#my tabris deserved better

[tenojan-in-tevinter]

Davrin's "we know what we sign up for" when talking about the wardens and the calling is fucking wild to me. Try telling that the the hero of fereldon, sir. Had their joining during the blight and was told NOTHING of the side effects and had to learn everything from the only other surviving JUNIOR warden at the time. And from simply experiencing them. "We know what we sign up for" my ass.

[her-gracious-lady-herald-bits1]

Title: a death sentence with better company

Pairing: Leliana/ Female Tabris

Setting: pre-Ostagar

---

Leliana doesn’t bother trying to sleep. The cot is stiff, the air close, and Sister Mildred’s snoring grates against her ears.

With a quiet sigh, she pushes off the blanket and pulls on her boots.

(A walk, then. Maybe a prayer.)

The stone floor is cold, her boots useless against the chill. Still, she moves quietly. Lothering’s Chantry is small — nothing like Val Royeaux’s grand halls — but the moonlight makes it almost beautiful. Silver light slips through high windows. Shadows stretch long against the stone.

She reaches the chapel doors and stills.

Someone else is here.

She stops. One hand against the stone wall.

The sound isn’t quite a sob. Raw, uneven. Something close to breaking.

Leliana steps forward, careful, quiet. Habit.

The chapel is empty—except for her. (Alone. Or trying to be.)

An elf, kneeling before the statue of Andraste. Tawny skin, long unkempt curly hair. Traveling clothes, scuffed and worn. Two serrated daggers at her knees. Always within reach.

Leliana knows who she is.

Duncan’s new recruit. The one who kept to herself. The one who glared at anyone who looked too overlong.

"I don’t even know if you’re there."

The elf’s voice cuts through the quiet. Low. Rough. Not meant for an audience.

"Maker. Andraste. Whoever’s listenin’." A pause. "S’pose it don’t matter much now."

Leliana stills. The accent is pure Denerim — sharp vowels, dropped consonants. (Alienage, maybe?.)

"Should I feel sorry? That what they want?" The elf sways slightly. Leliana catches the scent of cheap ale.

(Drunk. Speaking to Andraste like she would an barmaid at last call)

Leliana should walk away. Give her privacy. Instead, she leans into the shadows and listens.

"He deserved worse."

The elf’s voice is steady. Cold.

"Put my teeth right through his throat. Watched him gurgle on his own blue blood." A rough, humorless laugh. "Only regret is not makin’ it slower."

Leliana exhales, slow. The confession hangs in the air. Sharp-edged.

"Shianni—." The elf sways slightly. Her fists clench. "I don’t know how she is. I don’t—" Her voice catches. "And the other girls—"

A sharp inhale.

"What that bastard and his friends did." A long silence. "I’d do it again. Kill ’em all again." Her breath shudders. "Only worse."

Her head drops forward. Shoulders tight.

"So if you’re up there, don’t expect me to beg forgiveness." A pause. "Not for that."

Leliana stays still.

"But I just—I need to know." The elf’s voice is raw now. Bare. "If there’s a reason. For any of it." A breath. "My mum dyin’. The alienage. All of it."

Silence.

"They say the Maker turned from us." Her voice drops to a whisper.

"Sometimes I think—I don’t blame him."

The flask uncorks with a soft pop. She drinks deep. Leliana watches her throat move as she swallows, then lets her head tip back against the altar.

The Elf pushes herself upright. Stumbles.

Her hand slaps against the marble base of Andraste’s statue. One of her daggers slips from her belt, clattering to the floor.

"Shite."

Leliana steps forward. Doesn’t let herself hesitate.

"Let me help you."

The elf’s head snaps up. Eyes sharp despite the drink. Her hand flies to her remaining dagger.

"Who the fuck are you?"

Leliana lifts her hands. Open. Empty. Keeps her voice soft. "Leliana. A lay sister here at the Chantry."

The elf squints at her. The candlelight flickers. Her grip stays tight.

"And you?" Leliana asks.

A beat. elf watches her, wary. Then: "Kallian."

"Didn’t mean to intrude Kallian," Leliana adds. "Or your prayers."

Kallian snorts. "Wasn’t prayin’." She exhales slow, the tension easing just enough. "Just... talkin’ to myself, looks like."

Leliana bends to retrieve the fallen dagger. (Good steel. Well cared for.) Runs her fingers over the edge, weighing its balance before holding it out, hilt first.

She turns the dagger in her hands. Fine balance. A careful edge.

"Fine blades."

Kallian takes it. Their fingers brush—her skin fever-warm, calloused in places, raw in others.

Leliana starts to pull away—then notices it.

A brand, faint but unmistakable, burned into the base of Kallian’s thumb. A crude "T."

(Thief.)

The skin around it is old, long healed. But Leliana has seen brands like this before. Orlesian lords marked pickpockets this way. (It seems Fereldan's too—if they didn’t just take a hand instead.)

Kallian notices Leliana looking. Her fingers twitch, then curl—(a practiced motion, hiding the mark with her palm.)

"Were me mum's," she says. Her voice is flat, but her fingers tighten on the hilt. "Before some shems cut her down in the street."

"You said that you were looking for a reason." Leliana keeps her voice even.

Kallian’s eyes narrow. Bloodshot, but alert.

"You were eavesdroppin’."

"Yes."

A pause. Then Kallian snorts. "Least you’re honest. More’n I can say for most."

She drops onto the nearest pew, rubbing a hand over her face. Leliana studies her in the dim light—young, barely twenty. Dark circles under her eyes. Tawny skin sallow with exhaustion.

"When’s the last time you slept?"

Kallian exhales through her nose. "Properly? Before Denerim." Her gaze flickers away. "Before everything."

Leliana sits beside her. Not too close.

Sweat, leather, the sharp bite of ale. And something else, faint beneath it.

(Embrium.)

"You said he deserved worse," Leliana says. "That you’d kill him again."

Kallian doesn’t look at her. Her fingers drum against her thigh. Restless. A tell.

"Yeah?" Kallian mutters. "What of it?"

Leliana watches her. Weighs her next words. "Who was he?"

Kallian snorts. "What, you keepin’ a ledger of murderers in your Chantry?"

"No." Leliana tilts her head. "But I wonder what a man must do to earn that kind of hatred."

Kallian exhales sharply. A humorless laugh. "You’re askin’ the wrong questions, Sister."

"Am I?"

Kallian finally looks at her, one eye sharp, assessing. "Ain’t like it matters now. He’s dead."

"And yet, you’re here," Leliana says.

Kallian’s jaw tightens. She exhales through her nose. "What, you expect regret? Tears? You think I should be prayin’ for my soul?"

"No," Leliana says simply. "I think you blame yourself."

Kallian goes still.

It lasts only a second before she scoffs, shaking her head. "You don’t know me."

"No," Leliana agrees. "But I know that look. I’ve worn it myself."

Kallian barks a laugh, sharp and bitter. "Yeah? What’d you do, Sister?"

Leliana doesn’t flinch. "Not enough."

Kallian exhales, slow. "Yeah," she mutters. "That’s the real bitch of it, ain’t it?"

Her fingers twitch toward her flask. Leliana doesn’t stop her, just watches as Kallian takes a long pull.

"Duncan says we leave for Ostagar tomorrow." Kallian’s voice is flat. "Darkspawn to kill. Blight to stop."

Kallian huffs a laugh, though there’s no humour in it. "Traded the hangman’s noose for a death sentence with better company. Guess that’s an upgrade."

(A death sentence. She says it like it’s already done.)

Leliana watches her. "You don’t think you’ll survive."

Kallian tilts her head, considering. "Does it matter?"

A beat. Then, quieter—not quite for Leliana, not quite for herself: "Duncan seems to think so."

"And you?" Leliana asks.

Kallian scoffs. "You ask a lotta questions, Sister."

"It’s a habit of mine."

Kallian exhales through her nose. Picks at a loose thread on her sleeve. "Ain’t much left for me, one way or the other. Suppose fightin’ darkspawn is better than hanging."

"Yet here you are," Leliana says, "talking to Andraste."

Kallian exhales through her nose, rolling the flask between her palms. "Told you, I wasn’t prayin’."

"No," Leliana says. "But I could."

Kallian’s head tilts slightly, eyes narrowing. "What?"

"For your cousin," Leliana says simply. "For Shianni."

Kallian goes still. Her fingers tighten around the flask.

"Don’t need your pity, Sister."

"It’s not pity," Leliana says, calm, steady. "It’s a prayer."

Silence. Kallian doesn’t look at her, but she doesn’t snap back either.

Leliana folds her hands in her lap, bowing her head slightly. She doesn’t ask permission—only offers.

"Maker, look upon your child Shianni," she murmurs. Leliana folds her hands in her lap, head bowed. (Someone should say the words. Even if no one listens.) "Grant her strength where the world has left her weak. Grant her peace where men have left her broken."

Kallian swallows.

Leliana doesn’t look up, but she hears the breath Kallian takes—shaky, uneven, almost too quiet to notice.

"And grant those who love her the strength to carry what she cannot."

Kallian exhales slowly. Like something inside her just unclenched—just a little.

She doesn’t thank Leliana. Doesn’t acknowledge the prayer at all. Just tips her flask back, takes a long drink.

Leliana watches her carefully. Then, instead of pressing further, she simply says, "Come. Let’s get some air — and I have something better than whatever’s in that flask. It won’t leave you with such a headache tomorrow."

Kallian raises a rakish brow. "Sister, are you offerin’ to take me for a drink?"

The air shifts—(a test, maybe?. A deflection, certainly.)

Leliana smiles, light but steady. "I’m offering you a better vintage than whatever’s in that flask." A pause. "And company, if you wish it."

Kallian watches her. Weighing something. Then, blunt—"Why?"

(Not just why the offer. Why bother at all.)

Leliana holds her gaze. "Because I know what it’s like to wonder if anyone’s listening."

Kallian snorts, shaking her head. "Pretty words." But she tucks the flask away.

"Do they bother you?" Leliana asks.

Kallian exhales. "Dunno yet."

A beat. Then, she pushes herself up, stretching her shoulders with a wince. "Alright then, Sister. Lead on. But don’t say I didn’t warn you—I’m pretty shite company."

"I’ll take my chances."

