#never been called ''lady'' before ( blackwall )

[shift-shaping]

another ale at noon

solas, blackwall, and varric have another boys' night. day. it's like the middle of the day. boys' brunch.

rating: t

pairing: solavellan (discussed)

warnings: alcohol

previous fics | 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9

"So Solas is Chuckles, I get to be Hero, which is quite nice of you, Sera is Buttercup, Bull is..."

"Tiny," Varric said with a grin.

"Very creative," Solas added dryly.

Blackwall frowned. "Who else was there?" 

"I believe I've heard you call Commander Cullen 'Curly,'" Solas offered, and Varric nodded, obviously enjoying the attention. "And Josephine, Ruffles."

"But you just call Cassandra 'Seeker.'” Blackwall recalled. “Why is that?" 

Varric laughed, a bit nervous, and looked towards the door of the tavern as if Cassandra could enter at any moment. "I'm not calling Cassandra anything she doesn't want to be called. I'm already on her shit list."

Solas hummed, and sipped from his drink. "Enaste used that term the other day --'shit list.'"

Blackwall grinned at Varric underneath his untidy beard. "So you're a bad influence, then."

"I'm sure the Dalish have their own curses." Varric waved his hand dismissively. "She's heard it all before."

"I heard she called Cassandra a 'cunt'." All three men looked up at the barmaid, who must have been eavesdropping. "Sorry. You didn't hear it from me."

That got another laugh from Blackwall. "No, that can't be true."

"Sera told us, just the other night! I guess Lady Cassandra told the Inquisitor she needed to put the Inquisition above the needs of her clan, or something."

"That would piss her off," Varric agreed.

"Are you sure Sera wasn't exaggerating?" Blackwall was thoroughly amused by all this, and admittedly Solas couldn't blame him. Enaste was nearly a religious figure to him --hearing her curse in common was probably very entertaining. "Maybe Sera just wanted an excuse to say 'cunt.'"

"Sera needs no excuse to curse," Solas added, and Blackwall laughed again in agreement.

"Well like I said, you didn't hear it from me. Did you lot want another round?"

"Sure," Varric gestured at the table. "What's another ale at noon?"

The barmaid left to get their drinks, and Blackwall shifted in his seat. "So if everyone gets nicknames except the people you're afraid of, does that mean you're scared of Lavellan?"

"No," Varric laughed, then paused. "Well, maybe. Should I be?"

"I don't know," Blackwall shrugged. "She can be harsh, but she's fair."

"It was interesting to see how she handled that magister, Alexius." Varric said. "From her description of what happened at Redcliffe, I thought she'd have his head on a spike." He shook his head, brows furrowed. "She just sent him to work with Leliana, right?"

Blackwall nodded. "Much kinder than the bastard deserved." He sighed and shrugged. "Mercy is a good thing though. Better to follow too merciful a leader than a cruel one."

The barmaid returned with their drinks, and Solas realized he'd actually finished one. He thanked her as she took the empty tankard away. "So if you aren't afraid of her, Varric, why haven't you given her a nickname?" He asked, and Varric thought for a moment before responding.

"It feels weird, I guess. She's the Inquisitor, that's her nickname."

"I think you can do better," Blackwall teased.

Varric rubbed his chin. "I'll think about it. It has to be natural, you know? You can't force these things." He sighed and leaned back, then took a long drink from his tankard. "I could ask her uncle for ideas, I guess. You know, I've never seen an elf with a beard like that." He chuckled. "It's downright dwarven."

Blackwall nodded to Solas. "Did you know he was coming?"

Solas shook his head. "No, and neither did she."

"We're a long way from the Free Marches. Dangerous route, too."

"That's family," Varric said. "I'm not surprised her clan is worried. An elf tied up with all this chantry shit? It never ends well."

"We have to make sure it does," Blackwall replied with an oddly reverent certainty. "She has a duty to the world, but we have a duty to make sure she doesn't die performing it."

Solas looked at Blackwall curiously. "Back in Haven you said you didn't care if she was actually chosen by Andraste. Do you still feel that way?"

"You were there, we all were." He gestured vaguely towards the Frostbacks. "She's insisted time and again she's not chosen by Andraste and doesn't believe in the Maker. But when it came down to it, she was willing to give her life for a bunch of people she doesn't even like." He shook his head as if in awe. "So no, I still don't care if she's chosen by Andraste. She's a woman worth following, and she’s trying to make things right."

"I think she mostly follows you," Varric joked. "I don't know how you can go running into battle headfirst like that. I'm surprised you still have most of your teeth."

"That's why I'm here," Blackwall raised his tankard, then took a long drink before slamming it down. "So you three can keep your pretty faces intact."

"Oh, speaking of pretty faces," Varric said, remembering something and turning to Solas. "Do you know how she got those scars on her face?"

Solas had spent much too long staring at those scars for her not to have told him about them. But she wasn't self-conscious of them, so he assumed it was fine for him to divulge. "A fishing accident, in her youth," Solas replied.

"A fishing accident?" Blackwall asked incredulously. "What a woman." The way Blackwall talked about Enaste was always illuminating. He seemed somewhere in-between worshipping her and being in love with her. Perhaps he had to be, to put himself in so much danger for her so often.

"I wonder if she's found a place nearby to fish," Solas said, frowning. There were streams here and there, enough to provide the keep with fresh water, but none of them that he knew of were deep or productive enough for fishing. "She used to fish from the lake near Haven. It gave her some peace from all the chaos."

"Did you notice, in Crestwood, how she looked at those crab traps on the beach?" Blackwall asked, grinning, and Solas couldn't help but smile back. Enaste had tried to be subtle, but it was impossible not to notice her casually wandering along the waterline and leaning over the traps. Sera teased her for it, and she'd been predictably defensive. It made for a surprisingly light-hearted moment amidst so much doom, and Blackwall had promised to take her to a real seafood market some day. That led to Sera calling her 'fishbutt,' which didn't make any sense but was amusing regardless.

Solas sipped from his drink, still smiling at the memory. "Yes. She said she prefers eating crab, but catching fish. Apparently her uncle is particularly skilled at preparing it."

"You two spend a lot of time together," Varric observed. The comment put Solas immediately on edge, but Varric went on before he could say anything. "Don't get all pissy, Chuckles. It's okay, really." He paused, his expression suddenly gentle, and sighed. "She likes you. That's a good thing. And maybe she's just glad to have another elf around."

"I imagine she is, yes." Solas still had no interest in pursuing this conversation with them. He enjoyed the company of Varric and Blackwall, but their attempts to pry into his relationship with Enaste were grating. It was an entirely private matter, and he owed them no explanation.

His icy response left an awkward pause, just as it had every time they’d brought it up before. After a few tense moments, Varric pushed himself from the table and stood. "I'll be right back, nature's calling."

Blackwall and Solas were fully capable of sitting in comfortable silence together, and often did in the field. Now, though, there was a weight to the silence that made it uneasy. Solas chose to ignore it, and instead stared out over the tavern blankly. It was slower now than it would surely be in a few hours, when the soldiers finished their afternoon training and came to relax. Maryden was tuning her instrument, occasionally strumming lazily, giving the tavern an atmosphere of lighthearted anticipation. 

When Blackwall finally spoke, his voice was gentler than before, and lower, too, as if he didn't want them to be heard. "I like you, Solas. You know that." Solas frowned at him, unsure where this was going, but said nothing. "I know you've seen a lot in your life, and maybe I'm in no place to give you advice. But I'm just going to say it, and you can do with it what you please," Blackwall took a deep breath. "Life is short, and hard, and then you die. I know you want to maintain a... professional relationship with the Inquisitor, and I know you don't want to hurt her reputation, but I've seen the way you look at her." He sighed heavily. "Just… take it from me: don't let your pride get in the way of something good."

There was no teasing in his voice, no playfulness, just an earnest man sharing his thoughts. Solas looked away, quiet for a while longer. It was more poignant than Blackwall could possibly know, and in a way, he was right. "Thank you," Solas said finally. "You make a fair point. I will... consider it."

Blackwall nodded gruffly, and took another long drink. Varric returned soon after, and broke out a deck of cards. Playing Wicked Grace with the two of them was a ritual Solas had become accustomed to, as even at camp Varric always had a deck of cards. Enaste joined them on occasion, and one memorable evening most of the camp played a massive game together. He preferred it like this though, and not just because Blackwall had a tendency to bet far too much. It was quieter, easier, and he didn’t have to think quite so much about how to fill the silence.

<- prev fic | next fic ->

[nirikeehan]

Gonna wambo combo you from the Sexual Tension Prompt list for Thalia/Blackwall for "[ BRUSH ] : Character A reaches forward to brush a strand of Character B’s hair from their eyes." and "[ WET ] : The characters find one another in a torrential downpour of rain, both soaking wet." >:]

ALL RIGHT OKAY IT'S THACKWALL HORNY HOURS TONIGHT

For @dadrunkwriting

WC: 1525

Strap in, I also managed to shove in the following prompts:

sleeve rolling (thanks @theluckywizard)

public touching and pretending to be a couple (thanks @oxygenforthewicked)

pushing against a wall and kissing without warning (thanks @oxygenforthewicked AND @about2dance)

---

She sits beside him on the table he’s set up for woodworking. They talk late into the evening, the air in the stables going cold when the sun goes down. Thalia’s face stays warm, watching the way Blackwall works with his hands. He’s deft and sure in everything he does, each stroke and every nail. She watches his fingers, large and calloused as they are, and wonders. Her stomach flips, not unpleasantly. 

At one point, he rolls his sleeves to the elbow and catches her looking at the naked flesh. 

“Like what you see, my lady?” 

She thinks he might be smirking. She slides off the table, onto her feet. She tries to bring herself back to earth. 

“I’m terribly late for dinner.” She’s stuttering over her words, like a damned schoolgirl. 

She can feel his eyes on her back with every stride through the courtyard she takes. 

—

At a tavern in an unfriendly village, they need information. The commonfolk are hostile toward Grey Wardens, it seems; they feel abandoned by those who came through before, then left in the name of the False Calling. 

“Why do you ask?” says the barkeep, eyes narrowed across the counter. “You one of ‘em?” 

“Me? Never.” Blackwall laughs long and hard, terribly convincing. “It’s just that me and the missus are mighty curious about where they’ve gone. Her brother, you see, joined up a few years ago. She pines for him something fierce, don’t you, love?”

