit.

Sera leans forward and tries to examine her wound.

As a moment of silence falls between them, Elenara sits down cross-legged and reaches for the Antivan brandy once more. First, she smells at the bottle, then she takes a sip. The liquid tastes sickly sweet in her mouth and burns like fire, but it’s just what she needs right now. It had been years since she had thought about her father, let alone talked about him.

“And after that first one?”, Sera wants to know and points towards the scar on Elenara’s chin. “Did you patch up other people?”

“Oh, lots of people. Almost all of the hunters, to be exact,” Elenara tells her, setting the brandy aside to put her gloves back on. “I became quite proficient at it after a while. But I started by fixing old armor and clothing. I even sewed a dress once, just to get the hang of things.”

Sera snickers. “You didn’t!”

“Damn well I did,” Elenara says with a grin. “Fetched a decent price on the market in Ansburg, too. Anyway, learning to sew turned out to be pretty valuable. My hands became steadier and my focus increased. It showed in my hunting as well. Though I never reached my father’s level of perfection my father, I became a good enough hunter. I brought home food for my clan and sold some of my clothes in the human villages to help us out with solid coin. It was a good life. A simple life.”

“Hm,” Sera muses, blinking in surprise.

“What is it?”

“Maybe I was wrong about you,” she admits. “All the Dalish I met had were all snobby about the old history and legends and whatnot. ‘We are so much better than you, city elves are weak, over-through the shemlen overlords, you stupid muffs, all that rubbish. Nothing but blah blah blah. But you are not like that.”

“You know that I do honor the elven gods?” Elenara asks in careful tone.

“Yeah, you’re elfy, I get that,” Sera snaps. “But you don’t shove it up people’s arses. You treat everyone with respect and kindness, let them believe what they want to, even if’s nuts.”

Despite herself, Elenara chuckles. “I aim to please.”

Sera giggles. “Was that a hunting joke? Because aiming… haha, y’know…”

“Err…”

“Anyway,” Sera cuts her off. “Thanks for helping me. And for the chat. It’s nice to know your just a person like the rest of us. Your father sounds like a good person.”

“Yes, I enjoyed it, too,” Elenara admits.

She puts the cork back on the bottle of Antivan brandy and tugs it under her arm, together with the cloth and the sewing kit. The waterskin she leaves for Sera to drink.

“I leave you now,” she announces and gets to her feet. “You should get some rest. It’ll help the wound heal.”

“Sounds good to me,” the younger elf says, yawning. Elenara has no doubt that her companion will fall asleep in no time.

She gives Sera one last smile, then draws back the flaps and steps outside. The night air is cold and her breath rises as white mist from her nose and lips. Around her, the camp is still bustling with soldiers trying to get everything back to normal. None of her other companions is in sight. She suspects they have gone out to find the darkspawn nest, just like Dorian told her.

She hurries over to the requisitions table and places both the Antivan brandy and the sewing kit in one of the barrels the soldiers use for storage. The cloth with Sera’s blood, on the other hand, she simply tosses into the campfire and watches it burn in the flames. A part of her wishes for them to take the feeling of guilt and shame from her as well, to burn it away like a hot blade that cauterizes a wound, but when the cloth has turned to ash, she still feels miserable.

Her thoughts keep coming back to her father. In her memory, she hears him laugh at a joke one of the hunters made. She remembers him holding her tight after a terrible nightmare, singing songs and telling tales. When he died, it had hurt her deeply and although the wound was sealed, she knows that it will never fully heal. Elenara will carry the pain of his loss in her heart for the rest of her life. All she could do was to remember what he had taught her.

I will take better care next time, she thinks as she stares into the flames.

She wonders if things would be different if she had stayed with her clan, back in the Free Marches. Would she still hunt with them, searching for a moment of solitude in the woods whenever she got the chance? Or would she pack her things and leave for Ferelden to help seal the breach? Would she even care what happened in the south? She isn’t sure anymore. Her entire life had flipped upside down when she stepped out of the Fade. The days in which her only concerns had been sewing a dress for one of the children or setting up traps seemed so long ago.