Kallian eyes her. "Suit yourself."

Leliana extends a hand. Not an expectation. Just an offering.

Kallian looks at it. Then, slowly, she takes it.

Her grip is calloused. Warm. Steady.

---

[lottiesnotebook]

Happy Friday! I have returned with Spiritbox lyrics "Watch it bloom like a bloodstain, over me/Wade into punishment, carry me" for Luna Tabris/ Zevran

Your Spiritbox prompts give me brainrot for these two every time, so I hope you enjoy a snippet about my favourite optional quest, Captured!

Luna Tabris/Zevran Arainai, gore, the horror of love

@wickedwitchofthewilds | @dadrunkwriting

bloom like a bloodstain over me

A Crow’s work is always bloody, at least in Zevran’s experience. Even the poisoners do not escape it completely — for all that their work may leave their hands pristine, blood always seeps through in the end, from the victim’s mouth or nose or ears, from their stomach as a toxin eats through the protective lining and allows the body to devour itself alive. Zevran has never been much for poisons, though. He’s always preferred the intimacy of a blade, the respect it confers upon his mark, whether they deserve it or not. When someone finally kills him, he hopes they will give him the same honour, the same strange intimacy.

It makes a kind of sense, that Luna is so quick to tumble into his bed (or more accurately, he is so quick to tumble into hers). They have, after all, come close to the greatest intimacy death can provide — his knife in her heart, her blade in his throat, and such exchanges of steel against steel for skin against skin are so common as to hardly be worth noting, at least among the Crows of House Arainai. It’s rare that a two-man job does not involve the participants falling into each other’s arms at some point, whether from adrenaline or fear or the warm satisfaction of a job well done. They are, like the blood, a part of the job, and like the blood, even among Crows, there are varying levels of skill in washing those particular stains out of sheets, off of skin and clothes.

Zevran has always been proud of his skills at laundering, literal and otherwise. He enjoys his lovers when he takes them, but his skin does not hunger for them, his heart does not ache in their absence. Since the Crows bought him, his life has been marked mostly by absences — the nameless void of his father, the half-remembered voices of his mother and aunts, his friends and lovers among the fledgelings and later the Crows who departed on jobs and never returned, or who died, in his arms or behind him in the dirt as he fled.

All relationships, all intimacies, end with such an absence. The void itself is a more familiar companion than any friend or lover, and when it returns, he almost welcomes it — the shadow where someone used to be a more dependable companion than their presence has ever been. Accepting loss, for Zevran Arainai, has ever been an inevitability to be accepted, not a problem to be solved.

Until now, as he watches Luna step forward between him and Loghain’s soldiers. As he sees her chin jerk up in her usual smiling defiance, despite the glazed, hollow look in her eyes, he already knows the gambit she will play, the last scheme that is left to them. He knows, even before they seize her arms and strip her of her blades, that she is gone, that she is another shadow on the wall, that she is not his, was never truly his, just the stain of blackberry juice on his skin, an imitation bruise in the shape of her fingers. He knows, when they file out via the kitchens, when they return to Eamon’s estate, that he could wash himself clean of her in cold well water. That he should scrub her from his skin, from his mind, and make a new, better plan. She is gone, after all, and Alistair… it will be a wrench to kill him, but it would not be difficult. The contract would be complete. Without her, blade at his back, stain on his skin, there is nothing to stop him. And yet-

And yet he finds himself demanding “Where have they taken her?”, seeking out Fort Drakon’s off-duty guards to draw information from their lips via alcohol or gold or violence, making plans that have nothing to do with accepting the shadow where she should be. He cannot even acknowledge her absence, because if he admits that this separation might be permanent, that the clothes she has left strewn across their bedroom floor are not a promise of her return-

If he admits that she is gone, and attempts to scrub her lingering scent away, he will have to acknowledge that stopping the Blight is far from the reason he wants- needs to save her. That her mark on him is more than skin-deep, that she has left him with bruises rather than blackberry-stains. That somehow, despite all the lies he has told himself and her, she has crawled under his skin, and made a nest for herself between his ribs. He would rather wade into the dragon’s belly, cut her from the heart of Fort Drakon, than admit the monstrous thing that she has made of him.

[babe-a-yaga]

My impressions, having finished re-reading the Stolen Throne for the first time in like, 12-13years or so:

-Spoilers -

1) Katriel is bad and badly written. She's a sexy cardboard cutout without a personality that exists as a plot device rather than a person. And it stands out harshly against an otherwise well-written and interesting cast of characters. She sucks and her scenes are a slog to get through.

2) Gosh, I remember why I liked Loghain so much. I tend to always recruit him, but my most recent origins playthrough was a really prickly (traumatized, teenage) Tabris who was hard to like and did what needed to be done even if they weren't choices that'd earn her friends. She loathed Loghain but Loghain gained approval with her really quick. Having reread now, *I* see a lot of parallels to Loghain in that warden that I hadn't intended at the time, but am tickled with the expanded headcanon now. Loghain is so much better understood for having read this book.

3. Rowan deserved so much better.

4.The Theirin bloodline/bloodline of Calenhad sure is strong in the Himbo gene, hey

[fade-and-loathing-in-thedas]

Okay I'm obsessing over my Orlesian Warden, Marc, adopting all my other protags lmao He would so be like these little shits need some structure and unconditional love, and obviously he's the guy for the job.

“Tabris, for fucks sake stop picking fights with every human we see."

"Andraste's flaming asscheeks Hawke, you collected another one. Leave the damn bisexuals to deal with their own shit."

"Lavellan I swear to the Maker I'm going crack that damned egg if you don't. You deserve better."

"No! Maker damnit, no, De Riva. You can't fight actual fucking Gods.”

And yes, he would totally fight Viago for the role of surrogate dad of De Riva.

[illariosundereyecircles]

Also hi since I'm replaying Veilguard with a different Rook this time I'm thinking about like... the differences between them. (I know Veilguard doesn't give us much of an ability to play characters with meaningfully different personalities but I'm trying my damnedest here and also like making shit up in my head b/c I gotta y'know) But Anyways-

Thinking about the differences between them and their personal worldviews and what shaped that-

Rook 1 - Adaian Tabris De Riva: Taken in by my warden, Hyacinth Tabris, and Zevran while they were dismantling House Arainai. Decided to try to continue their work when they got older and re-infiltrated the crows, joining House De Riva. (Purple, but like I swear they're funnier and more clever than Veilguard lets them be my fucking god)

Rook 2 - Actias Lavellan: Grew up partially as a city elf in Halamshiral, was taken in by my Lavellan, Thyrias and his husband, after his parents were killed. Then, of course, loses his other parent in the burning of Halamshiral, doesn't find out about it until weeks later because Thyrias had taken him on a trip to attempt to trade with a Dalish clan (Lavellan), and also left him there because he was worried that the way things were escalating in Halamshiral would put Actias in extreme danger. Thyrias gets back just in time to see Halamshiral in flames. Then Thyrias goes back and joins Clan Lavellan more officially, and also ends up working with Briala as a spy for her elven resistance, before eventually getting caught up in shit at the conclave and becoming the Inquisitor. (Red & Blue but tends to lead harder red)

And so Adaian, having been raised by Hyacinth and Zevran since they were 10, is like! Just a silly little guy! They're just a silly little guy! And also, they were saved from some fucked up shit, and then given like sooooooooo much attention and love and care. So like? They might not be the most well adjusted guy in the world, they still spent a chunk of their childhood with the Crows and then Voluntarily Went Back(hey Adaian wtf is wrong with you). But! They actually had a pretty damn good childhood afterwards and were so fucking loved and like, just got the opportunity to believe in the inherent goodness in people, they've got hope for the future, they believe that people deserve second chances and like can grow and change for the better. I mean fuck man, their dads met because one of them was trying to kill the other! And that relationship turned out great!

And then there's Actias, this poor man has experienced... So Much Fucking Loss. Like he's ten when Halamshiral burns. He's lost three parents by the time he's eleven. And then two years later his only remaining parent gets basically kidnapped by the Inquisition and forced to lead it, and is hiding the fact that Actias even Exists because he doesn't want Actias to be targeted, so for awhile there the only contact Actias has with Thyrias is through encoded letters. Oh and also around this time his magic manifests, which is fun too, y'know in the middle of the mage-templar war. Sure he's with the Dalish right now, and they're not going to let any templars take him if they can help it, but it's still fucking terrifying. It doesn't help that Thyrias apparently ended up in a weird situationship with Dorian and Iron Bull, which like? Isn't gonna feel great for Actias. Moving on too quickly much? Like he warms up to both of them eventually but it's still! Shitty at first! So Actias is like incredibly cynical and jaded. Like he'll trust Varric to try to redeem Solas because his dad was friends with the guy but he doesn't have to like it. He's not going to think twice about leaving the mayor of D'Meta's Crossing to his fate, there is literally no part of him that thinks giving that guy a second chance will result in anything good.

I don't really know where I'm going with this just that like... I enjoy the juxtaposition here. And I'm probably gonna figure out how to come up with my own canon wherein both Adaian and Actias are there, Adaian as Shrike and Actias as Rook. Like I dunno exactly yet how they'd interact but I think it'd be fun. I think Actias would fucking hate Adaian (at least at first) and it'd be funny.

[vodkacheesefries]

If you saw this when I posted it the other night before I decided to clean it up a little and deleted it, no u didn't

Continuing to try and fight off the art block with a fast, sketchy comic. Once again featuring my Dragon Age PCs, but in some sort of modern AU setting using a TikTok audio. (I didn't wanna draw armor or fantasy clothes lmao) From left to right - Tabris, Hawke, Lavellan.

Info dump below the cut for fun~

By Veilguard, Tabris would be around 42, Hawke would be 46/47, which would make Emrys like. 28. (Math is hard so if I'm wrong whatever lmao) Hence him being "4."

Emrys Lavellan wasn't my first inquisitor and was actually my then current inquisitor's little brother. I think he was originally 16. He's still the little brother, but he's now 18. Inquisition is not my favorite game, and I don't usually care for teenage protagonists these days, but in order to make the game more fun in my head I really love the idea of a Dalish teenager leading the inquisition in a moderately chaotic manor.