His gaze is upon her, expectant. Thalia hunches over in her barstool, hoping her blush isn’t visible in the dim torchlight. “That’s right,” she says softly. “If anything happened to him, I’d never forgive myself.” 

She can’t conceive of this world, where she would care enough to pursue a lost brother. But then, she can’t fathom being married to Blackwall, either. He reaches over and places a hand on the nape of her neck, laying it on thick for the barkeep, and her heart thumps and thumps. Grey Wardens have relationships sometimes, right? The Hero of Ferelden would have married Good King Alistair, if he hadn’t sacrificed himself ending the last Blight. It’s been known to happen.

She rests her hand on the wrist Blackwall uses to cup his stein of ale. Her fingers tingle. This is an act, of course. Isn’t it? 

The barkeep watches them long and hard. Then he breaks into a toothless smile, accompanied by a salty laugh. “This’s your wife? How’d you manage that, you old dog?” 

“Ah, well, you know. She keeps me young.” Blackwall winks. 

“I bet she does.” The barkeep’s gaze lingers on them a touch too long, and Thalia doesn’t know whether she’s mortified or pleased. Maybe a little of both.

Outside the tavern, after mulling over the leads they’ve been given, Thalia glances upward at Warden Blackwall’s face, so unreadable in the gathering dark. “Is it really so hard to believe?”

“What? You n’ me, my lady?” 

She feels his eyes upon her; it is not, strictly speaking, the look an honorable knight gives a lady. She knows this, and she likes it, to some degree. He is a bit older than her — so what? Girls her age — and below — married men of advanced age all the time. 

“I could—” She grasps for something clever and witty to say. “—Keep you young. Like you said.” 

Blackwall lets out a hearty laugh. “Begging your pardon, but you speak like you don’t know what that means.”

“I know what it means!” Thalia huffs. 

Blackwall stands over her, close enough to touch. “But you’ve never…?”

Now she’s mortified for sure. “That’s not an appropriate question to ask a lady.” She storms past him, toward their camp, before this gets out of hand. 

She thinks she hears him chuckling in the dark behind her. 

—

Thalia never knew it could rain so hard in the desert. The Western Approach’s sky, she thought, would forever be an endless, scorching blue. But the clouds roll in without warning, a dark purplish grey. The rain falls in torrents, turning the sands to mud and drenching her in seconds. She runs for shelter in the awning of an ancient fortress, tumbledown stones persisting for hundreds of years. 

She lets her hair down, pulling fingers through the long, tangled strands, wringing it out like a cloth. There is satisfaction to the lightness that ensues. The air, likewise, possesses a strange, clean scent, as if the landscape itself has been wiped clean by the downpour. 

She hears a throat clearing behind her. Thalia snaps her head up; Blackwall stands in the dark of the archway, similarly soaked. His grey eyes almost seem to glow as their gazes meet. 

Thalia gasps and turns away, her hair long and limp over her shoulders, hanging heavy to her waist. He saw! He isn’t supposed to see! She trembles, suddenly freezing as the wind picks up and hits her clammy skin. 

“F-forgive me, Warden Blackwall,” she says through chattering teeth. “In Ostwick, highborn girls are not to let men — unmarried men — see them with their hair down. It’s beyond scandalous.” 

She feels silly saying this out loud, but it’s true — despite knowing, intellectually, other women do this all the time, she feels as though he caught her with her trousers down and can’t bear to look at him. She scrambles for the rock wall, trying to get out of sight so she can plait her hair again and pin it back up and at last be able to face him. 

His hand grasps her shoulder. Thalia freezes, her heart pounding. Water drips off her nose and chin, and her breath stutters. 

“Strange customs they’ve got in Ostwick,” Blackwall mumbles low in her ear. His fingers trace their way to the nape of her neck. He draws the hair away from her skin, tantalizingly slow. A warm tingling shoots down Thalia’s spine to her toes. “I thought the cheese wheel chase was the height of it.” 

Thalia forces herself to face him. He’s so handsome, painfully so, with hair that shines black and the mighty beard and the distinguished lines of his face. She’s no doubt he’s known many women — she can sense this in his confidence, which comes out when she least expects it. Like now. She swallows hard and tentatively puts her hand on the damp sleeves of his gambeson. 

“I like the cheese wheel chase,” is all she can think to say, like an idiot. 

Blackwall lets out a laugh. “Never said I didn’t like it.” His hand cups her face, and Thalia thinks she might perish. Is she dreaming this? It wouldn’t be the first time. “Tell me, my lady — what happens when an unmarried man spies an Ostwick maid with her hair down?” 

“There’s, ah, varying stories.” 

“Of course there are.”

“In some of them, the girl and offending voyeur must get married on the spot.” 

Blackwall chuckles. “Shame there’s no Chantry mother in this forsaken desert. Makes it difficult to say vows.” 

“In others, the girl is branded a harlot and cast out from her household.” 

Blackwall’s eyebrows shoot upward. “Bit harsh, isn’t it?”

Thalia swallows hard. “I didn’t come up with these tales!” 

“What if there’s no one to see their transgression?” His hands have moved, one to the small of her back, the other to her collarbone, just above her left breast. “What if it’s just him and her, and they can do whatever they like, and no one will be the wiser?” 

Thalia’s heart races. “I— ah, it’s hard — to say—”

He pushes her against the stone wall and kisses her. He tastes of rainwater and smells, faintly, of the woodsmoke that wafted off that morning’s campfire. The weight of him against her through damp fabric feels both exciting and dangerous. She worries he can tell she’s never done this before, but with a groan he deepens the kiss, the hand squeezing her breast, and she realizes that perhaps he doesn’t care. She’s not sure she does either. 

She tangles her fingers in the wet hair at the nape of his neck and tests out leaning into him as they kiss. She feels him respond immediately, and knows with a thrill of trepidation they really could do anything they wanted — who would bear witness? The desolate sand? 

“—Bloody fuck.” Blackwall tears himself away with a violent wrench, leaving Thalia grasping for the wall behind her, dizzy.

“I’m sorry— did I— do something wrong?” She rakes the hair from her eyes, her desire curdling in her belly. 

“We shouldn’t be doing this,” Blackwall growls. 

“That is, I think, what I was trying to say earlier.” Is this a joke? Thalia feels a strange desire to laugh. “But you were going on about cheese wheels…”

“You’ve no idea how enticing you are, do you?” His voice sounds, somehow, both reverent and repulsed. “How bloody enchanting?” 

Thalia does not know how to answer that. 

He cackles again, though the mirth is gone, and turns away, scrubbing the water from his face with his palm. Thalia reaches forward, taking his elbow, and tries to think of what to say that won’t wreck everything. 

[astraphone]

if you give it a name, then it’s already won

1.5k, blackwall/cadash. after the breach is sealed, the man who calls himself blackwall shares a moment and a dance with the herald of andraste.

Hours before it is lost, there is dancing in Haven.

Blackwall isn’t with the Herald as she and the mages close the Breach, but even down in the village it’s obvious the moment she succeeds. With a blaze of light and energy, the sky stitches itself back together before his very eyes. For the first time in months, the green, angry menace above settles. Scarred, still, a reminder of what happened here, but quiet at last.

The villagers have already begun drinking by the time the Herald returns from the temple. A wild cheer erupts at her approach, and though Blackwall intends to congratulate her, he quickly loses sight of her in a gaggle of admirers. Probably for the best, that. Tonight is for her, and she hardly needs him interrupting her festivities.

That thought leaves a bitter taste in his mouth, and he hurries to find himself a drink before he can dwell too much on things that aren’t for him. Today was a victory, for the Inquisition and for the world. He’ll focus on that, not on the way he’s itching to find the Herald in the crowd, to see her grin up at him when their eyes meet, to run his hands over her and—

Well. So much for not dwelling on it.

The fact of the matter is, they’ve been... flirting. He’s almost certain she isn’t serious; she flirts with him like it’s a light-hearted reflex, just part of her charm, and he should know better than to respond in kind. Easier said than done, though, when their banter comes so easily, when she smirks when she catches him watching her, when he hears her laugh as they take down demons together, all exhilarated adrenaline.

He’s not courting her. He hardly knows her, really, and he does know full-well how unworthy he is of even attempting such a thing. But it’s a pleasant fantasy to indulge in from time to time, that a woman like her might see something in him, of all people. 

“There you are.”

Blackwall just about jumps out of his skin. As if summoned by his thoughts of her, the Herald of Andraste herself stands at his side. She’s changed out of her armor into casual clothes, carrying a drink in one hand and a half-eaten plate of food in the other. Her face is still smudged with what must be soot from the Temple, and he pushes down the urge to reach out and wipe it off for her. She looks tired, he thinks.

“I haven’t seen you all night,” she says. “Was starting to think you’re avoiding me.”

“Never, my lady,” he manages once he finds his tongue. “Are you enjoying the festivities?”

“Sure, as long as they keep the ale flowing.”

The mug in her hand looks nearly untouched, but he decides against pointing that out.

“I believe congratulations are in order,” he says instead. “You did a great thing tonight.”

She smiles, but there's something almost sad about it—and when did he become so good at reading her expressions? “My hand did, you mean. And the mages.” She seems to catch herself, looking inexplicably annoyed for a moment before continuing. “But—you’re right. We did good.” 

“Are you alright?” He ventures.

“Sure as stone. Why?”

“I suppose I expected you to be celebrating. You did, after all, just accomplish what we’ve all been hoping for.”

“I know that,” she snaps, then sighs. “Sorry. Just tired.”

“You don’t have to talk to me," he says slowly. "But I will listen, if you do.” 

She looks at him for a moment, as if deciding whether she wants to say anything, then seems to come to a decision. “I’m fine. Just thinking about what happens next, now that I’ve done my part.”

“I’m no expert, but I don’t get the impression that this whole mess is over. Do you?”

“No. But they brought me in to close the Breach. Half the Chantry still wants me in chains, and I’m fairly certain the Carta will tell me to sod right off if I go crawling back, so…” She grimaces. "It's Inquisition or dust for me, I think. I just hope I still have a job now my bit's done."

"The Inquisition would be mad to let the Herald of Andraste go. And regardless, surely you realize you're far more to these people that just your mark."

She glances down at the mark in question, still sparking with light underneath the leather glove she wears. "Still hard to believe sometimes. All this for someone like me." "Breach or no, the people still need you. The Inquisition still needs you." And then, because he's been drinking and he's feeling rather bold, he adds, "And, for what it's worth, I still want you. Here, I mean. I still want you here, helping."