Still, the Dalish had made her. Their stories and customs, their culture and lore are ingrained into her very being and the fact that she is one of them gives her a unique perspective on the matter of things. She might as well make use of it and try to move the world to a new place.

With time, she might create a world that would benefit everyone, not just humans. A world in which the Dalish no longer needed to run for their lives and no city elf was made to suffer in an alienage. She would do what everyone deemed impossible, and in doing so, she would put her father’s teachings to good use.

I hope you will be proud of me, then, she thinks and the pain subsides.

“Your Worship!”

It is the camp’s lieutenant, a short and sturdy human.

She turns to look at him.

“Yes?”

“Word from Seeker Pentaghast,” he tells her and salutes. “The scout says, she and the rest of your party have found the origin of the darkspawn in a cave to the south-east. Seeker Pentaghast wants to know if you care to join them.”

For a moment, Elenara ponders with the idea to send the scout back to tell Cassandra she is on her way. But then again… she still wears her armor, doesn’t she? All she needs is a new quiver full of arrows and a new set of healing potions.

“Sure,” she says and checks the fit of her gloves. She makes a mental note to talk to Harritt when she returns to Skyhold. The old smith must know where she can get the supplies to manufacture proper Dalish scouting armor. “These darkspawn will attack nobody ever again.”

With that, she straightens her shoulders, ready to face another fight.

It was time for her to become who she was always meant to be.

[smokeybrand]

Don’t Call Me Shirley

A guy i know replied to a Facebook post I made with something pretty superficial and aggressively nationalist on the post i made about how the government bribes people with socialism in order to throw themselves into war. He believes that Vets deserve all of that stuff because they defended our country but the common man doesn't for reasons? Buddy, have i got news for you! Buckle up because I woke up this morning and, like US International Policy, I chose violence.

Every war that the US has fought after WWII, was in defense of its interests not the country. Those two things are not the same. No country since the fall of Hitler has ever directly threatened the sovereignty of the US. Maybe Russia but we haven't technically gone to war with them and our beef is basically just a dick measuring contest over who can have te most influence (Spoiler warning: It's us because we have the most guns and the most money and act like f*cking D-Bo to the world at large) so what have you been defending? Freedom? Democracy? When has that sh*t ever worked? Every war we have ever fought to stave of the entrenchment of Communism or install a democratic leader, has ended in failure. The Korean War gave us the Ils. You ever see Iran before the US installed their first puppet dictator? Don't get me started on how spectacularly we failed in Vietnam. I'm not even going to touch the shambles we left basically any country to our immediate South. Motherf*ckers are real aggressive about that border. Probably because they want to keep out the couple decades worth of displaced Brown people from getting in here, after we kept failing at coups for the last three or four generations. What about the two Iraq Wars? Surely those were fought to defend our way of life. They killed a couple thousand of us that one time. Surely these last twenty f*cking years of imperialist aggression were more than just the US trying to steal sovereignty away from a country because of oil? Surely all these f*cking lives lost were definitely given in service to freeing the shackled people of... Whatever sandy and Brown country we were supposed to be liberating, and not to line the pockets of profiteering billionaires right? Well, i got news for you kid...

We "won" the original Iraq war because the Saudis told us to stop pursuing the fleeing Saddam, another one of out installed puppet dictators that went rogue. We didn't win, we stopped. Like in Vietnam. That wasn't and embarrassing retreat, we stopped. You see, Hussein was setting Saudi oil wells on fire as he fled, so the Saudis demanded we protect their bottom line instead of actually finishing the job. The war had it's effect, though. Hussein ceased aggression on Saudi Arabia, mostly, and went back to terrorizing everyone else in the region. Keep in mind that the people there, the one's Hussein was torturing and murdering and raping and whatever else, remember that it was the US who put him in power. They can't forget. They have all those scars as reminders. That's going to play into what comes next. The second Iraq war, the one that has lasted a bit more than half my life, was another grab at that oil by the US, with a sprinkling of personal presidential revenge, coated in the the saccharine sweet of US Nationalism and fear-mongering of the "other", in order for the American people to swallow it all. And swallow it they did. And, f*cking two decades later, we are all still choking on it.