Back home in his clan, Emrys helped with the hunting but much preferred the art of making bows and arrows and was actively working in an apprenticeship with the clan's Fletcher.

Emrys is young so he likely wouldn't have romanced anyone anyway, but he is also aromantic and asexual so he isn't interested anyway.

His best friends in the Inquisition are Varric, Blackwall, and Dorian.

Minerva (Minnie) Hawke romanced Isabela, andis a red/purple personality. Unless you're Merrill. Then it's green answers only because Merrill doesn't deserve anything less and she can't bring herself to be snarky or mean. (She reminds her of Bethany a little.)

She also incorporates pieces of Isabela's clothes into her wardrobe, including her earrings, her scarfs, and her shoes. Basically the Dragon Age version of the 'boyfriend hoodie.'

She named her mabari Ares.

Tabris wears the earring Zev gave them and treats it kind of like a wedding ring, but I don't think either of them are really that concerned with making it legally "official."

Tabris uses he/they pronouns and slowly started transitioning during the tail end of the blight. He was obviously a little preoccupied with other things, but he started going solely by his last name and cut his hair with Leliana's help.

He named his mabari Barkspawn at Alistair's suggestion.

And I swear to God he better still be alive or have found a cure, Bioware--

[spainkitty]

okay i need the deets about your surana-lavellan i am so intrigued 👀🙏 -merrybandofmurders

@merrybandofmurderers

I'll have you know, I am OBSESSED with my Surana-Lavellan. I am OVERJOYED to tell you, every single one of my lurking followers, and the whole world all about her. 🥰🤩😍 Welcome to my Very Long Post to justify having Surana as my Lavellan!!

Okay! It starts with: I didn't put enough memory on the MS side of my Mac laptop 😅

I played DAO with my Cousland, went on to play DA2, but I went back and started my Surana file for funsies and Tabris as well. Just because I love building characters and I wanted to experience the other Origins. I fell IMMEDIATELY in love with my Surana. I played her with high Willpower, a bit of a bully and an arrogant one at that, who'd drunk the Chantry Kool-aid and was going to slowly, as she ventured out into the world, realize the Kool-aid was gross, and she and all mages deserve better. However, before I even finished the first few Main Quests (I think I did Broken Circle and Orzammar), I finished my DA2 playthru and my friend helped me set up for DAI.

This is where the lack of memory on my laptop comes in. I had to delete my Origins file to make room on my laptop for DAI. I didn't want to close down the entire partition and re-allot the memory so I just deleted everything but DAI. I was so sad and upset, I remade my Lanil Surana as Lanil Lavellan and added an entire amnesia-ridden backstory for her 🤣 Her personality and character growth was going to be along the same lines, and her appearance, of course. And then I set sail on DAI~

Basically: During Origins, someone *coughCullencough* helped her escape during Uldred’s Uprising and she couldn't get back. She barely escaped through a tunnel in the storage rooms full of giant spiders (a little bg for her DAI phobia 😉) and wandered around poisoned and pissed off with vague plans to go back home anyway when the Sabrae Clan picked her up. She ended up leaving with them instead to the Free Marches, but after everything with Uldred, didn't trust Merrill enough to stay. The blood magic and the demon on Sundermount scared her, especially since she's still a little Kool-aid drinker at heart at this time. Marethari eventually sent Lanil off to the Lavellan Clan and Lanil became a Second. Mainly because she was highly educated and a Healer with spells she could teach that they would never have heard of. Her becoming First was out of sheer moxie. She refuses to let anyone tell her she can't do something and she'd always been rather ambitious, aiming and being groomed for First Enchanter most of her life.

Along the way she does actually grow and change. She starts to care a lot more about elves and Elvhen, becomes fascinated by this history that was denied her during her Chantry-filled life, and throws herself into the culture with wide eyes. It's about more than being powerful, it's about wanting to use that power to make things better, to protect the People that have welcomed her and her magic and made her feel like she finally had a family. (Dregs of this inform who she is as an Inquisitor.)

Then, the Conclave. She's sent because she's Chantry-educated and knows the lay of the land well. She's FROM there; she has studied the geography and knows the politics. She can blend in better than any of them. When she and the Divine are blown into the Fade, though, the Nightmare doesn't just take her memories of that night and Corypheus, it took ALL of them. She had nearly nothing left and doesn't even know her own name for most of her story. She's just Lavellan, because Leliana found her belongings and the only personal information included was the Clan name: Lavellan. Dorian (I think? It might have been Sera) eventually dubs her "Lane" and she responds to it automatically. She doesn't get her memories back until after Into the Abyss, of course, which I played AFTER Wicked Eyes Wicked Hearts, and after her relationship Cullen was already pretty deep and "locked in".

I had a lot of fun with writing her and Cullen's first meeting and then after she figures out who she really is 🤣 Cullen definitely gaslit himself into thinking he's crazy for noticing how similar they looked/acted. Since she was much older, heavily scarred, and had vallaslin (and amnesia, so even her personality was affected in a way), he told himself he was being stupid, how could Surana be a Dalish elf now? She's probably dead and his one truly rebellious act was for nothing. Lavellan just looks *a lot* like her. Don't be so racist, Rutherford! Surprise! It's really her! 🤣🤣🤣 (tbf, they did only know each other for a year, and even then, it wasn't like they knew each other well)

She starts off DAI ruthless and stubborn as hell, aggressively doing the Right Thing and taking everyone along with her. She consolidated as much power as she could, and does everything possible to make the world better for mages and elves, but she's not exactly wise or clever and makes some truly upsetting mistakes. Learning to rely on others, to be vulnerable, and to care more about the small, important details rather than the Big Picture is how she grows. Although she never quite shakes her knee-jerk aggressive and stubborn-jackass personality, she does soften slightly and learn empathy. The Iron Bull's betrayal much later shakes her down to her core, and it's the main reason why she chooses to save and forgive Solas instead of kill him in the end. She doesn't want to let down and lose another close friend like she did the Iron Bull.

[theheartmold]

The Letter to Nadasa

The letter that Mahanon left after his Calling, addressed to Nadasa Thorne.

Nadasa, I imagine that you have opened this letter last. Neither of us are particularly fond of goodbyes. I can hardly stomach the damn things, and you have a tendency to drag them out. I would hazard a guess that it has been, at the least, weeks since you first received the missives I gave you. For that I am sorry. You, out of anyone, deserved a proper goodbye. I was the one who conscripted you, who brought you into the Wardens. For that, maybe, I should also be sorry. Whether or not you wished for a different path, I never faltered once I underwent the Joining. I felt as though this was always going to be my fate. I did not consider whether you would ever feel any differently. There was much I could have said before my Calling and much I have to say now, and yet I am out of time and words to say it. I would like to think that this, now, could be a small comfort. I would also like to think that there is a part of you so ashamed by my cowardice that you throw this into the fire. I likely would have. This is my final teaching to you, Nadasa, and it is also a farewell, a confession, and an apology. I will try to be brief. Maker knows I am not one to ramble. I will save the goodbyes for last. I know you like to drag them out. We both know I will avoid them. My confession, then: I am, if nothing else, a coward. Every action I have taken from the moment I accepted the offer to become a Warden has been self-serving and in the interest of protecting my own life. I am afraid of the greatest fear: death. When I was younger, it was about ambition, about believing that I had more than just my life to offer. Now that its breath is at my neck, I fear it for its nearness. I did not find a cure. For me or That is my second greatest regret. My first is not finding a way to tell you this directly. Both you and Alistair deserved that. Please understand that I am a coward. You will both go on living while I go off to die. As I said: self-serving to the end. I have much to apologize for and too little paper. Know that I am sorry that I was not a good man. I envisioned much for you and I fear as though I have not prepared you for it. I am sorry that I did not consider you more. I am sorry that I was incapable of it. You cannot teach an old dog new tricks, they say. If I had cared less, maybe I could have loved you more. I am sorry I am a coward. I am sorry I made you deliver those letters. I know you did because you follow orders. I am sorry that you may have felt the obligation to do so rather than the genuine conviction. I am sorry I cannot say goodbye. I am sorry I am not coming back. And many other apologies that we both know I cannot say. I am not a good man or a good diplomat and perhaps I am only barely a good Warden. As I said, you have the potential to be all of these things. I would not have made a good father, in this life or any, but you could not have been a better appren- friend— son. I am sorry that your family did not reach out. I am sorry that I could not have replaced them. If you ever have need of more family, please reach out to the Alienage in Denerim. Ask for Cyrion Tabris. He will know your name. I am sorry there is not enough time. I am sorry I cannot say goodbye. Farewell, Nadasa

Warden-Commander of the Grey in Ferelden, Mahanon Tabris

No Goodbyes

Another WIP of Nadasa Thorne and Mahanon Tabris, set in the year that Rook is traveling with Varric.