She raises one scarred eyebrow at him, pointedly enough that he feels himself blush. "Right."

He'll gladly put his foot in his mouth a thousand times, if it brings back that little half-grin of hers. Seeing a ghost of it now, he gestures out towards the gathered crowd of dancers. “Come on. Tonight is for you; it would be a shame if you didn't enjoy it."

The Herald snorts, a surprised and undignified thing that makes him grin. “What, you want to dance? I've been told I have two left feet, you know."

"I'll be the judge of that, my lady. If you'll allow me."

"Oh, fuck it." She tips her mug back and downs her drink with impressive speed for someone her size.  "Lead the way."

He extends a hand to her and she takes it with a smirk. This is foolish, he knows; just about all of Haven is out here tonight, and people will talk. She hardly needs that kind of rumor on her plate. But once her hand is in his, he’ll be damned if he lets go.

With a half-bow towards her, he leads her into a dance. He’s never danced with a dwarf before, and has to adjust a bit for her height, but it’s easy to get used to her. As though all that time spent twirling around ridiculous Orlesian ballrooms a lifetime ago was merely a lead-up to her.   

Despite her initial protests, the Herald is a fast learner, and soon she’s laughing breathlessly as he spins her. He finds that he doesn’t care about the people watching, the whispers that will surely come, the voice in the back of his head telling him he doesn't deserve this; in this moment, she's the only thing that matters.

The dance is over too soon, and as they come to a halt they're both smiling like a pair of fools.

"How'd I do?" The melancholy of a few moments earlier is vanished from her face now, her eyes bright and shining with mirth.

"You're a natural, Lady Cadash." Caught up in the moment, acting more on instinct than anything else, he catches one of her hands in his and presses it to his lips.

Too far. He knows it instantly, as her eyes snap up to meet his, open wide with surprise. He drops her hand and takes a hasty step backwards, but she follows, so close they’re nearly pressed against each other. It would be damnably easy to do something unwise in this moment. She’s closed most of the distance herself; all he has to do is lean down and brush his lips against hers.

No. He shakes his head to help clear it, although he can't quite bring himself to move away again. “I—I forget myself.”

The Herald's voice is low, meant just for him. “I think I like it when you forget yourself, Warden Blackwall.”

The moment is broken with the sound of that name. He’s long-since gotten used to it, thinks of it more than he thinks of the name he was born with, and on most days hearing it reminds him of the sort of man he wants to be. Tonight, it’s a reminder of why he shouldn’t be doing this. The Herald of Andraste, this remarkable woman with the world at her feet, deserves far better than a lying, murderous fraud.

He takes another step back, and this time she doesn't follow. "I'm sorry,” he mutters.

He thinks he might see disappointment flash briefly on her face, but she only shrugs. “Don’t apologize. This was the best part of my night.”

“Given what you’ve accomplished tonight, perhaps you need to reevaluate your priorities, my lady.”

He means to say it lightheartedly, but he must have struck a nerve, judging by the way her eyes narrow. "Perhaps you need to figure out what you want, Warden," she says sharply. "Come find me if you do."

She stalks off, and he watches her go. She's joined by Cassandra a moment later, and he turns away.

Maker, he’d wanted to kiss her. He almost had kissed her, and she’d looked at him like she’d wanted him to. She's wrong; he knows exactly what he wants, he's just desperately fighting a losing battle against it. 

When the alarm bell starts ringing, it's almost a relief.

[sweetjulieapples]

"Dear Commander" - Chapter Ten: The Things You Find In Ferelden

Cullen x Trevelyan

AO3 MASTERLIST

The Herald and her companions search The Hinterlands and things get a little heated in Haven.

The screams became distant and the explosions that echoed in the valley gave way to the sound of leaves crunching underfoot. Birds sang sweet melodies and trees rustled with a gentle breeze. It was incredible how untouched and peaceful this little pocket of land had remained amongst the chaos of war.

Dorian was the first to break the silence of the group as they trudged up the mountain. “I must admit, Cassandra, I've never heard of these ‘Seekers of Truth’."

“ Why would you?” Cassandra replied. She was walking a little further ahead of the others and didn’t bother to face Dorian when she spoke. “ They do not exist in Tevinter.”

“But what are they? Some manner of super-Templar? Is this one of those Southern secrets, like proper hygiene?” Dorian and Juliette exchanged a grin and they waited for Cassandra to react.

A faint grunt of frustration could be heard before she answered, “Once, we worked from the shadows, monitoring Templars and mages alike.”

“Ah. That clearly worked out well.”

“Dorian!”, Juliette said under her breath with a gasp. He just smiled, proudly.

“Your glibness does you no credit,” Cassandra muttered and began to walk faster. “The Mage Rebellion was beyond even our power to control.”

“Good job, Tevinter! Now she’s shot off even faster. I’m struggling to keep up as it is.” Juliette whined.

“You’ll live, Lady Herald,” he smirked.

“That’s it! I’m pulling the dwarf card,” Varric said, jogging ahead. “Hey, Seeker! Wanna slow it down for those of us with shorter legs?”

Juliette’s smile lingered while she watched Varric and Cassandra move further ahead. She faced Dorian, seeing a long awaited opportunity. “Dorian?” she spoke quietly.

“Ooh, hushed whispers,” he replied with excitement. “What, pray tell, secrets has our Herald to share?”

“None. I wanted to ask something of you?”

“I’m listening.”

“Could you, by chance, happen to help me… fight?” Juliette cringed, awkwardly.

“Aren’t you already training?”

“Yeah,” Juliette scoffed. “With one of Cullen’s friends. An ex-Templar teaching a mage combat? It’s just not right.”

“Cullen has friends?” Dorian asked dramatically. “You are correct, that is not right.”

Juliette playfully shoved his shoulder. “That’s not what I mean. “ She drew in a deep breath and continued walking ahead. “I just feel like I’ve been set up for failure. It’s magic that I should be fighting with. I tried asking Solas for advice…” She looked up at Dorian and a faint smile swept cross her face. “Well, I stopped listening after a while.”

“Hmm,” he thought out loud, drawing out the humming noise.

“Oh, come on! I’ve seen how you…” She waved her hands around, mimicking his moves. “What you do with your staff - it’s mesmerizing!”

“Brilliance just can’t be taught!”

“Oh, please Dorian!”

“Oh, those puppy eyes, Herald!” He mocked, stepping closer to her. He reached his hand to her head and gently pulled out a twig that was tangled in her hair. Juliette’s eyes widened with surprise when she noticed what he was doing. “You’re adorable. I was almost convinced to help you.”

Following the map that Leliana had marked, the group arrived at the top of the hill. Before them, a lake shimmered like a sheet of glass in the afternoon sun. The area seemed uninhabited , save for a small, run-down cabin just off the lake.

“I can hear voices,” Cassandra said, reaching for her sword. “This must be the spot.”

As they drew closer, they witnessed what seemed to be soldiers training.

“Remember how to carry your shield. You’re not hiding, you're holding.”

Cassandra looked to Juliette as though inviting her to act. She nodded to Cassandra and drew in a deep breath. “Blackwall!” she called out. “Warden Blackwall?”

The man spun around in an instant and charged towards Juliette, sword drawn. “You’re not…” he snapped hastily. He hesitated and lowered his sword once looking at her. “How do you know my —”

The sudden whistle of arrows soaring through the air halted his words and with precise movement, he lifted his shield, catching the arrows that narrowly missed the Herald’s face. Juliette released a high pitched gasp, startled by the noise. Emerging behind the trees were several men, archers and swordsmen alike.

“That’s it!” he yelled at her. “Help or get out! We’re dealing with these idiots first!”

Barely a moment had passed when Cassandra tore past them, out for blood. Juliette retreated , moving towards Dorian with her staff in hand. She watched in awe as Blackwall effortlessly cut men down with a single swing of his sword. “I wasn’t here to fight!” he screamed out above the noise. Focusing on the outer edges of the battle zone, Juliette channeled weak bursts of flame from her staff.

“Alright, I’ll oblige.” Dorian yelled to Juliette. “For a circle trained mage, you’re quite shit at magic aren’t you?”

“You don’t think I already know that?!” she called back to him, not once taking her eyes off the fight.

“Practice over theory. Follow my lead!” Dorian moved forward, crouching in a stealth position. With a sway to the left, he swung his staff into the back of the head of a mercenary. Before the man could react, Juliette attacked him, copying Dorian’s move perfectly. That second whack to the head had him out cold. She squealed in surprise, unable to believe what she had just done. “That’s it!” Dorian shouted. “Now, this!” He moved from side to side, twisting his staff at the wrists.

“It’s like dancing!” Juliette said, beaming with a smile. She was conjuring controlled fireballs with precise accuracy!

“But better, yes?” Dorian grinned. As their attacker’s clothing went up in flames, Dorian threw his head back and laughed manically. “I could do this all day!”

Emerging from the smoke, Blackwall pierced his sword into the ground and knelt beside the final man to fall. “Sorry Bastards.” Juliette quickly adjusted her coat and smoothed back her hair, sweeping off ash. She walked over just as Blackwall had finished dismissing the men that he was training. She heard the very last of his orders; “Go back to your families - you’ve saved yourselves.” Immediately, he turned his attention back to Juliette. “You’re no farmer. How do you know my name? Who are you?”

“I know your name because I’m an agent of The Inquisition.” She placed her hands on her hips, feeling a surge of confidence after the fight. Gaining control over her magic in such a way was exhilarating! “ I’m rather curious about the disappearance of the Wardens and how that could potentially coincide with the murder of The Divine.”

Blackwall began to pace back and forth while she talked. She couldn’t tell if he was nervous or just agitated. Either way, their sudden appearance had taken him by surprise. “Makers balls!” he shouted with a gruff voice. His lack of formality was refreshing. “The Wardens and The Divine, that can’t …no.” He stared at Juliette with piercing eyes. They looked grey, with hints of blue and she thought that they were beautiful as much as they were intimidating. The lines around his eyes deepened as he inspected her closer. “No. You’re asking so you don’t really know.” He had called her bluff, yet she still stood with bravado. “We disappear , that’s what we do. Job done, gone, right?”

“You tell me. You’re The Warden,” she replied.

“No Warden killed The Divine. Our purpose isn’t political.”

“Slow down, I’m not accusing you…not yet anyway.” She looked around, grasping at straws mentally to plan her next move. “Where’s the rest of you?”

“I haven’t seen any Warden for months. I travel alone, recruiting.”