My older brother fought in the same war that his oldest kid can now fight in. That's f*cking dumb and objectively terrifying. F*cking why? Iraq didn't even have anything to do with 9/11. Nothing. Bush II lied to get us in there. That's been proven. Al-Qaeda didn't move in there until after we destabilized it. The Taliban, another problem we f*cking created for ourselves, were based in Afghanistan. We ran through there and, in less than a month, brought that whole organization to it's knees. Then we bailed at the behest of Bush II, leaving those motherf*ckers to evolve into ISIS. We did that. We made that. That's on us because we didn't cut the head off the snake. We went in there and ignored the aftercare after beating the sh*t out of that Afghan ass. How could ISIS not be a thing? Both times, actually. Bin-Laden wasn't in Iraq, he was in Palestine. The whole goddamn time! Hell, not one of the hijackers who started this sh*t were from Iraq. But there were Saudis on that motherf*cker, though.

The Military Industrial Complex of the United States is f*cking absurd, man. There are more guns than there are people here. The international community looks at us like we're an infant with a loaded revolver. No one is coming over here to invade us. No one is shooting missiles off at us. No one is going to press us because we'd destroy everything with our many, many, nuckes, before we let our zealous, nationalistic, ego be pressed. Sure, motherf*ckers well posture and flex but to a point but they know we'll push the f*ck out of that button because we're 'Murrica! Guns and NASCAR and McDonalds and Racism, Hooraw! We spend an average of six hundred, fifty, trillion, yearly, on "defense." China spends the second most and they only spend half. The second strongest military force in the world, spends half as much we do. No one is f*cking with us so why are we f*cking with everyone else? Seriously, and without hubris, ask yourself why?

Why do we keep sewing strife throughout the world? None of the countries we ever liberate, stay liberated, if we actually liberate them at all and don't just f*cking stop. We never stay long enough to install stable rulers, just decimate it and quit it. All this sh*t does is breed US resentment and gives rise to anti-American terrorist groups so why the f*ck do we keep doing it? The answer is simple: Money. War is profitable to a select few, more profitable than even the oil we all seem to covet. That sh*t goes back to the inception of this country. The DuPonts and the Rothchilds played both sides of the American Revolution and got dummy rich off of it. It's why Louisianians speak French. That region was basically a gift to France after the war. The US has been exporting what can only be described as terror and imperialism, ever since.

So, no, you're not defending our country. No, you're not defending our rights. No, you are not justified to go overseas and kill a bunch of brown kids because some assholes in Washington wanted to line their pockets with blood money. You are not fighting to keep America safe or spread freedom or whatever the line is for Democracy. The patriotism you espouse as reason enough to fight a war on foreign soil, is and has been a lie for decades. You are murdering and terrorizing innocent people, in a sovereign foreign country, for the financial benefit of billionaires who probably have skin in both sides of the conflict. They will actually fly to space before bettering this country. And when you come back with the blood of innocent people on your hands, remember that the devastating alcohol addiction you developed to cope with the constant stress of being part of a terrorist outfit, will dog you for the rest of your life because the VA is so grossly underfunded  that the socialist help you think only people who have seen conflict deserve, is going to be topical at best. Remember that as you limp around the house you bought with your GI bill because shrapnel in your leg from the IED that killed the rest of your squad right before your eyes, couldn't be removed in time because the VA didn't have enough volunteer doctors to make that surgery happen. Be sure to keep the Camaro you bought at discount under 120 or you might lose that, too, just like you lost the love of your life after being away for so long perpetuating a conflict that has done little to safeguard the homeland.

Remember that, if these socialist programs were available to everyone, that the quality would increase considerably because the funding behind them would multiply dramatically. Remember that, with these programs accessible to everyone, the GDP would increase substantially over time, probably less than the twenty years of this god awful f*cking war, partly satiating the capitalist greed to make money by any means necessary so, maybe, your f*cking kids won't have to be state sanctioned mercenaries. Remember that, if these programs were open to everyone, the collective intelligence of the populace could increase and we'd have the understanding in order to question this sh*t so we don't have to nuke everyone in the world for scuffing our proverbial Puma. But, you know, thank you for your service, regardless. Sorry for the chronic nightmares.