“I’m not your apprentice anymore, Mahanon, I don’t have to deliver your mail,” Nadasa sighed, shaking the stack of missives towards Mahanon. They had all been sealed with wax, with the sigil of the Warden-Commander of Ferelden. Mahanon laughed and didn’t take them back. “You’re always my apprentice, Nadasa. That’s how mentorship works. I’ll always have experience on you.” Mahanon folded the leather straps of his bag over, and from their secluded corner of the camp, glanced askance towards where Varric and Harding spoke between themselves. “How has your journey been?” “We’ve tracked the Dread Wolf to Tevinter,” Nadasa replied quietly. There were more ideal places to be camping than in the Anderfels wilderness, but there was no camp safer than one guarded by wardens. “So that’s where we’re headed next.” “And when you put a stop to whatever he’s doing, maybe the other wardens will forget why they were so cross with you,” Mahanon said. Nadasa could tell by the wicked tilt to his smile that he still found the whole thing funny. “Elven gods. Can’t say I envy you. Almost makes me miss the Fifth Blight.” “Really?” “I said almost. You don’t really miss that kind of experience. You do miss the people.” Nadasa knew the edge of that wistful tone in Mahanon’s voice. It was one he often tried to conceal. “I’m sure they would be happy to hear from you. It’s not too late to reach out.” Mahanon raised a brow at him. “What do you think those letters are for? I need you to send those out when you reach the next city. I have business further in the wilds.” Though his fingers twitched at the thought, Nadasa resisted the urge to start reading who they were addressed to right in front of Mahanon. “If you insist. I won’t be around to collect if they reply.” “I know,” Mahanon said. “I know you have to leave soon, too. I want to give you something before you keep heading north.” Nadasa quirked a brow. That was unusual for Mahanon; giving gifts was far from his normal way of doing things. The last time he’d received any sort of gift from Mahanon, it had been a sword, a shield, and a combat manual that he’d been expected to memorize front to back. “Feeling sentimental, old man?” “You’ll get it one day,” Mahanon replied, before he offered Nadasa a silver chain, from which a red pendant was dangling from. No, not a pendant, Nadasa realized, but the light caught the blood inside in such a way that it seemed as though it could be a ruby. “What is this?” Nadasa murmured as he took it. “It was from my Joining. Figured you needed something to remind you of what was really important. Clearly not your armor; what is this dingy scrap? Did you pick this up off of corpses? Old chests?” While Mahanon picked at the state of his armor, Nadasa felt his blood run cold. The true purpose slowly came into focus. The headaches. The lessons. The meeting. The missives. The sentimentality. The trip to the wilds. Nadasa looked up at him, still holding the necklace in the air. “You’re not coming back,” he whispered. Mahanon froze, and for just a second, Nadasa thought he saw a flash of regret. “No,” Mahanon said. “But I’m not very good at goodbyes.” Nadasa stared at him, and he realized that Mahanon was waiting for him to say something. Anything. So he slowly slid the necklace on over his own head, letting the cold metal fall against his neck—which was odd, because he had imagined it to be warm where the blood pooled. “So no goodbyes.” “And no mourners, not for me,” Mahanon said. “But if you’re ever back in Ferelden… well, he’ll get the letter. He’ll know I’m sorry.” Mahanon’s one good eye moved to meet his once more, gleaming yellow. “I’ll see you when it’s over, Nadasa.”

[hurl-a-can]

OC Questions for your Warden: 💎 Does your OC collect anything? Is there a reason? When did they start and is it beginning to turn into a little bit of a hoarding issue? What do they do with their collection?

Not really. He loves books, but while the cheaper ones were not entirely unaffordable for the Tabris family, they still were something of a luxury - so most of the books he’d read had been borrowed. He spends the Blight year on the road, so he can’t exactly afford to keep all the books he finds. He does read them if he can - but then he either sells them the first chance he gets, or, if the book is old and valuable, he leaves it either with the Dalish or in the nearest Chantry or with Genitivi or at Kinloch - or anywhere else he thinks that particular book would be appreciated and taken care of.The only book he keeps is his copy of Benedictions.Well... He does collect flowers, actually. Presses them between the pages of the said copy of Benedictions or his journal. He prefers poppies, but you’d find other kinds as well. He usually picks and keeps them as mementoes of people and places.Before the battle of Denerim, he leaves the Benedictions in his brother Darrian’s backpack (hello @dickeybbqpit) - and the journal in Zevran’s. So that’s where his little collection goes. :-)

[trvelyans-archive]

aaaaaaaand on my fic-posting roll for the night, here’s my part of an art trade for the lovely and darling @free-the-mages who has been FAR too kind considering it’s taken me almost a month and a half to write this for her, but kaitlyn! i hope you like it nevertheless. you’re the absolute best and i hope i did alistair and lark good for you <3

---

“Ah. I see, now – our trick to wiping out all the darkspawn is baiting the archdemon to attack us in the middle of nowhere! Very tempting. Though, I might add, not a very good idea when you really think about it.”

Lark looks over her shoulder. Alistair is leaning against a tree, a curious and almost concerned expression on his face, clothed in nothing more than a cotton tunic and linen pants. His sleepwear. She doesn’t know how long he’s been standing there. The bowl of soup he’s holding must be growing cold.

He holds it almost like an offering, and she forces herself not to take it.

Then, she holds herself back from telling him to fuck off, since that would do no good for either of them, and looks away from him instead. “Thanks,” she grumbles, “but that’s not what I’m doing.”

“What are you doing, then?”

There’s an awkward pause before she gives a heavy sigh. “Just thinking,” she answers, thumbing the peeling label of her bottle. “Don’t worry about me.”

“Oh, I wasn’t,” Alistair tells her, finally giving in and trudging through the mud in the clearing towards her. “You can take care of yourself, even against a horde of Darkspawn. I know that for a fact. I was just going to tell you it looks like it’s going to storm tonight, so you might want to… Not sit there.”

She looks down at the boulder she’s sitting on. Her legs dangle over the edge and skim the surface of the river beneath, and she blinks at him. “Why not?”

“Just… doesn’t seem like a very good idea.” But he doesn’t make any move to turn back to camp. After a moment of hesitation, in fact, he motions for her to move over and make room for him.

She tucks her feet under her bum and follows his wordless instructions, crossing an arm over her chest and clutching her bottle close to her chest with the other.

Lark isn’t particularly drunk, but she’s not particularly sober, either. She knows because she feels his knee bump up against hers and it’s like an electric shock. She’s not annoyed like she might’ve been if it had happened earlier; she doesn’t ask him to move or get off the boulder entirely. Instead she grits her teeth and tells herself to calm down. It’s just a knee, for Andraste’s sake.

But that’s not the point.

Their relationship has been rocky since Lothering, and yet she likes him anyway. Despite their bickering, despite their differences, she likes him. And she hates it. She doesn’t want to like him! He’s taller than she is, he’s a human, and…

And he’s funny. He makes her laugh even though his jokes are stupid. And, even though they aren’t on the best of terms, he came to see her anyway, even though he had to walk through ankle-deep mud just to join her on her stinking rock.

Maker. If Shianni could see Lark now, she’d be the laughingstock of the family.

“So.” Alistair’s looking at her. “What’re you thinking so hard about?”

She’s glad she’s not more drunk or else she’d probably tell him. “Nothing,” she says quickly. “Just… the… Blight. And stuff.”

“Oh.” He sounds disappointed. “Well, I’m not surprised. It’s… a lot to think about.”

“Yeah, it is.”

They fall silent. An awkward amount of time passes, and it’s not until the third poke that she realizes that he’s trying to get her attention again.

“Are you… sure there’s nothing else?” he asks. “Just because… Well, normally you’d be telling me to leave you alone, or you’d be making fun of my hair – though I did work especially hard on it this morning so, in any case, thank you for not doing that – but you’re not doing either of those things, really. You’re just… sitting there.”

She nods. “Yeah, I am,” she replies. 

His nose scrunches up in annoyance.

“Are you drunk?”

“No, I’m not!”

“Really?” He plucks the bottle of wine out of her hand and holds it away from her, pretending to examine it with great interest. “You know, Oghren drinks this stuff. Are you sure you can handle it? You’re a lot smaller than he is.”

“Alistair –“

“So… I really don’t think you should be –“

“Alistair, give it back.”

He squints at her for a few moments, deciding what to do next, and then he thrusts the bowl of soup into her arms and offers her a smile. “Drink this, instead,” he tells her. “Or eat it, I suppose. Whatever.”

He’s worried about her. Or something. She doesn’t know why. He’s never given her this much attention before. She grits her teeth and takes the metal spoon begrudgingly in between her thumb and her forefinger, stirring slowly, agonizingly slowly, just to appease him. Alistair is still watching her.

What does he want?

In the distance, thunder rumbles. It sounds like a warning. She swallows a spoonful of soup – it’s lukewarm and lumpy - and forces herself not to spit it out.

“What do you want?” she asks after the wipes her mouth clean on the back of her hand and puts her spoon in the bowl again. “You can’t just be worried about me.”

Alistair’s eyebrows gather together. “That’s not – Y-yes, I am.”

“No, you’re not.”  

At that, he looks almost angry. “You don’t get to tell me what I can and can’t be worried about,” he tells her, “and I’m worried about –“

“The Blight.” She jumps down from the rock and walks over to where he leaned the bottle up against the boulder, picking it up and tossing it between her hands. “That’s what this is about, right? You think I’m slacking off?”

Alistair stammers for a moment before shaking his head. “I wouldn’t say it like that…”

“This hasn’t been a very good experience for me either, you know!” She takes a drink, beginning to pace back and forth dangerously close to the bank of the river. “I mean… I didn’t want to get married, but then the elf who was going to be my husband got murdered by some fucking shems, and then I wind up in Ostagar, where the Grey Wardens are all wiped out, and Duncan dies, and I’m sacked with taking care of you –“

She catches herself before she continues, but Alistair’s already rolling his eyes. “Oh, well, I’m sorry it’s been so hard on you. Would things be easier if I started feeding you your dinner and washing your clothes for you? Maybe I can carry you around the country on my back, too?”

“That’s not what I meant!” Her bottle is empty, but she drinks – or pretend to drinks from it – anyway. “What I meant is that it’d be nice if you didn’t question everything I do! It’s hard to be in charge, Alistair! Do you wanna do it, instead?”

He doesn’t answer. Instead he rises, arms falling from where they were crossed over his chest to swing by his sides, gaze averted elsewhere.

“That’s what I thought,” Lark murmured. “Now, you can take your soup and your… well-wishing, or curiosity, or whatever you want to call it and go back to camp, okay?”

It almost works. He almost leaves.

But, before he takes that first step, he doesn’t.

Alistair is too kind. It’s the kind of kindness that feels like a punch in the gut. He’d never leave if he knew she was hurting. He’d never leave if he thought she was drunk. (She isn’t. Tipsy, maybe, but not drunk.)

Or, maybe... he’d just never leave at all.

“I’m not doing that,” he says evenly. “I’m going to stay here, a-and make sure you’re alright, and there’s you can do to stop me. Except… well, a few things, I suppose. I guess if you wanted to twist my arm -”

“Go back to camp,” Lark insists. “Alistair, go.”

She puts a hand on his chest and tries to push him away from her. He just places both of his hands over top of hers, staring at her in defiance.

A groan of protest rises in her throat. “Alistair…”

“You may want me to go, but I’m not going to,” he tells her. “I’m going to stay here until you come back with me.”

“Why?”