“Oh, alone.” Juliette looked over and Cassandra hoping for some kind of reassurance that she was handling this properly. Instead, The Seeker eyed Blackwall intensely, hand hovering above her sword. Juliette continued, “Seems a rather lonely place to be training conscripts.”

“There’s no blight, no need to properly train.”

“Then why bother. Why are you out here?”

Blackwall pointed to the bodies lying in the grass. “These idiots forced this fight, so I conscripted their victims. Next time, they won’t need me.”

“Rather heroic.” The sarcastic compliment bounced off him like sunlight to armor.

“Grey Wardens can inspire. Make you better than you think you are.”

Something clicked. He spoke with such self-righteousness that it had reminded her of an Enchanter she once knew. Talented yet self-assured to a fault. Juliette hesitated a moment, weighing up her options and wondering if this new idea that flashed into her mind was worth the risk. She tilted her head to the side and lowered her voice. “Why haven’t you gone missing like the rest of them?”

“Well, maybe I was going to.”

“Well, why don’t you?”

He held his stare, intense and unwavering. A small smile tugged at Juliette’s lips. “Do you go around interrogating all men that you find wandering Ferelden?” he asked her, his serious expression beginning to soften.

“Only the ones with impressive swordsmanship. Though I wonder, what could I do with you ?”

“My job was to recruit on my own. I planed to stay that way for months. Years.”

Juliette clasped her hands together. “Well, thank you, Warden Blackwall.” She stepped closer and leaned towards him. With barely more than a whisper she asked, “now where does this leave us?” With knitted brows, Blackwall watched her walk away.

“Inquisition!” he shouted. Juliette stopped and began to smirk. “Agent, did you say?”

She turned around and asked smugly, “Yes, Warden Blackwall?”

“Hold a moment!” He hurried towards her. “The Divine’s dead, the sky is torn…events like these…thinking we’re absent is almost as bad as thinking we’re involved.”

“You are absent though, are you not?”

“No. I don’t have to be. Maybe you need a Warden, maybe you need me.”

“You are but one Grey Warden. What could you do for me?” she folded her arms and smiled, awaiting his response.

“Save the fucking world if pressed.”

Her eyelids fluttered and she stifled laughter. If only he knew that he was speaking to The Herald of Andraste. Perhaps, she was begging to think, that he’d speak to her just the same if he had known.

“Maybe this isn’t a blight but it’s bloody well a disaster,” he added.

“As I am well aware. Tell me, have you any tales of demons falling from the sky? Slain heroically by your hand?” There was a playful glint in her eye when she spoke. “Is that something you’re experienced in?”

“No, but tell me who is?”

She laughed abruptly at the question. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” She extended her unmarked hand. “Warden Blackwall, The Inquisition accepts your offer.”

“Good to hear.” He met her handshake before she turned to walk once again. “This Warden walks with the Inquisition.”

“And The Herald of Andraste, it seems.”

With his hands on his hips and a squint to his eyes, Master Dennet looked up at the breach in the sky. “Maker! It’s worse than I thought!” He turned back to Cullen, who was standing by him at the stable. “I hope you lot can close it.”

“As do I,” Cullen replied. “Aside from the breach, how are you finding Haven?”

“It’s groaning under the weight,” Dennet replied bluntly. “It wasn't built for this. But we'll make it serve.”

“That we will. I’ll see to it,” Cullen said, proudly. He looked to the horses. “These are a fine addition to our stables.”

“I hope it’s enough for The Herald.”

Cullen chuckled, “She’ll be pleased, I assure you.”

“After what she’s done for Ferelden, it’s an honor to be in her service.” Cullen smiled at Dennet’s remark. “Also, your men, Commander. I applaud their hard work on the watchtowers.”

“Thank you,” Cullen replied.

“It does feel good to be back at work,” Dennet said, picking up a bucket and resuming his duties. “I hope to speak with The Herald when she returns, to thank her myself.”

“I’ll send her your way at her earliest convenience,” Cullen nodded and began to walk away. You’ll be seeing her here a lot, no doubt, Cullen thought to himself with a smile.

Towards the end of the afternoon’s drills, Cullen allowed his lieutenant to take over. He had already heard that the Herald and accompanying party were approaching and was ready to slip away to greet them. The sound of The Lieutenant’s voice began to dull as Cullen’s focus drifted. A wistful smile tugged at his lips with the thought of Juliette’s reaction to seeing a full stable for the first time. She’d be so happy.

By the time that Cullen had started to approach The Herald at the gates, a small crowd had gathered to greet her. He froze in his tracks when he saw a man walk to the side of Juliette’s horse and offered her his hand, as Cullen had done himself just a week earlier.

Juliette shook her head and with a soft giggle said, “I’m quite capable of dismounting a horse, you know.”

Blackwall responded with rich laughter. “I know, believe me. Although I don’t want The Herald of Andraste to think that I’m no gentleman.”

Dorian stood beside Cullen, looking highly amused. “It appears that this time you are too late, Commander.”

“I don’t know what you are talking about,” Cullen mumbled.

“No, of course not,” Dorian grinned. “Tell me. Have you read my report?”

Cullen groaned in frustration. “Can you try not to embellish the truth in official documents, Dorian?”

“Everything that I said was true, Commander. Including the part where our lovely Lady Herald’s doe eyes sparkled in the sunlight —”

“And the Warden fell to his knees?” Cullen let out a short, mirthless chuckle, his eyes rolling slightly as he shook his head. “I feared for a moment that your report somehow became mixed with Varric’s.”

“No, it did really happen! She just walked right up to him in the midst of battle.” Dorian smirked and spoke dramatically, “It was fascinating to watch!”

Cullen straightened his posture and quietly cleared his throat as Juliette walked towards them. “Good afternoon, Herald,” he said with a nod of his head.

Juliette smiled sweetly. Cullen was relieved to find her in a good mood for a change. “Hello, Commander…Oh!” she gasped with wide eyes at the sight behind him. Cullen’s face lit up with a smile. Her reaction was just as he expected. He slowly waved his hand in the direction of the stables with a knowing smirk. She looked at him, her face aglow with excitement. “When?” she asked, her voice soft and breathy.

“Yesterday,” Cullen replied. “Master Dennet is eager to speak with you, I believe.”

“I shant keep him waiting!” she exclaimed.

Cullen watched as she hurried towards the stables, dodging workers and pilgrims that stood in her path. His smile faltered when he noticed Dorian looking at him closely with folded arms and raised eyebrows.

“You can leave now,” Cullen muttered before walking away himself.

The wind was strong that night at Haven. From inside Juliette’s cabin, the sound was a constant low rumble causing the timber walls to creak with each gust. The slow burning flame of the fireplace flickered light across the room as Juliette thrashed about in the middle of a nightmare.

I can hear it. The clang of armor. Templars aren’t hard to miss.

“Jonathan?” my voice is croaky and faint. “What’s the matter? Why aren’t you in the dining hall?”

He’s just standing and staring. It’s frightening me!

“Jon?”

He takes a seat on the bench beside me. I’m terrified that they’ll see us!

“I’m sorry,” his voice is sad and regretful.

“What do you mean?”

He grabs my hands and again his voice over and over “I’m sorry.”

I’m standing, stepping away. “Why are you sorry? What have you done?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Jonathan?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Stop saying that!” Tears are falling and my nose is tingling. My mind is racing and my breath…it’s…

I can’t breathe!

Rustling in the corner, light shining through cracks in the wall! A boy is crouched.

“Who are you? Why are you here?” My voice is screeching, hurting my own ears.

He’s wearing a hat that is too big. Nobody wears hats here! His face is sunken, darkness under his eyes. He looks like death.

The stranger is scaring me!

“The pain in your eyes hurt him more than the blade.”

The boy has faded, his words still haunting.

The metallic rasp of a sword unsheathed. A cold blade against my neck.

“I’m sorry.”

Juliette woke to the sound of her own screams. Shaking, she brought her fingertips to her neck and traced a line where the blade once rested.

The next morning, Cullen stood still amongst the lively field of sparring recruits. His eyes caught a glimpse of Juliette leaving the gate. She dragged her feet through the snow and in her hand she carelessly hauled an Inquisition shield. Her head was down as she walked, her shoulders slumped. She looked up, squinting and swatting snow from her eyes. Their gaze met for just a heartbeat before he turned away, leaving Cullen with lingering embarrassment. He didn’t mean to stare. She dropped the shield to the ground and made her way towards him.

When Cullen looked back up he noticed her weaving past the soldiers, almost falling over as she dodged their violent movements. His instinct was to lunge forward and grab her. Pull her out of harm’s way. Normally he’d reprimand anyone who’d walk into the training zone out of respect for his soldiers and the person endangering themself. He couldn’t speak that way to The Herald. He let her go.

It wasn’t long before she stood before him, her face blank of emotion. He wanted nothing more than to ask her if she was alright. Everything about her appearance suggested otherwise. He knew all too well the look of a person lacking sleep. He feared that when speaking to her he’d reveal too much. Dorian’s smug attitude the day prior had him acting cautiously.

“Is there anything I should know?” she asked flatly.

“Not at the present,” Cullen replied, a tone to match hers. They held eye contact as the buzz of sparring and wind circled around them. Juliette blinked then turned, stomping back to the shield that she had earlier tossed aside. “Another time then?” he muttered with a sigh.

The training session with The Lieutenant didn’t last long that day. Juliette stumbled and groaned her way through the drills. Her attitude was starting to irritate both Cassandra and The Lieutenant.

“You’re not even trying!” he snapped, shoving her backwards.

“I’m tired of running in circles!” she yelled. “It doesn’t make sense!”

“It’s about discipline, something they clearly don’t teach in Ostwick.”

“I’m done!” she growled. “Take your stupid sword!” she hurled it towards the ground.

“Pick it up!” he commanded.

“No, I’ve had enough. I’m not a soldier.”

“But you are, Herald,” he shouted. “You go out there and you fight! You need to know how to do it properly, lives are in your hands!”

“Then why are you insisting I use a sword?” she tugged at her hair in frustration. By this point, Cullen had heard the shouting and walked over to see what was happening. Cassandra glared with folded arms. “Tell me, Lieutenant! When am I ever going to need to use one? For the love of Andraste, I’m a mage!” She turned to Cassandra and Cullen and yelled, “When will you people get that through your thick skulls. I’m not a Templar!”

“Herald!” Cassandra scolded.