“Because!” It comes out as more of a bark than he intended, and he immediately shrinks away. “Because, I…” He blinks rapidly, stammering as he searches for the right words, holding tightly onto her hand. “Because…” And then, after a long stretch of silence, he gives a sigh of defeat, dropping his arms to his sides. “Because… look, Lark, you’re the only person I have left, alright? And I don’t want to… I can’t lose you. I can’t do this without you, okay?”

He’s breathing heavily. He’s on the verge of panting. She is, too, and she hasn’t spoken for a few long, awkward seconds.

“What does that mean?” she asks breathlessly.

And, to her horror, he laughs. He doesn’t yell at her or scold her or stalk away. He just laughs, and stammers, and then gives a lackluster shrug. “I don’t know, if I’m being completely honest,” he says. “It’s just that… sometimes you get on my nerves, and sometimes I can’t be around you… but sometimes you’re the only person.”

She stares at him, her face blank.

“And…” He reaches up to scratch the back of his neck. “I like you.”

“You what?”

Her tone sounds more disgusted than she meant for it to and she hurries to continue before he even has time to react. “I mean… I just… you hate me, Alistair.”

He balks at her. “Do you honestly believe that?”

“Well…”

She never wanted him to hate her, but she thought he did, and she thought that was what she had wanted this entire time because it made her feelings for him easier to deal with and easier to ignore since she thought nothing would come of them. But now… he likes her. Just like that.

And she likes that, too.

“I’ve never hated you, Lark,” Alistair almost reassures her, reaching out to grab her shoulder before stopping himself and giving her a quizzical look that makes her heart leap into her throat. “Do you… erm… do you hate me?”

The fact that he readies himself for her to say ‘no’ makes her sad. And angry at herself for making him feel that way.

But she doesn’t answer right away, anyway, because she should just say ‘yes’. It’d hurt him, but it’d make things easier for both of them in the long run – he must know that as well as she does. If he didn’t, he’d have confessed his feelings for her sooner. After all, things between them would never be easy – they’d bicker as much as they do now and then they’d have to crawl back to each other at the end of the day to apologize instead of getting a good night’s sleep, which they need when they’re trying to save Ferelden from the archdemon. And yet…

“No,” she says, her voice crackling. “No, I don’t hate you, Alistair. I like you, too.”

“Really?” he squeaks before clearing his throat and crossing his arms over his chest protectively. “I mean… really? It’s not just the a-alcohol talking or something?”

Lark gives him a shake of her head. “No,” she says. “It’s not.”

“Oh. Okay, then.”

And that’s all he says.

The clearing falls into an awkward silence. Lark shifts back and forth on her feet, waiting for one of them – even herself, if that’s what it comes to – to make a move.

And Alistair does. Kind of. And then he stops.

“You’re sure you’re not –“

“Alistair!”

“Ijustwanttomakesure!” he exclaims. “I’m not going to kiss you while you’re drunk, Lark! What kind of man do you take me for?”

The corners of her mouth quirk upwards into a smirk. “You were gonna kiss me?” she asks.

His cheeks turn red instantly. “I… Yes, I was, but if you don’t want to, then that’s –“

She kisses him before he can finish.

He doesn’t react, at first. She opens her eyes just to see what he’s doing and his look like they’re pointing in two different directions in shock. And then, finally, he seems to relax – his eyes flutter shut and his arms snake around her waist, his grip on her strong and unwavering, unflinching, and she smiles against his mouth, pushing him backwards until he’s sitting on the edge of the rock.

She’s just climbed into his lap when Alistair pulls away, blushing furiously.

“That was, um… really nice,” he says, pulling a hand away to rub the back of his neck. “But we probably shouldn’t –“

She cuts him off again, delighting in the way he kisses her back without question. It takes knocking the bowl of now-cold soup over and sending it spilling down the side of the rock for either of them to consider stopping their romantic engagement.

Alistair’s lying flat on his back with his legs dangling over the edge of the boulder, and when he tries to sit up, Lark just holds him down with a playful smirk.

“We should get back to camp,” he whispers, looking up at her with rounded eyes.

“We should,” she agrees, then adds, “doesn’t mean we have to, though.”

And then he rolls his eyes, moving his hands from around her waist to her wrists, trying to wriggle free of her hold on him as she tilts her face upwards to nip at his earlobe. “You must be even drunker than I thought,” he comments as her hand comes up to flatten against the other side of his face. “You know, you could do with a little bit of self control, or I’m going to start thinking that you don’t have any standards.”

But he’s smiling, and he’s gorgeous, and Lark can’t find it in herself to wring out what little self-control she has.

“Lark, I’m serious,” he says with a laugh. “We should… get back to…”

She’s relentless in her attack of the sensitive skin beneath his jaw, and relentless also in the way she grinds herself against him in minute little strokes. He sighs, gliding a hand up her arm to cup the back of her neck. “You’re… very good at that,” he murmurs.

“At what?” she asks, feigning stupidity as she draws away and smiling as he sucks in a sharp breath at the loss of contact.

“At… at…”

“At using my mouth?”

Something dark glimmers in his eye before he clears his throat and glances away, cheeks burning.

“I’ve had a lot of practice,” she tells him, cocking her eyebrows playfully. “Do you want me to walk you through it?”

She’s biting her lip so hard she think she might make herself bleed and then feels the blood drain from her face when he shakes himself to attention and meets her eyes. “No, no,” he says matter-of-factly, making her heart sink deep into her stomach. “I’ve liked this, Lark, I have – I’m not going to lie and say that I didn’t. but… I want this to be special. Don’t you? Not on some… rock in the middle of the woods.”

It’s a fair point, but her first instinct is to disagree before she shakes the thought from her head. “You’re right, I guess,” she says eventually, untangling herself from on top of him and climbing down from the rock, kicking a smaller one nestled against it and sending it skittering through the grass until it lands in the stream with a startling plunk. “And I guess we should return to camp, too.”

“Ah, yes.” Alistair hops down from the rock after her, wiping his forehead with the back of his wrist. “Wouldn’t want Wynne to worry about us or anything, or suspect what nefarious things we were getting up to.”

“Nefarious. Is that what you’d call kissing?” Lark brushes past him to grab her bowl and frowns as she feels the gritty liquid smear over her thumb, not even thinking about it as she licks it off and meets his eyes. “I wonder what you’d call sex.”

Alistair isn’t drinking anything, and he still chokes, coughing and coughing until he’s even redder in the face than he was before. “Can we not talk about that, please?” he asks then at her alarmed glance, eyes trained on the ground and hands shoved deep in his pockets. “It’s… I’m a very weak man, Lark, and I don’t want to do something I’ll regret.”

Lark stops in her tracks, then, thinking.

Regret is a strong word. She has never felt like she’s regretted very many things. She believes in herself – she’s always had to – and she believes in what she believes. She’s never really had room for regret.

But she might regret this.

Alistair is funny, and gentle, and he has a heart of gold that could fetch a ridiculous amount of sovereigns in an Orlesian market. Sometimes he snorts when he laughs, and one time he even snorted whilst in the middle of choking down some of Wynne’s stew – it was really funny, actually, the thought bringing a smile to Lark’s lips. He brings a smile to her lips. He has for a while now.

And he can’t.

She’s not like him. She’s loud and drinks too much and has too many throwing knives. She curses Andraste under her breath and acts out against the Chantry in ways that border on heresy. And she really, really, really likes him.

And… she can’t. She’ll ruin him. She’s already ruined so many things.

He decided to start off towards the camp in the time that she was thinking, and when he stops and turns around to beckon her closer, his expression hardens into a frown.

“What is it?”

She looks at him and shakes her head, forcing a smile. “Nothing, nothing,” she chirps. “Let’s just get back to camp.”

The urge to hold his hand is probably stronger than the Archdemon is, and she resists it anyway.

That’s good, at least, she tries to convince herself.

---

Their camp is steeped in a haze of mist and gentle rain the next morning, and Lark frowns when she awakes, trying her best to ignore the stray hairs sticking straight up from her scalp. Alistair’s face breaks out into a grin as he sees her, walking quickly towards her, holding a bowl of soup – probably filled with leftovers from the night before and somehow even colder than it was then – in his hands.

“Good morning,” he says in a low, throaty voice, handing the bowl towards her and grinning wider as she takes it. “How did you sleep? Was there a certain Grey Warden in your dreams?”

She looks at him blankly. “I didn’t sleep well,” she comments. “And my head hurts.”

“Oh.” Alistair’s eyebrows gather together. “Well, I mean, you did drink a whole bottle of some Dragon-Heart-Burn-Break-Your-Face thing last night that I think is probably worthy of making Oghren feel ill. Did you… Do you feel sick?”

She swallows the lump growing in her throat. “I don’t even remember that much of last night, honestly,” she says even though it breaks her heart and makes her face burn to see his own fall. “And, anyway,” she continues, holding the bowl back out to him so far that she’s practically pushed it up against his chest, keeping a very obvious distance between them, “we should get a move on and make some headway before, well, this gets worse.”

She knows the sound she makes as she walks away is twigs being crunched beneath her boot, but she feels like, for just one second, that it might be the sound of Alistair’s heart breaking.

[transgirlfiend]

Went back to compare with the references! Adam - Yay! so cutes! Lilith - I fucked up the top of the cross she's crucified on and the angle of the lance of longinus stabbing her should be rotated 90 degrees, but Lilith Herself is pretty much accurate. I just don't think I executed the drawing very well, something about her is fucked up to me. Sachiel - Happy with this one! all I'm missing here are the thin thigh plates, very tiny "bones" around the face, and one dot per shoulder, which while i feel kind of sounds like a lot written down, makes very little difference in the image itself (to me). Shamshel - Wonky posture, shoulders are too low, and so is the ribcage thingy. While I don't think I got anything exactly wrong, my Shamshel plushie has definitely distorted my memory of the show's proportions/appearance. Ramiel - :) She's unforgettable! Gaghiel - Sheesh it turns out i barely remembered what this one looked like, I got the head shape right, but the little mask face isn't supposed to be outlined, and pretty much everything else is completely off. oh well, it's a fish, I drew a fish. Probably registers as 'close enough' though. Is it my least favorite angel? Maybe. Sorry Gaghiel. Israfel - It's not too far off, but I didn't remember that it had feet and it's missing the bigger pair of "ribs". I also drew it's "armor" incorrectly, neglecting the 'plating' on the legs, and the semi-circle cut outs above the head and at the crotch area respectively. Sandalphon - I was pretty confident this one was close at the time, turns out- not so much. Majorly forgetting that the design of what i thought was the tail was actually supposed to be two arms(!!) and also neglecting the iconic eye spots! Apologies Sandalphon, you deserved better. Matarael - Center eye on the bottom maybe a little too big, circular 'eyes' on the side should have been upside down triangles, and it has flat feet instead of points. However I am willing to consider these 'small details' and say that this is another one I'm proud of! Sahaquiel - Only giving it three fingers per side instead of 5 jumps out as an obvious miss when presented with the reference, also I fucked up the eyelashes somewhat severely, but it's still pretty recognizable I think. Ireul - Is it kind of cheating to just draw the infected magi display? maybe, but it's not like Ireul actually looks like *anything*. Leliel - What can I say? I know what Leliel looks like. Bardiel - I am not good at drawing the evas, and didn't just want to draw a terrible rendition of unit 03, and the fucked up entry plug all covered in strings is one of the only shots we get of the angel's actual "body". I think this one I think is "close enough" for resemblance to the shot, but my version has the entry plug extended a bit too far and it is also coming out of just like, a football shape with no additional details. Zeruel - I was like 100% sure while doing this that Zeruel's body was not all black, but couldn't visualize what the patterning actually was. The head is a little too low (and too big), and is missing the mask outlining that I drew on gaghiel for some reason. Also no back triangles. Arael - Kind of? It's close-ish but the silhouette/shape is undeniably off compared to the real thing unfortunately. Armisael - This one would be very hard to fuck up I think lol. Kaworu/Tabris - So no head?

Angels drawn quickly from memory

[lottiesnotebook]

the kick inside (19/30)

Fandom: Dragon Age (Origins) Relationships: Morrigan/Female Tabris Rating: Mature Summary: Luna learns the truth of Brecelien's curse, and receives a curse of her own.

“You have already had more of our secrets than any elf not of our clan in centuries. Would you now demand more from us? Will you take and take and take, as the shemlen take, as the wolves take? I thought better of you, da’len, but perhaps you are as selfish as the rest. Perhaps you and your friends deserve the same shallow grave.”

His staff began to glow, the amber light of the setting sun entwining with the deep green light from below, and she knew she’d run out of time.

She lurched forward, taking the steps two at a time, but instead of drawing her blades, she grabbed at his hands, kneeling at his feet like a supplicant, like a child, like the perfect pupil she’d pretended to be, when she’d indulged his ramblings to steal his people’s skills for her own selfish survival.

She looked up at him, her eyes as wide and pleading as she could make them. “They- they told me of your daughter. Would you tell me about her, if it is not too painful?”

Read on AO3

Beta read, as always, by the phenomenal @miladydewintcr who has written some incredible short fic you should go read right now if you enjoy any of the Vibes of The Kick Inside.

If you’re enjoying the fic, please comment and share it around! It really brightens my day. <3

[bumblerhizal-art]

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(Set shortly after Novhen and Morrigan's post-Inquisition reunion. Possible Inquisition spoilers re: the old god baby. CW: Discussions of memory loss)

[70 One Word Prompts]

Someone was watching him. Novhen felt the eyes boring into the back of his neck plain as anything. The Vigil's gardens were small and simple. He was on their edge and, by all appearances, alone, save for his mabari resting at his feet. All that was behind him was a single waist-high hedgerow and the roofed corridor that led back into the keep's interior. Just enough shadow for someone to conceal themself.

His hand tightened around his cane, but his muscles burned too much from old wounds to let him rise from the bench.

Novhen leaned forward as best he could and pet Griffon for a chance to get a good look at the hound, but he was placid, yawning even. It was doubtful that he wouldn't have noticed an unfamiliar scent. Whoever it was couldn't have been a threat, but the unwelcome feeling wouldn't go away. If they were going to watch him, Novhen at least deserved to know who it was.

"Griff," he whispered into his ear, "do you think you could fish out whoever's spying back there?"

Griffon smushed his snout against Novhen's jaw and hopped up. He ran around the bench and over the hedges behind it. He stood tall and barked with his tail wagging vigorously.

Novhen turned in time to see a child fall backwards out of the shrubs. The child held his arms defensively in front of himself. His face was the spitting image of Morrigan's. 

"Griffon, stand down," Novhen commanded.

Griffon barked affirmatively. He toddled back to Novhen’s feet and laid down to passively watch events unfold. He had done his part. Kieran lowered his arms and stared at anything but his father.

Novhen looked at him apologetically. "Hope he didn't give you too much of a fright, kid."

Kieran twiddled his fingers anxiously, "Hello, Father. I'm sorry for hiding."

Novhen's chest sank. The poor boy clearly didn't trust him. Not that he could blame him. They'd only just met. Until last month, he had been nothing but an absence for years, worse than a stranger. He had no right to expect any better.

He tried to smile, "There's no need to apologize for that. You don't have to be so formal with me either, you know. You can just call me Da."

"Right… Da," Kieran said.

A silence fell between them. Kieran looked at his feet. Novhen kicked himself. He was lucky the boy acknowledged him as family at all. He shouldn’t try to force that familiarity so soon. He would have to earn it, but this could be a perfect time to work towards that goal.

Novhen said, "Kieran, why don't you come sit with me while I wait for my strength to come back? There's still space for another."

Kieran cautiously stepped forward. As he turned the corner around the nearest gap in the hedges, he kept his eyes fixed on Griffon. Novhen followed his line of sight.

"Don't worry yourself about him," he said. "He's a smart dog. Wouldn't hurt a hair on your head."

Griffon huffed as though any other possibility would have been completely absurd.

Kieran sat down slowly. He now stared off into the distance, refusing to look either Novhen or Griffon in the eye. 

Novhen leaned back. Birdsongs filled every inch of the air at this hour. The thought flitted through his head that Kieran could have snuck up on him by shapeshifting into a bird or some other innocuous animal. He was all but guaranteed to develop magic someday, and Morrigan would certainly be a willing teacher. It was only a matter of whether or not he already had. Or, Novhen mused, maybe he used more traditional means of sneaking around, like a Tabris.

The boy sat stiffly next to him.

"Something on your mind?" Novhen asked.

Kieran hesitated to answer. "I remember you with a sword. I haven't seen you with a sword here though."

"Don’t know where you would’ve gotten that image of me from. I'm not really a swordsman. I don't think I've even touched one since…"

Right. The archdemon. Of course he would remember that.

Novhen cleared his throat. "I guess that doesn't matter. I only used a sword that one time."

Kieran looked down at his hands and said quietly, "He said that you killed him, but he wasn't mad."

A pause.

"How much do you remember of that day?" Novhen asked delicately. 

"Not much anymore."

"That might be for the best. I can't imagine those being pleasant memories for you to hold," he said softly, "but hey, that gives us something in common, doesn't it?"

Kieran looked at him quizzically, "What? But how would you forget? You were there."

"Ah, so I was," he answered, "but as it went, I also hit my head something awful right after and was still recovering from the last time I got knocked down that fight. I only know I'm the one who killed the archdemon because everyone else spent the next six months screaming in my ear about it nonstop."

He said, "The story I heard was much more heroic than that."

"I bet it would be. The truth makes for a lousy story, and your storyteller had dignity to protect."

"Can you tell me the truth then?" Kieran asked.

"Would if I could, kid, but like I said, I got slapped around a few too many times to remember much of anything," Novhen shrugged. "I guess if you want to know about any earlier part of that battle? Or is there any other story? I know a few good ones."

Kieran furrowed his eyebrows for several seconds before he responded, "How did you become a Grey Warden? Whenever I asked Mother, she would say she didn't know."

From the ground, Griffon raised an ear.

Novhen drummed his fingers against his cane's handle, "Yeah, I suppose I never told her much of that one. It's not my favorite to tell, but for you, I'll let it slide this once. Listen close because I can't promise you'll hear it again."

Novhen cleared his voice for the show. This would be a lot of details to smudge.

[naomifj97]

Vigil's Keep

“—Oriana…

—It’s Commander now, Your Majesty.”

Or: After the attack on Vigil’s Keep, Alistair and Oriana reunite for the first time since the slaying of the Archdemon.

Hi again! So, this keeps the storyline stablished in previous fics, Newbie, A lamppost in winter and Wild. In this I STRONGLY start headcanoning because...well, you'll see 😉.

Anyway, one shot under cut, around 1k-2k words, not very long, featuring Alistair x the Warden, yearning and angst. Also, Oriana does not like templars and it shows.

Enjoy!

Oriana Tabris is exhausted.

She knows she’s out of shape; she hasn’t fought in months, and the armor is significantly tighter than it was before. The metal plats nail her flesh in an uncomfortably way around the abdomen that has yet to return to its former shape, around the breasts that now are fuller; the boots feel heavy and the gauntlets are making her hands sweaty. She has not had a proper night of sleep in weeks. The cramps in her lower back are getting worse. Every time she turns around, she’s sure she’s hearing him cry for her. Part of her wonders why she has not sent Loghain to do this; the world knows the bastard has earnt the privilege of doing all the tasks she is not up to for the rest of their lives. He would have deserved it.

But yet, there she is.

When she extracts the sword from that talking darkspawn, (The Withered, had he called himself?), Seneschal Varel lets out a high-pitched sigh of relief.

—I owe you my life, Commander. Thank the Maker, you have arrived.

Oriana almost rolls her eyes. “Me. Not the Maker. Me” she wants to say. But she’s tired, and uncomfortable, and she misses Kieran like one would miss a severed limb, so, instead, she asks about the attack. He does not answer; before he can, the far-away sound of horses and the tingling of armors makes itself audible in the middle of the pouring rain.

—It seems we have more company. Hopefully, they’re most hospitable than our previous guests —he says, gaze stuck in the gates of the Keep, those she has ran over like a raging, declining demon just half an hour ago.

Oriana takes a look in his eyes’ direction and the punch in the gut is so hard she almost gets out of air.

Even in the distance, those colors are unmistakable.

The colors that had been Cailan’s.

The colors that now are his.

At her side, Oghren lets out a snort.

—Spank me, this is gonna be interesting…

She just ignores him.