Juliette ignored her and continued, ”I should be practicing with a staff and an experienced mage! Bring me Dorian or Solas! Oh, you know, you have probably the best Enchanter in all of Thedas sitting on her arse in the Chantry doing nothing!” He voice was begging to break and she was pushing back tears.

Cassandra looked to Cullen, “Do you want to step in?”

“Me?” he asked with confusion. “I…I doubt she’ll take orders from me.”

“Herald!” Cassandra shouted again. “You need to calm dow—”

Everyone froze at the sudden sound of flames erupting as they engulfed a nearby training dummy. Through blurry eyes, Juliette watched in shock while it fell a part , the fire extinguishing in a hiss as it crashed into the snow. Tears rolled down her cheeks and she massaged the fingers of her right hand with her thumb in disbelief. It had been a very long time since she had conjured fire without the aid of an instrument to channel it properly. With rapid breaths, she turned around to witness The Lieutenant and surrounding soldiers eyeing her suspiciously, swords in their hands at the ready. She looked to Cassandra who had stood gawking with her mouth open and then Cullen. He was staring at her, intensely with narrow eyes. He gripped his sword tightly.

“Drop your weapons! Now!” Cassandra screamed. She aggressively threw her arm towards the tents and The Lieutenant obeyed her gesture to leave. Juliette and Cullen held their gaze, both frozen in shock. “Commander!” Cassandra said firmly. He was the only person to still have his sword drawn.

Standing between the two, she first looked to Juliette, noticing the way that she shook with each breath. Both her and Cullen looked terrified. Cassandra slowly approached Cullen and gently placed her hand on the fur that sat atop his shoulder. “Cullen,” she said, this time with a much more gentle tone to her voice. He didn’t respond, instead holding his unwavering gaze. Slowly, Cassandra pried the sword from his hand and stepped back. “There’s no danger,” she softly spoke. His eyes snapped to Cassandra and he looked down to his sword that was now in her hands. Without saying a word, Cullen turned and walked away.

[theluckywizard]

In the Shattering of Things, Ch. 51: Riding Away from it All

Summary: Mired in ruminations, Rose hits the road to Crestwood with her companions, who, aware that some manner of romantic catastrophe has occurred, do their very best to distract her. On their way, Rose encounters her first rift since she left Redcliffe Castle and must face whether the anchor will continue to remain stable. Fic Summary: Lady Rose Trevelyan's idle, aristocratic life blinks out in a haze of irrelevance when the breach destroys the Conclave. She may be soft and coddled when she joins the Inquisition, but there's a fierceness inside her she's yet to fully recognize. Armed with only a few relevant skills and the mark that makes her a legend, she is thrust onto a path delivering hope where it’s long been scorched away and finds comfort in the grumpy, handsome stick in the mud charged with her protection and training. As she stumbles her way across southern Thedas, she begins to realize she's tangled at the center of machinations she barely understands, and she's not alone in that. Enter Hawke. Excerpt:

The battle ends so abruptly that I wander around the field bewildered, looking for targets that have tucked themselves away. With a full complement of companions and the addition of Hawke, the demons are vanquished before I’ve gone through a quarter of my quiver.

But I was never really worried about the demons.

The tear in the veil is unusually low to the ground, so low that I find myself staring into the cloudy green depths wondering what lies beyond, wondering whether another demon will climb out. The anchor feels alive, humming in anticipation as I will myself toward it, flanked closely by Blackwall and Cassandra in case of further company. But I can’t bring myself to open the anchor and connect, instead, sinking to my knees on the ground beneath it and scrubbing my hands over my face. My fear compresses the moment and dulls my thoughts to a murmur. Or perhaps it’s just the sound of my companions talking in the background.

“Anytime now, Roses,” calls Sera. I hear a smack and an ‘ow’ somewhere behind me.

The sudden hand at my shoulder and then another on my forearm feels like Cullen for a fleeting moment. Pulling me back from panic, pulling me into the present. But it’s Solas crouching beside me, reminding me of how much I’ve accomplished and how the closure of the Breach has surely calmed the outsized reactions to rifts.

“I can feel the rift in the scars. Buzzing,” I lament. “I know it’s going to hurt.”

“But it may not,” he says, his voice as even as ever. “We’ll all be right here for you, Inquisitor. You discharged the anchor this morning, yes?”

I had. Cassandra and I had slipped out of camp when only the mess crew was up, and had searched for the most lifeless portion of surrounding forest to open the rift. My guilt over the birds and rodents that were swept into it still festers hours later.

“There’s no point in dilly dallying,” I conclude, rising to my feet and gazing up into the green. “If it’s going to hurt, it doesn’t matter if it’s now or later.” I glance behind me at my companions, all of whom stare back at me with furrowed brows and shift on their feet.

Will it tear me asunder, the scars along my arms like cracks before a collapse?

But then, I’ve been a breath away from death so many times already. What’s one more?

I pull my glove off and raise my hand, pushing the anchor open the way I’d learn to and it seizes me, jostling me as the tether between it and myself pulls taut. The marks on my hand illuminate like a pathway for the anchor's energy. I will the process along and glance to my left to assess the expressions of my friends. Cassandra’s stricken face tells me enough.

The entire length of the scar-like streaks must be glowing.

Read the rest here!

Start from the Beginning

Tagging DAFF Crew:

@warpedlegacy | @rakshadow | @rosella-writes | @effelants | @bluewren | @breninarthur | @ar-lath-ma-cully | @dreadfutures | @ir0n-angel | @inquisimer | @crackinglamb | @nirikeehan | @oxygenforthewicked | @mogwaei | @exalted-dawn-drabbles | @melisusthewee | @blarrghe | @agentkatie

[sxrensxngwrites]

The Inner Circle Crushing on Someone from a Different Background -- Part Three

this request comes from anon, who asks: 'Head canons for the main dragon age squard (if you feel up to it of course!!!!) About them crushing on someone from a different background (example: cullen and someone rich)'

I ended up splitting this up because I got carried away... my bad. If you want any of these to be revisited or you want me to go into more detail, feel free to shoot me another ask! The same can be said if you want DA characters from different games.

Part One (Blackwall, Cassandra, Cole) Part Two (Cullen, Dorian, The Iron Bull) Part Three (Josephine, Leliana, Sera)

JOSEPHINE:

The Montilyet family, while of note, had to carefully tend to their money and businesses in the aftermath of being barred from Orlais. Still, Josephine and her siblings regularly interacted as (and with) members of the nobility in Antiva and Orlais. Josephine herself, while a romantic, is particularly understanding of many different aspects of life and knowledgeable on things outside of the upper class.

Station in society has very little to do with Josephine falling in love. For her, it comes down to a matter of character. She has a soft spot for the romantic, but places good-deeds and honor above all else. Meeting someone of a more humble origin isn’t necessarily how she expected to fall in love, but somehow she’s enamored with a stablehand for the Inquisition. They’re very kind, always tending to the requests she has within record time, and respecting those around them regardless of occupation.

Josephine falls hard. At first she denies it; she has very little time for romance when there are holes in the sky, plus someone back in Orlais has already spoken for her. Yet, she can’t help but be consumed by the gentle stable hand–and the concept that their love might be forbidden. She doesn’t give into fairytales as easily as her sister does, however, so she dismisses her feelings away as a crush. To her, it’s not only illogical to fall in love during wartime, but it’s also improbable that she would get to pick her spouse as the eldest of her family that borders on ruin.

It takes some meddling from Leliana for Josephine to confess her feelings. After that, it’s only a matter of time before her beloved stablehand somehow catches wind of it. They’d never believe that Lady Josephine would ever reciprocate their feelings, so they didn’t dare try anything. But, with rumors of her feeling the same, it was now or never. It takes a while before Josephine is comfortable with the concept of a long term relationship during such trying times. However, if they can fall in love while holes are in the sky, then telling her family and other suitors should be a piece of cake.

LELIANA:

Leliana grew up across Thedas, parts of her life being contributed to Orlais and others to Ferelden. Having been a bard in the Orlesian court and a Sister in the Chantry, Leliana is influenced by a number of places and cultures. She grew up being tossed from place to place, never having much of a clue of where she would land next.

When she meets someone that catches her interest, she never anticipates that they’ll be so different from her in origin. She likely anticipates that they’ll also have been raised in the church, but instead it’s quite the opposite. They’re oblivious. They don’t seem to have much care or awareness of the world around them, only interacting with the world that they directly make contact with.

When Leliana first meets them, I think they frustrate her quite a bit. Leliana has always had to be very careful with every choice she made as a young woman, so when she meets someone who she sees as “careless” she wants nothing to do with them. She keeps her distance, making sure that they operate through Leliana, Cullen, or even the Inquisitor. Yet, she can’t deny that they’re quite attractive–even if their actions seem so odd to her.

After a close call in the field, they’re humbled quite a bit and become aware of the stakes of Thedas that Leliana had warned them of. Following said close call, they become more conscious of their actions and try to be more careful on the field. This change probably makes Leliana’s romantic interest deeper, rather than it just being physically attractive. They even approach Leliana for advice–an action that moves Leliana and makes her consider how they’ve changed. It takes a while for either of them to be fully comfortable with one another, but after some humbling experiences the two draw closer.

SERA:

Variety is the spice of life for Sera. Everything new or different is automatically better in her book. She seeks adventure in the mundane and hardly ever takes the easy way out. In fact, anything similar to her upbringing is a little stale to her in some way. However, Sera’s past is a bit of a mixed bag. Her early life was spent in an elven alienage before she was taken in by a human woman. So anything outside of the realm of Ferelden qualifies as different. Yet, Sera rebukes her own connection to the upper class–citing it as her cause to protect the “little people” of Thedas.

Upon meeting someone of the upper class, Sera would quickly group them in with all of the other nobility that she and the Friends of Red Jenny hate. Someone with such a high position and influence isn’t to be trusted in her eyes, especially when they could turn at a moment's notice. She keeps her distance, even reporting them to the Inquisitor on several occasions–so that they can keep an eye on them, of course. Sera even plays pranks on them since they make such an obvious target for the Friends of Red Jenny. However, as Sera watches from the shadows she begins to reconsider her opinion.

They’re of noble birth and have a substantial amount of money, but they use it in such a way that many other powerful people do not. They support the people of Haven, and they help purchase blankets for the displaced villagers of the Hinterlands. In fact, most of their money goes to people who need it more rather than keeping for themselves. Sera wants to change her perspective entirely, but a deep part of her is afraid that it’s all an elaborate trick being played on her.