“Please be Anora, please be Anora, please be Anora” she begs to a Maker she’s sure doesn’t listen, as they wait for the Royal party to reach the gates.

But no. Of course not.

He walks in, fast pacing, shining golden armor in his body and gesture of worry in his frown, flanked by a female Templar and followed by dozens of soldiers armed to the teeth. Drops of rain hit his rebel dark blond hair, his tan skin, his long bright eyelashes; his eyes wander over the whole place with a focused look she knows so well it hurts.

They haven’t seen each other since the slaying of the Archdemon, since she left Denerim with no intentions of becoming his secret to keep. The last time they spoke, she swore she wouldn’t make of him an oath to worship.

—King Alistair!

Beside her, Mhairi kneels. Oriana doesn’t; she’s sure she won’t get up if she does. She might just lie there in the mud, letting it swallow her while the tiredness lures her to sleep. That sounds so much better than face King Alistair.

King Alistair and his bloody warm smile, his damned relief when he sees they’re all unharmed. When he sees her.

Alistair knows her body. As good as she herself does. So Oriana prays he doesn’t notice her hips are wider, her breasts fuller, her stance a bit different from an exhaustion so unlike any other she has suffered in her life. Two weeks ago, she was birthing his son. If she has her way, however, he’ll never get to know that.

—It looks I arrived a bit late. Too bad. I was looking forward to the whole darkspawn-killing thing —he jokes, and it’s like the taint is burning in her veins again. Then, he looks at her. His eyes soften, the laugh in his mouth disappears. The longing is undeniable when her name escapes from his lips, like a prayer, like an oath—: Oriana…

She forgot how to pray a long time ago.

—It’s Commander now, Your Majesty.

Her words are as sharp as her sword, as cold as the steel she used to slay that Archdemon and seal their destiny. Alistair thinks he probably deserves it, her coldness and disdain, but still hurts like she had run her very same sword over his chest. The pain in his eyes is evident to everyone, and he doesn’t even bother concealing it.

He doesn’t notice the changes in her body; the armor does a great job hiding those. He does notice that she seems tired. No, not tired: drained. The most exhausted he has ever seen her, and, because he has seen her in some of the darkest moments of her life, the worry floods over him as the first tide of the disaster. Yet, Alistair can’t help but notice she is as beautiful as the day he lost her.

He wants to ask. He wants to know where she’s been those past six months, how she’s doing, what has happened. He wants to ask her so many things he’d be talking until sunrise. Instead, he just chooses one:

—Are you hurt?

She wants to tell him to stop. She wants to tell him he can’t be that same caring idiot she fell so hard in love with because that’s not what they are anymore. They can’t be. Because she can’t endure being reminded of how much she still loves him.

—We’re fine.

—I wanted to come, give the Wardens a formal welcome. Then news about this arrived at court and… I was not expecting… I’m sorry I couldn’t reach you sooner —he fidgets with his fingers, like he always does when he’s nervous, and the familiarity gives Oriana a sudden urge to cry. Bloody hormones, she thinks, when she finds herself wondering if Kieran will inherit that from him. He expects her to interrupt him, to bark at him a grumpy “We’ve got this under control” or something like that, but she says nothing. So, instead, he clears his throat and asks—: So…what’s the situation?

Oriana peeks a glance to Seneschal Varel, who immediately explains what has happened. He says the Orlesian wardens are either dead or missing, and, out of habit, Oriana and Alistair exchange a look. She hates that there’s still an evident complicity between them; he is so relieved that he could sing.

They have been taken by the darkspawn, and they both know what that means. Without a Blight, however, it’s strange that the darkspawn are acting like that, and once again Oriana fears for what that means.

He says it’s a relief that the Hero of Ferelden is there and alive, and Oriana wants to punch him because she hates that bloody title, because she never wanted to be a leader much less a hero and she shouldn’t be alive to begin with. But she refrains those thoughts because now she can’t afford them. Now, Kieran needs her. And the sooner she is done with all that shit, the sooner Alistair is back in court, the sooner she can return to her son. So she answers with a blunt “The Hero of Ferelden will handle this” that chills Alistair’s spine, because no one better than him knows how far the Hero of Ferelden can go to carry on with her duty.

—I…can help. I can stay and help.

Her faces clenches with anger; a soft glimmer of betrayal reignites in her eyes. If he had wanted to stay, he could have sent Eamon to hell when he had the chance.

—Ferelden needs its King working to rebuild it, not running around fighting darkspawn!

He tries not to be hurt by her rejection.

—You don’t have to do this alone.

—Hey! And what am I? Chopped nug livers?

Oriana has never loved Oghren’s big, lousy, ill-timed mouth as much as she does in that moment. The banter that follows between the dwarf and the mage, Anders, convinces her that those two must be her new recruits. And that idea only grows stronger when the Templar at Alistair’s side steps in to arrest the mage. Oriana then remembers why she hates Templars so much: they treat mages as well as the nobility treat her people in the Alienage.

—Apostate or not, this man has done nothing but saving a lot of lives here, this night, my lady —she interrupts, with that dangerous glimmer in her eyes that makes Alistair warm inside.

—He’s a murderer! —the Templar protests, and then Anders protests, and Oriana is too tired for all this shit.

—Last time I checked, this place was under Wardens’ protection and responsibility, and so is this man!

Alistair had almost forgotten how much he enjoys Oriana angering Templars. The woman is fuming.

—The Chantry’s authority-!

—The Chantry’s authority means nothing to me. I have a right and I’m going to use it —Oriana replies, and, suddenly, she is no longer Oriana, but the Commander of the Grey the Blight has turned her into.

The woman Alistair forced her to become, he reminds himself with a bitter thought.

When she pronounces the words that placed the last nail in their coffin months ago, she does not hesitate:

—I hereby conscript this man for the Grey Wardens.

He replies immediately:

—I will allow it.

His eyes do not leave hers as he speaks and Oriana wants to yell at him, hit him, scream at him, because he doesn’t have a right to look at her like that anymore. He knows too, but, Maker, he can’t help it. He tries to remember he has a wife, that he’s supposed to love another woman, that he’s made vows. But every inch of him is yearning for Oriana, yelling at him that he made a terrible mistake that night after the Landsmeet, that day he took Anora’s hand and swore to honor her as his wife while his heart still belonged to another and his mind was covered in thoughts of her. He had hoped the need would eventually diminish, but those six months have only made it more urgent, more consuming, more powerful.

He clears his throat.

—I see you have everything under control, Commander. But I still would like to stay, see if I can be of help. At least this night.

“I want to stay. I need to talk to you”, he’s saying.

She doesn’t care. She’s tired, she misses her baby, and she misses him. She still loves him as much as the day they conceived Kieran.

But she really doesn’t care.

She has an order to rebuild.

—Do as you please. The Seneschal can fill you in anything you precise. I have some matters that require my attention.

And, with that, she walks away once again.

Alistair wants to follow, wants to tell her to wait, wants to run after her and beg for her forgiveness. But, once again, he does nothing.

A/N: So, one day I saw a comment in a video of Alistair breaking up with a non-human noble Warden after becoming King that said "Wouldn't be funny if the warden was actually pregnant at the moment" and I took it as a challenge. I know the chances of two Grey Wardens conceiving are slim, but, you know, there's always magic (headcanons, I mean headcanons). Diverting from the possibilities the game offers and making up impossible ones is part of the fun after all!

So, yes, in this Alistair became King because Eamon manipulated him to do it. And married Anora because Eamon said it was the only way to avoid civil war, since he supported Alistair and Oriana supported Anora. I hate Eamon and it shows. Meanwhile, and unknown to any of them, even herself, Oriana became pregnant before the Landsmeet. So yes, in this headcanon of mine, Kieran is the Warden's child (Flemeth was five steps ahead any of them and performed the ritual on Oriana just in case), she survived the Archdemon thanks to him. Kieran is an Old God Baby and Morrigan is "cool auntie Morrigan" in this headcanon. Alistair and Oriana do end up together eventually, I swear. They just need to reach Inquisition for that.

Fun fact: this was the first Alistair x Oriana I wrote.

Fun fact 2: Yesterday was my first day on invisible orthodontic treatment and the pain is killing me. Send strength 😭.

Anyway, hope you enjoyed it!

[heniareth]

!!!!!!!! ASK??? INTERVIEWING THE BELOVEDS?????? Oh! OH!!!!!! QUESTIONS FOR THE BELOVEDS! QUESTIONS FOR THE BELOVEDS UNTIL I COLLAPSE (if the Lord lets me see it that will be approximately One Thousand Years)

For Astala (MY BELOVED!!!) if I may: 8. What do you think had the biggest impact on you growing up? 17. What makes you laugh? and 25. (freebie) Do you have a favourite celebration? And for Ilanlas (ALSO MY BELOVED!!!) I'd like to request: 5. What's your favourite thing to do in your free time? 18. What's the best way to cheer you up? and 21. Describe your ideal partner Naturally, only answer what you feel like, if anything. I send my best wishes for a gorgeous day and about twelve crates of ripe plums (do you and Ilanlas like plums? I can supply other goodies as needed)

<3 <3 <3

"Plant! Hey there!" Astala grins and waves at you. "Come on over, have a seat."

Ilanlas greets you with a nod. "It is good to see you. We heard you had ques-"

"Oh look! Plums!" Astala hauls up a whole crate (without crouching down) and throws you a delighted grin. "You are the best, Plant!"

"Like I said," Ilanlas starts again, "we heard you had questions. Seeing that Tabris is currently occupied-"

"I'm showing Plant's very generous gift the attention it deserves," Astala says, tosses one plum over to Ilanlas and offers you one too.

"I am sure you are," Ilanlas says. "Nevertheless, I think I will start answering."

"Sounds good." Astala bites with gusto into her plum. "Maker's Breath, where did you get these? They're delicious!"

"Anyways," Ilanlas says, "the questions."

5. What's your favorite thing to do in your free time?

"Ah, yes. Free time. It is a very... how do I explain this?"

Ilanlas falls silent for a second and thinks.

"There is never nothing to do in a clan. Work has no set start or end save for that you set yourself. In a way, work is life."

From where she's sitting, the second plum in her hand, Astala wrinkles her nose. "That sounds like terrible drudgery."

Ilanlas shrugs. "Not for me."

"Of course not, you like your job." Astala takes another bite of her plum, then lowers her hand and looks off into the distance. "Huh."

"My point is that I have not really had to worry about free time," Ilanlas continues. "When I was out on the hunt, I had to focus, of course; other than that I was free to do whatever, whenever, wherever... So long as things got done, of course. I suppose that is what you mean by ‘free time’, right?"

"You sound like you’ve never had real free time," Astala says and laughs. "Don't you have that in the clans?"

"Maybe we do not," Ilanlas shoots back. "We Dalish have no ‘bound' time since we are not bound to anybody. Why would we have need for ‘free’ time?"

"Okay, okay, I get it." Astala lifts her hands in surrender. "Free time is another city thing. But, just so you can answer Plant’s question, what do you do when there’s no work to be done? Say everyone’s asleep. What do you do just because you like doing it?"

Ilanlas thinks for a second, then hesitantly pulls a small wooden figure out of his pouch. It’s clearly a stick, although it has been carved into shape, with four legs, a head and two stumps on its head that look like horns. It is painted bright red.

"I like to carve," Ilanlas says and sets the figurine down on the ground in front of him. "It is... fun. Not as fun as fooling around with my friends, but they are not here." He waves his hand through the air as if to brush the matter aside. "Let us move on, shall we?"

18. What is the best way to cheer you up?

"Set me a challenge." Ilanlas straightens up with an eager glint in his eye. "When I beat it, I will feel much better."

"When you beat it?" Astala snickers. "Now that’s highly mighty."

Ilanlas turns his nose up at her. "Go back to eating plums."

"I could challenge you to a plum eating contest if you want," Astala says as she selects her next target.

"No thank you. I know my odds." Ilanlas very deliberately turns so that he’s only looking at you. "Back to your question, Plant; a challenge will do the trick. It takes my mind off of whatever has been bothering me. I do, however, not appreciate it when people try to distract me immediately. I need some time. But I am sure you have already noticed that. You are an observant one."

He takes a deep breath. "Ar suledin nadas. Let us move on to the last question."

21. Describe your ideal partner 

"Fenedhis lasa, I have to ask: is this necessary?" Ilanlas pinches the bridge of his nose.

Astala adds the core of the fourth plum to the growing pile and leans forward. "I'm very sure Plant would be okay with you not answering."

"No, I will answer," Ilanlas says grimly.

"You literally don’t have to."

"No, no, I must." He looks up to the sky and sighs heavily. “Well... Let me preface this by saying that I have never given this topic much thought. Very few people have caught my attention in... that way." His ears grow slightly redder as he adds. "Those who have, however, have left behind an intense impression. Tamlen was not one of those people, by the way. He w- is my best friend, as much as others might have assumed otherwise."

He stares at the dirt at his feet for a while. "If I ever were to pick somebody to bond with, I would look for a person who was patient and level-headed, but who would also know how to have fun. Ashalle always said we should all look for somebody who would compliment us. Most of the Creators come in pairs: Elgar'nan and Mythal, Dirthamen and Falon'din, Ghilan'nain and Andruil, June and Sylaise. Only the Dread Wolf walks alone, and he is accursed. I suppose that means that I would do well to search for somebody similar to Mythal. Justice and Vengeance are not so different as to reject each other, but not so alike that they feed each others' flames to the point of destruction."

"You don't sound very happy with that last bit," Astala interrupts. She has a half-eaten plum in her hand (the fifth) and is observing Ilanlas with a thoughtful expression on her face.

"I have never been very good at settling down," Ilanlas says and shrugs. "Nor at satisfying expectations. Right now, I do not care about these things. I am bound to the Grey Wardens. That is my place."

"Well..." Astala finishes the rest of her plum and adds the core to her pile. She seems to want to say something more, but in the end, she shrugs. "You know that better than I do, for sure. So, is it my turn?"

Ilanlas gestures for her to take the stage and finally takes a bite out of the plum Astala had given him at the start of the conversation.

8. What do you think had the biggest impact on you growing up?

"Hm." Astala cleans her hand on the grass as her gaze becomes distant. It lingers on the horizon for a while until it snaps back to you, as if she is pulling herself back into the present moment. "I could tell you about the day my mother disappeared, because that's absolutely what had the biggest impact on me. I don't feel like opening that can of worms today, however, and you've already heard the story. So." She leans forward and grabs another plum out of the crate, throws it into the air and catches it in her other hand. "How about I tell you the story behind my love for plums?"

"The winter after my mother disappeared was very rough, the roughest one I remember. There was a cough going around the Alienage and killing people. My father got sick and Shianni as well, and Soris and I cared for them until they got better. Once they did, I got sick."

Astala is once again looking somewhere into the far-off distance. The plum, round and dark and ripe to bursting, is still sitting in her hand.

"I don't remember much, except that everything hurt and I was hot and cold at the same time. But because my father had been sick before me, he had been unable to work. I'd spent what money we had and then some on food and a little bit of medicine, and now that I was sick there was... well, we didn't have food."

She flashes you a quick look and shrugs. "I survived, as you can see, and I'm okay. I don't know how my father managed to provide for us between the grief and the remants of the cough. He still has it, sometimes. But I remember bitterly crying because I was so hungry and everything hurt. When he tried to comfort me, his arms were way too thin. He asked me: if there was one kind of food I would wish for right now, what would it be? I wanted to say plum tarts, but those seemed so out of reach that I settled for plums." She laughs quietly to herself. "Plums in winter, am I right?"

"Anyways, the next day my father came home from work--he worked for Bann Rodolf at the time--and he was a nervous wreck. Constantly looking over his shoulder. So he sits down next to me and unfolds his handkerchief and inside it are five plums. Five whole plums in the middle of winter! He told me later that bann Rodolf had had them imported from somewhere, that they had been terribly expensive and that he'd just... taken them. This was the only time that I know of that my father stole something."

She takes a bite out of her plum and chews slowly.

"A couple of days after that was Satinalia and the bann allowed him to take home some of the leftovers from the feast they'd had at his estate. We got meat and everything and things got better from that point on. But it all started with those five plums that my father stole for me." She grins. "It's a nicer story than that of my mother, isn't it?"

17. What makes you laugh?

"There are lots of things that make me laugh-"

"Now that is true," Ilanlas mutters into his plum.

"It is! -so I’m... not really sure what to single out here," Astala continues. "I mean, I like really bad puns. The worse, the better. Rascal is very silly sometimes and makes me laugh a lot as well, especially when he's doing things like jump around trying to catch a butterfly. He makes the dumbest faces." She chuckles briefly. "And Leliana and Zevran put on a show at camp a few nights ago, some kind of extremely dramatic Orlesian play. I think it was supposed to be a tragedy, but they played it for laughs and they did really well. My stomach hurt from how much I was laughing!"

"To be fair, Tabris, you find everything Zevran says funny," Ilanlas says.

Astala frowns at him. "I don’t! I don’t laugh when we’re talking about murder."

"But you laugh about everything else."

"Well." Astala crosses her arms. "He is a very funny guy."

Ilanlas smiles a knowing smile. "Of course, that must be it."

"It is," Astala insists. She looks positively flustered by now and turns to you with an almost pleading look. "Next question?"

25. Do you have a favorite celebration?

"Okay, no, but this is not an easy question. Here’s the thing." Astala straightens her posture and lifts her hands to illustrate her point. "On one hand, First Day is the best. It’s a sorely needed bright light in the middle of the dark winter, there’s chicken and the rest of the food is also amazing, the ceremony is beautiful and when it’s possible we even get visits or travel to other cities to visit family. Not that I have ever traveled anywhere, I don’t know any of my mother’s folks. But on the other hand, it’s freezing cold during that time and Summerday exists. And Summerday is the most cheerful day of the year: it’s warm, we dance until the stars themselves set, there's lots of booze, lots of games... It’s amazing. Around that time we also celebrate most weddings. So, between those two..."

She thinks to herself for a while, then nods. "Between those two, I think I’d have to pick Summerday, as much as I love First Day. Nothing beats a celebration in summer."

"Keeper Marethari would find that very telling," Ilanlas says.

"How so?"

He shrugs. "Something about the prevalence of the outer world over the dreamt and hoped for world. I cannot replicate it, I am not the Keeper."

"Hm." Astala absentmindedly wipes her hands off on her trousers. "Valendrian wouldn't say much, to be honest, except maybe that Summerday is also a day of community and family and whatnot."

She nods quietly to herself, then turns abruptly to Ilanlas. "Hey, did I talk too much during your questions? I have the feeling I was interrupting you a lot more than you were interrupting me, so sorry about that. I just noticed now."

"I did not mind," Ilanlas says and shrugs. "I do not talk much."

Astala tilts her head at him. "Maybe you would talk more if I talked less? Maybe I'm talking over you?"

"No. I think I talked more than I would normally because you prod me with questions," Ilanlas answers. He starts turning his carved deer this way and that, observing it intently. "Don't let it get to your head, Tabris. The fact that you helped me during this interview-"

"I helped you? Aw, thank you for letting me know." Astala has a big grin on her face. "If you go on like that you'll turn into a big softie by the time we've dealt with the Archdemon."

Ilanlas throws her such a shocked look that Astala breaks out into loud laughter. Ilanlas stares at her for a few seconds before he shakes his head and turns back to you.

"Will you stay for dinner? I should be heading back to camp to start preparing the meat, anyways."

"Oh, please stay! It'll be so much fun. We can put some plums into the fire too!" Astala says, jumps up, and lifts the nearest crate of plums onto her shoulders.

Ilanlas shakes his head. "Not everything good must contain plums, Tabris. Let meat be meat."

"No, no, trust me," Astala says. "I have a hunch. Just you see, it's gonna be amazing."

"As you say," Ilanlas sighs. "I will save you one piece of meat to experiment with."

He turns to you and nods towards the distant glow of the campfire, from where the faint noises of chatter and of a barking dog travel over to you on the evening breeze.

"Ready when you are, lethallan."

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TRANSLATIONS

Ar suledin nadas: Now I must suffer.

Fenedhis lasa: A common curse (exact meaning unknown).

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(Did I write a self-insert story here? Maybe so. I hope you enjoyed it ^^)