She confronts them in the middle of the night, even drawing her bow in their face. Yet, they don’t seem afraid in the slightest. In fact, they seem relieved that it’s Sera. It takes a bit of discussion for Sera to put her bow away, and even longer for her to realize that she might’ve been wrong about them. Those seeds of doubt develop further into romance, but her eventual partner doesn’t have an issue using their station to support the people of Thedas.

PART ONE | PART TWO | PART THREE

[daitranscripts]

Blackwall Romance: Wicked Eyes and Wicked Hearts

After the Ball

Blackwall Masterpost

Wicked Eyes and Wicked Hearts Masterpost First: Gaining an Invitation Previous: Liaison to the Inquisition

Blackwall walks out onto the balcony after Morrigan leaves and joins the PC at the railing.

Blackwall: There are at least a dozen young lords and ladies hoping for some time with the hero of the night. Yet, here you are. Alone. Care to share your thoughts?

Dialogue options:

Pleased: Things went well. [1]

Stoic: It’s been a long night. [2]

Sad (Celene assassinated): I wish I’d saved Celene. [3]

Sad (Gaspard executed): The poor grand duke. [4]

Anxious: I worry what this will bring. [5]

1 - Pleased: Things went well. PC: No complaints. Everything worked according to plan. Blackwall: You saved Orlais. You have earned some time for yourself.

2 - Stoic: It’s been a long night. PC: I’m just tired. This was a long night. Blackwall: You work too hard. I can see you wanting to get away from it all.

3 - Sad: I wish I’d saved Celene. PC: Having watched the empress die before my eyes… I’m not sure I made the right call. Blackwall: You did what you thought was right. That’s all any of us can do.

4 - Sad: The poor grand duke. PC: I wish I could have saved Duke Gaspard. Blackwall: You never do give up on people, no matter how lost they are.

5 - Anxious: I worry what this will bring. PC: Why do I suspect the events of this evening will only bring us more trouble later? Blackwall: You’re probably right. But we can save that worry for another day.

6 - Scene continues.

Blackwall: The band still plays. Might I have this dance, Lady Adaar Blackwall: The night isn’t over yet. May I have this dance, Lady Lavellan? Blackwall: There’s still some time left… Lady Cadash, may I have this dance? Blackwall: Before we leave, may I have this dance, Lady Trevelyan?

Blackwall offers the PC his hand.

Dialogue options:

General: Just stay with me. [7]

General: I would like to be alone. [8]

General: I just want to leave. [9]

General: Yes. [10]

7 - General: Just stay with me. PC: I don’t feel much like dancing right now. But I could use some company, if you don’t mind. Blackwall pulls them into a hug. [11]

8 - General: I would like to be alone. PC: I just need some time alone. Blackwall: Of course, my lady. Blackwall leaves. [11]

9 - General: I just want to leave. PC: Let’s just go. I’ve had enough of this place. Blackwall leads them back inside. [11]

10 - General: Yes. PC: I’d like that. They start dancing. Inquisitor: I didn’t know you danced. Blackwall: I did once, in another life. [11]

11 - Scene ends.

Next: The Divine Election

[energeticknight1993]

Restarting Inquisition again since I’m preparing myself for Dreadwolf. So met my Ex-Templar Two Handed Warrior, Hell!

Name: “Hell” Trevelyan (Traitor name given to him by the Templar Order so no one knows his real name)

Age: 28 (30 in Trespasser)

LI: Iron Bull

Weapon style: Two Handed

Specialization: Once a Templar always a Templar

Job: Inquisitor (Former Templar)

A-Team (Usual allies he brings): Iron Bull, Sera and Dorian

B-Team (The weird ones): Varric, Blackwall and Vivienne

Nickname(s): Kadan and Iris

Meaning behind them: His relationship with Iron Bull and the flower symbolize his role as Inquisitor (Wisdom and Power/ Message and Promise/ Faith and Hope) and just as a cruel joke that Hell is the girl in his and Bull’s relationship from Varric

What happened to him after Trespasser?

Hell was last spotted with the Chargers. Wanting to continuing helping the weak, he became the second in command and being the teams mage disrupting force with his Templar skills. He only wore a cloak, some heavy armor and a sword to defend himself but he knows his new family got his back. Within a couple of months after everything is at peace, both he and Iron Bull were married. No one knows where but both enjoyed it as he’ll never have to leave Bill’s side again.

Codex (Just a made up one for him)

—— Trevelyan was once in the order of the finest Templar. Slew abominations, send mages to their towers and even was above the order. I said was because he became a traitor to the order. He was spotted with apostates near Kirkwall saving them from the Templars of his group. When he slayed them, the Knight-Commander branded him a traitor. And since no one asked him for his real name, they branded him the name Hell. He wore the Templar armor made in black ore and red leather to call himself the Blackguard of the Order. Since then, Hell been traveling around Thedas saving every mage he could find until the events of the Conclave which he was the last survivor. —A Templar scout during the events of the Conclave—

Now he dawns the title Inquisitor to protect everyone, even those who hated him, from a bigger threat. Rifts closing from left and right. The Rebel mages sided with him as allies. Grey Wardens in the ranks. The Red Templar order being slain by his blade. No matter what odds that is faced in front of him, he’ll be prepared. And ladies, don’t bother flirting with Hell (I guess the name is stuck to him). He’s taken by the leader of the Bull Chargers, the Iron Bull. The high heavens acting like his sword (literally his blade’s name) and shield, he sworn in to defend Thedas until the end. —Varric after the events of Inquisition—

Random Party Banter I made up

Varric: So Hell I got a great nickname for you!

Hell: Oh boy wonder what’s mine is going to be? Hope something that isn’t vulgar.

Varric: Heck no! My mind never goes that dirty. How about Iris?

Hell: Eh? A…feminine nickname? You do realize I’m a dude right?

Varric: I know but the flower really speaks to you. It symbolize the faith, power and even promise to be the Inquisitor, the leader of the Inquisition.

Hell: Ok I see what your doing there, Varric. I think I’ll take it. Better than Ruffles and Curly…

Iron Bull: Uh…Kadan…I think Varric is calling you the girl in the relationship…

Hell: Ugh, VARRIC!!

Varric: (Laughs) Got you, and it’s sticking, Iris.

Hell: Maker give me strength…to not smite the dwarf.

Varric: It’s not my fault you were the dress in the relationship.

End Credits joke

Cassandra: Let see what you wrote about our Inquisitor, Hell; Varric. A blade shines like a brilliant light. Rainbow of colors before you see your death. A former Templar armor coated in red and black. Hell has come to defend anyone who threats him. Starting with the Red Templars who was foolish to stand against him. ‘Hear the words of the Maker as I smite you all into the deeps of the Deep Roads! For help me that I’m the Inquisitor!’ That’s…scarily accurate.

Yes, Hell became First Thaw and makes a bear joke lol

(I also played as a Mage Qunari so I’ll add info about Sordidus Adaar)

[cloudgazercadash]

15. Out of the followers/companions, who are they most comfortable around?

out of the canon inquisition companions it’d have to be sera, cole, vivienne, thom/blackwall, and solas. thora likes most of the inquisition companions (although with bull it takes until post-da:i in her game canon) but those five are the ones that hit the right combination of things.

her initial discomfort about sera stems from sera’s sometimes confusing speech patterns which take a bit for thora to grow accustomed to. sera keeps referring to people not-her as “people people,” too, which is just an odd phrase when thora was people people just a month or two ago at the time they met. in her companion verse i think they’d get along a lot sooner, quicker because there is none of that herald stuff to make the relationship stickier. my in-game headcanon for thora’s post-game involves sera being around, as thora does take her offer to be a jenny. sera is one of the companion relationships that persists beyond inquisition, without it being a long-distance friendship anyway.

cole it’s a similar reason to sera, plus her unfamiliarity with spirits. cole is literally the first one she’s met, and his speech patterns are even stranger. there may always be some discomfort with cole if she’s having a bad day, the thought of having something dredged up might put her on edge around him. but also with cole there’s absolutely zero judgment, and she also evolves into feeling the same about him? like, thora and cole are both people who are very different and yet very similar. when she keeps him a spirit she doesn’t completely understand why he’s happy, but she’s glad he is and was happy to support it.

i think vivienne is the outlier on this list b/c she’s sort of noble. not by birth, her parents were merchants and she’s a mage, but she carries herself like one. vivienne and thora share vastly different opinions on things such as the chantry and circles, things that might strain friendships typically, but also thora isn’t a mage. vivienne’s opinions are just that to her. it certainly does strain their relationship at first, but once you’re friends with vivienne she takes care of you. i can’t say the two are close emotionally but at the same time she does feel comfortable around vivienne.

then blackwall. although in rp this depends upon if the thom agrees to this, but thora sort of knows he’s a criminal before it all comes out. their conversations hint at that past too much for her to be completely oblivious to it, and wardens are known for being penitent criminals. he also doesn’t talk like a highborn lord, giving him some of the same initial comfort she gets from sera. the reveal that he’s not all who he says he is does harm that, but it doesn’t stay like that and i think by trespasser especially - once thom starts actively confronting his past - that discomfort would go away and they could be as they were.

but solas is probably her best friend in the inquisition and the one she’s most comfortable with. like with sera and cole, it does take adjustment. solas lives his life in a way that’s hard for her to grasp, but as she comes to understand him they get more comfortable with each other. most conversations about difficult decisions she has with him either before or after the fact, she’s not free of judgment like she is with cole, but the two end up in a friendship where both are comfortable calling the other. for her part, thora fails to fully grasp the personhood of spirits even after having it explained to her until well into da:i. and for his, well, we know what solas says about dwarves in canon. neither of them let this slide, but there was also always the potential for forgiveness and learning. thora being more emotionally open and touchy also pushes past some of solas’ walls. they’re not the sort of friends who are always all over each other, but if they’re both reading together she will prop herself up on his shoulder. and she gives lots of hugs. everyone in the inner circle gets a hug at least once.

[psalacanthea]

Naomi Hawke- Banter

I haven’t done one of these in a long time.  This is only partially done, I want to do 2 for each companion at least (if someone asks for more there will be more >.>).  But this was fun and I love it and you couldn’t stop me from doing more.

I wanted to tag ppl to do some but I thought maybe people wouldn’t be interested; if you think I’m wrong, let me know and next post I will tag you! (maybe with an OC x Character so it’s not so broad)

...

Dorian and Hawke

Dorian:  Champion, if I may?

Hawke:  What do you need, Mustache?

Dorian:  Oh no.  You do it too?

Hawke:  No, I forgot your name.  What do you need?

Dorian: It was- never mind.  I’ve been reading Varric’s book about you…

Hawke:  Let me guess.  Something is implausible.

Dorian:  Well, yes, but I was more wondering about the rather jarringly placed sex scene in the middle.  He says you gave permission.

Hawke:  Permission?  Oh, no.  We insisted.

Dorian:  Really.

Hawke:  Isabela made me draw diagrams for him, it was really detailed.  If you’re curious, I can try a reproduction tonight when we make camp.

Dorian:  I suddenly regret asking.

...

Dorian:  So you’re an artist?

Hawke:  With a blade.  In bed.  Also…on paper, yes.

Dorian:  Hmmh.  What’s your medium of choice?

Hawke:  Generally whatever’s close to hand.  I mostly draw plants.

Dorian:  Ah, so no dashing formal portraiture, then?

Hawke:  No.  I do draw all of Varric’s author portraits, though.  No matter how many times he asks me to stop.

...

Hawke and Cole

Cole:  Soft pink flowers on the pillow.  Her cheeks are red.  So hot.  She’s still not breathing.  Mother, where are you?

Hawke:  Is this normal?

Varric:  You get used to it.  Sorry.  Kid, maybe that’s not a great idea.

Cole:  Crying and wheezing.  Little flowers in the hot, hot water, little red cheeks.  She’s so heavy, but no one is coming.  No one ever comes.  If she dies, is it your fault?

Hawke:  I don’t like this.

Varric:  He means well.  I think.

Cole:  Why can’t she breathe?

Hawke:  It’s called croup.  She didn’t die.  Even though once I almost dropped her in the pot and made Bethany soup.

...

Cole:  You kill people before they know they’re dead!

Hawke:  They figure it out eventually.

Cole:  I didn’t know leaves could do that!

...

Hawke and Blackwall

Hawke:  So.  Blackthorn.

Blackwall:  Yes, my Lady?

Hawke: (Sighs.)

Blackwall:  …did I say something wrong?

Varric:  Don’t worry about it.  She wanted you to correct her.

Blackwall:  Why?

Hawke:  The joke is ruined now, and it doesn’t matter!

Varric: She was going to say she wanted to climb you like a tree.

Hawke: Thanks, Varric, you always make it slightly worse.

Varric: Happy to help.

...

Blackwall:  What was in that bottle you pulled out last night?

Hawke:  Amell Reserve Darktown Absinthe.

Blackwall:  I haven’t been drunk like that since I was first in my cups.

Hawke:  Thanks!  I make it myself.

Blackwall:  Don’t you brew poisons?

Hawke:  There’s more overlap than you’d think.  

...

Hawke and Varric

Varric: So.

Hawke:  Oh Maker, that voice.  Just come out with it.

Varric:  Sebastian tried to invade Kirkwall.

Hawke:  (Laughs.)  Of course he did.  Maybe after this I’ll pay a visit to Starkhaven.  Get a job in the kitchen.

Varric:  You could try diplomacy before poisoning your ex-boyfriend.

Hawke:  What happened to you?

...

Varric:  You okay?

Hawke:  If I said yes, would you believe me?

Varric:  Mmh, no.  I only ask to gauge how not okay you are.

Hawke:  We made the right choice, didn’t we?

Varric: We made a choice.

Hawke:  (Sighs.)  Right.

Varric:  We’re still here.  That’s gotta count for something.  Plus, I’ve got some candied chestnuts somewhere in the bottom of my pack.  Probably sticky, but it’s better than nothing.

Hawke:  I’d kiss you, but that stubble would chafe me.

Varric:  I haven’t heard any complaints.

Hawke:  Maker, you make the jokes so easy.

Varric:  That’s what I do, Hawke.  I set ‘em up, and you knock ‘em down.

Hawke:  Such a good wingman.

...

Hawke and Cassandra

Cassandra:  Champion.

Hawke:  You could call me Hawke.  Usually girls who look at me like that go for a more personal touch.

Cassandra:  I…what?

Hawke:  What is it?

Cassandra:  I was simply wondering if you would allow some questions.  In regards to Varric’s book.

Hawke:  Sure.  Everything’s exaggerated except for how good I am in bed, and how much of an infected gash-wound Petrice was.

Varric: (Laughs.)  She was the worst!

[kiastirling-fanfic]

Figured I'd mix it up this Friday for DADWC. Perhaps: trembling hands and running your finger down their spine and “You said you trusted me. What changed?” (A little something from all the bits and bobs. Happy Friday!)

@dadrunkwriting

I opted to go Blackwall/Cadash for this prompt.

Skyhold had become alien in the brief weeks since he stole away, finally revealing himself for the coward he had always been.

When he left, there had been revelry. The Empress lived, the Wardens were no longer under Corypheus’ thrall, temporarily exiled north until their continued freedom could be guaranteed, all the major plans of the enemy were thwarted. And Das- Inquisitor Cadash had spent the night in the hayloft with him.

He shouldn’t have done it. He shouldn’t have done a lot of things. Most things.

“Leave us.”

The Commander had made it no secret on the return journey just how many strings Lady Josephine had pulled to have him remanded into their custody. How much damage he was doing to the Inquisition by existing, and how much more he had done with his relationship with the Inquisitor, the Warden treaties, everything.

“Blackwall.”

He didn’t look up. She was not meant for his eyes. He had spent months wondering, and a night drinking her in, and abandoned her.

“Blackwall, please.”

He fixed his eyes to the ground, to her boots. He couldn’t. His hands were clasped in front of him to still the trembling. It had been bad enough to see her horror in Val Royeaux, he could not bear it again.

“Thom Rainier!”

He could not still his flinch when she spoke that name - his name. The Inquisitor did not allow him to retreat further, her fingers catching him under the chin. Fingers he knew to be rough, though through his beard they could have been anything.

“Is that it, then?” The harshness bled out of her voice, only resignation remained. She looked a decade older than she had in Val Royeaux. She was losing sleep because of him, and she got precious little as it was. 

Dwarves were not meant to dream, she had confided in him months before. And though he had always known that intellectually, until she spoke to him he had never truly considered it. But the Anchor had changed her. When she closed her eyes at night she did not open them to morning but to thoughts, strange hallucinations, memories, all combined. It was harrowing for a mind not meant to handle it.

Before they went to sleep, that final night, she said she was looking forward to dreaming beside him. And he left.

“As Your Worship wills it,” he said instead. Her fingers tightened on his chin and let go.

“Don’t call me that, not you,” she breathed. She slumped onto the narrow bench beside him and kicked the manacles chaining his legs. “Please.”

“Dascha.” Her name was a prayer. She hated it, Dascha Cadash, but it was the only name he was permitted to call her. Not Inquisitor, never Herald, only Dascha. “I never meant for you to know.”

“Yeah, I kinda figured that out.” She learned against his side, her hand running up and down his back. She couldn’t mean to, it was simply habit. She couldn’t want anything to do with him any longer. “You… you said you trusted me. What changed?”

“Nothing my la- Dascha.” He held himself still as a statue. “Nothing changed. I trust you still.”

“Not with this.” He didn’t have a response for her. There was nothing he could muster to refute her. He had trusted her with everything but his past. It simply hadn’t been enough.

[nirikeehan]

Hi Niri! For this week, how about "Gossamer" from the most beautiful English words for Thalia/Blackwall?

Hello I went right to the angst with this one.

Paired with @oxygenforthewicked's prompt:

Set after Thalia ballsed up her chance to romance him, but before the shit hits the fan with his identity. 👀

For @dadrunkwriting

WC: 891

Gossamer: The finest piece of thread, a spider’s silk. Used to refer to something very light, thin, and insubstantial or delicate.

---

In the early morning, when Thalia couldn’t sleep, she crawled out of her tent and crept away before any sentry noticed. She wanted to be alone. 

A stream ran by their camp, and Thalia plonked herself on a rock by the bank, watching the rushing water as the sun rose. The morning dew clung to the trees and the grass. Beside her, on a long-stemmed flower, lines of gossamer glistened, their spinner long since departed.

She watched this delicate beauty, reaching out a finger. Her nail hovered above the thread. One touch and the whole thing collapsed. Her chest ached. She thought of the man who had brought her here, to this coastline of tumultuous weather, not that long ago. He was the reason her nights were sleepless. She thought he’d wanted something — from her, for her, with her? 

That seemed silly now. Now all she could think of was how easily it had fallen apart. One aborted trip to the Storm Coast, one confusing kiss in her quarters, and she feared she’d wrecked things with Warden Blackwall for good. 

She wished she could take back the words she’d said to him that night — you can’t put that burden on me. Because he already had, and nothing she could do would stop it from being so. Now most of her words to him were met with insolent silence, When he did deign to speak, his responses were rote of a knight doing his duty.

“Lady Thalia.” 

Thalia gasped, snatching her hand away from the thread. In the pre-dawn light she saw him, storming toward her with a vicious scowl, as if she had conjured him into being with her thoughts. 

“There you are. Maker’s balls, don’t ever scare me like that again. Going off by yourself, when there’s darkspawn about, and Red Templars to boot—” 

“I can handle myself, ser,” Thalia said sharply, getting to her feet.

He was in a foul mood this morning, though that was true of every morning as of late. Thalia was beginning to wonder if he was doing it on purpose, to goad her into removing him from her field roster. But she needed Blackwall — she could hardly conceive of going into battle without him nowadays. How many close calls had there been, when she would have been struck down by a demon or a glowing red templar, if not for Blackwall swooping in at the critical moment? 

He cocked his head skeptically, as if he were thinking the same thing. 

“Can you now?” Blackwall quirked an eyebrow. He was challenging her, or mocking her. Thalia felt her cheeks grow warm.

“I just — needed to think.” About him, mostly. How she wished he’d kiss her again, so that she could try it out properly. But she could never voice that. How could she tell him, that she considered it all a colossal mistake, even though in the end she’d done exactly as he’d asked? He was he one who thought things could never work between them — and though he would never say why, Thalia suspected half a hundred reasons. Blackwall probably wanted a real woman, not someone like her, young and naive to the ways of men. She suspected he was getting exactly what he wanted. 

So why did it seem like he despised her?

“Think closer to camp,” Blackwall growled as she stormed past him, to the path that led back to the Inquisition retinue. “If you die on my watch there’ll be bloody hell to pay.” 

Thalia whirled on him, jabbing a finger against his chest. “Is that all you care about?” 

Blackwall seemed taken aback, but only for a moment. His expression darkened. “Why would that surprise you, my lady? After what you’ve seen of me.” 

“I’ve seen a brave and noble man bent on punishing himself for unseen crimes,” Thalia snapped. She must have struck a nerve somehow — she watched the color drain from his face. “And hating himself for it,” she added, softly, chewing her lip. 

She hoped whatever it was she had said would reach him. He looked as he had that night in her quarters: possessed of a wanton energy that could explode at any moment. I had to see you, he’d said, grabbing her. She’d been warned growing up, of course, about men and their appetites. But no one had said what you should do if eliciting lust in one felt good. She played that instant over and over in her head — his arms around her waist, mouth hot on hers. His beard had smelled of woodsmoke. 

She wondered what would have happened if she’d pushed past his excuses and kissed him again. She wondered what would happen if she tried that right now. Would it be like her troubled, heated ruminations that dogged her when she lie in her tent, knowing he was just feet away in his? What if she told him she wanted him right here, right now, on a bed of wet grass and with the threat of bears, apparently? 

But Blackwall only sneered. “You’ve always been a pretty little fool, haven’t you?”

Yes. It seemed so. She felt raw and stung, as if he’d struck her. Thalia turned so that he would not see her blinking back tears. 

He dogged her heels all the way back to camp, but never touched her. 

[a-shakespearean-in-paris]

See Me

For @snakebitcat, Blackwall and Josephine at last see one another. Light Smut, rated M. Thank you! Read on AO3 Here!

An ambassador should always be seen. She is in many respects, the spokeswoman of the Inquisition. A steel hand covered in a silken glove. A little influence here, a little talk there, a little flattery there, a little gossip there. She knows all and see’s all.

She’s well aware she’s indisputable. Cullen is strong and powerful but could never charm his way through a dinner. Leliana, bless her, has preferred knives over niceness for quite some time. Josephine is the voice, the mast head of the Inquisition’s ship. More than an ornamental decoration often ascribed to her, she steers the Inquisition’s ship. Therefore, she must always be present.

Such a fete Josephine finds herself at tonight. The Inquisitor asked for her advice on the matter, and she suggested a grand fete with banners handing from the grand hall, and a band playing soft music. Everything is heightened in the way everything usually is during fetes, senses sharpened and loneliness more apparent here in a crowd of hundreds than it is in her quiet office. Her loneliness is a gaping, heavy weight, and in between shaking hands and introducing the Inquisitor to important nobles with deep pockets, Josephine’s gaze darts to find gaps in the crowd, gaps where a certain someone may perhaps be. He’s not there. He’s nowhere to be found. The weight on her shoulders is all the heavier without him.

An ambassador should always be seen. An ambassador still slips away, searching for Thom Rainier.

She doesn’t yet know if he prefers Blackwall still, or if he’ll take up his name of origin. She would like to ask, but they’ve been only speaking through silent glances since his judgement. Josephine remembers his furtive glances to her during his trial, the way he denounced the Inquisitor for asking Josephine to “tarnish her good name” to bargain his release into the Inquisition’s custody. Josephine however is used to gossip and knows how to quell it. One must merely divert attention elsewhere. So, the Inquisition asked for the release of Thom Rainier. Isn’t that not unlike Grand Duke Gaspard asking to punish the transgressions of his soldiers himself, something you, Lord Tyron agreed with? Talk must be diverted. Josephine diverts it. Sometimes she can be the same as Leliana.

Outside, knowing any gossip that emerges from her absence will be diverted by Leliana, Josephine spots him in the gazebo. He studies his hands. They are strong hands and good hands, so Josephine believes. She goes to him. She calls his name first, a gentle “Thom.” Thom knows her voice. He alights. Knights are susceptible to the call of their chosen women, and Thom Rainier has made Josephine his. Flowers of different colors and hues have graced her desk since they arrived at Skyhold, and he always exchanged them for new ones before they wilted. Always in the early morning when she was still dressing and pinning her hair up. He hasn’t exchanged the flowers since his trial, and she has kept the once purple violets on her desk though they have long wilted and greyed. She’d rather have them there than a barren desk.

“Hello Thom,” she says, sitting across from him. The commander’s chest board is still set up between them, a reminder of early flirtations with the Inquisitor. Last Josephine saw them, the Inquisitor managed to have Cullen dance with her. Josephine would like to dance. She’d like to do so many things.

“Ambassador.”

His voice is cold. Clipped. But she knows how to feign an unwounded pride. “I must ask,” she says, graceful as ever. “Is it Thom now?”

“Whatever pleases you, my lady.”

My lady. There’s that at least. “It would please me to see you stand proud and be seen.”

What for, he asks. So he could be judged? They all know what he’s done. It’s better to have all eyes on the Inquisitor rather than Thom Rainier.

“But do you not stand by the Inquisitor’s side?” Josephine asks. “You are part of her inner circle. She wanted you back. She wanted you safe. To not see you there…”

He laughs, bitter. “She doesn’t care about me in that way.”

“And you don’t think there are others who do.”

She spoke quietly, almost a whisper. Yet the silence that passes is unbearable. She wishes he would see. He doesn’t see her. Not now. Perhaps she was mistaken.

She must go back inside. She must remain unseen by thousands rather than be unseen by one. It’s the truth of being the ambassador, the mast head of the ship. You are seen but not truly. No one looks deeper than the surface. Not even Thom.

The weight is heavy on her shoulders, the weight of wasted time. Unable to move after rising, trying to get as far away from him as possible, Josephine stands in the Inquisitor’s beautiful garden, halfway to what she’s made her reality and halfway to a dream who’s abandoned her. The Inquisitor’s rose garden is well-tended. It’s her act of love, to nurture blooms for others to enjoy. Flowers however, fall and scatter to the grass to be returned back to the soil. The most beautiful things are always temporary. Spotting one of the fallen blooms, Josephine picks it up.

He is near her. He has followed. He doesn’t say anything. He lets them breathe. It’s small confirmation, but what she needs. She came to him when she had a crowd of hundreds, wanted his eyes over all of them. The ambassador plays games. He’s always known that. Never with him.

She shows the rose to him, and he silently accepts the small gift when she places it on the lapel of his jacket. “For all the flowers you gave me,” she says. “Though, I do miss having them.”

“I didn’t dare hope they were more to you.” He must admit it. He must be sure.

She sighs. “Las splendeur des coeurs perdus.”

(Even as she utters the term, he knows. They always were more. Even with that first exchange of blooms upon her desk after he caught her gazing at him as he played outside with the children, letting them climb on him and wrestle with him. She was caught then. She’s still caught.)

“The splendor of lost hearts,” Thom mutters, making the unspoken his reality. “I’m afraid by mentioning it I’ve broken the power.” Indeed las splendeur des coeurs perdus has only power when there is magnetism between shared gazes and looks. The power of love withers when both parties know it. Such a game, like many things in their world.

But it’s never been a game.

“You have broken nothing my lady,” he says.

“Have I? You hurt me, when you say there is no one that cares.”

He touches her cheek. His hand is warm like he is warm. “Maker why did you ever save me? Why must you have ruined—”

“Don’t you dare ever suggest it,” she orders. She has never ruined herself for anyone. She does what she must. “I asked Empress Celene to release you to us. I have ruined nothing.”

“They will judge you if the two of us continue—”

There’s no turning back. “I don’t care. I never have.”

“But you judge me. They all do.”

“What good does is do to judge?” She wonders, acutely aware of how warm he is and how he inhabits every story she’d ever read of knights. “I have seen you here,” she says. “I know you here. I know you now.”

“But did I hurt you? If I ever hurt you…”

“You only hurt me now, when you look at me without seeing. Just like all the rest.”

He pulls himself closer still. With anyone else it would have been too much. With Thom it isn’t enough.

“I am not like all the rest,” he vows. “I see.”

“Prove it then, my lord.”

He doesn’t scoff at “my lord,” as she may have suspected. Instead, he places his lips upon hers. Earth and him, earth and herbs. More.

Time passes, an hour, a minute, a moment. Josephine turns time to honey. They don’t return to the fete, but rather they dance to the soft music that carries outside. He can’t live in the splendor of silence anymore. He tells her so. “We are dancing,” she says, and dancing is bold. Dancing is deliberate, even when dancing is only a soft sway together. Dancing is everything, until it is some time later, until they want more.

In that some time later in Josephine’s room, both replete but still fogged in a world of skin and silks, Thom asks again. Are you sure, my lady?

“More than anything,” she replies. “I don’t care what they say.”

Thom smiles. “I wonder. Have you ever cared?”

Returning the smile, she shakes her head. That is the secret, one she has buried deep within. Josephine has never sought the approval of her peers, only her own. She knows it may seem contrary—she plays the game after all. But that is her mask and her act. This is her, that stands in her room and wants Thom Rainier to touch her and love her. They aren’t so different. Throughout his life, Thom Rainier has sought only the same, his own approval. For two miscreants, it pleases them to be together, to lie with one another, kiss. To give.

“I love a good scandal my lady,” Thom says, making her laugh as they revel in their wayward, nefarious ways of the heart. In the time that follows Thom will always remember Josephine pulling down her hair, letting the dark waves fall long and far past her shoulders. It spills on his chest as they laid together, caught in a world of silk and skin. They act like joyful miscreants hidden away, Josephine finding Thom is sturdy and strong and Thom finding Josephine is pliant and joyous. She laughs when he’s inside her, and such an act would have perhaps wounded another man’s pride. Not Thom. Her laughter sounds like freedom. Free, she’s that happy and herself. She asks him to look at her when she rides him. She asks him to always look at him, to always see her. He always has.

They make love, a lone yet bright bloom on the bedside table. From now on, flowers will never stray far from them.

The next day the Inquisitor wonders what makes Josephine jubilant. The Inquisitor wouldn’t call her a miscreant—as always Josephine is poised and tactful, but she speaks with a newfound freedom and ease. The Inquisitor suspects, and correctly so, that has nothing to do with fete and everything to so with the fresh roses that grace Josephine’s desk.

“I am seen,” Josephine says when the Inquisitor asks. “I am known.”

Duties finish for the day as they always do. Chatter never ceases as it always does. It’s alright. Josephine knows how to divert attention, how to change the talk to favor them. It’s worth it. Thom isn’t a secret. Thom is known. Thom is seen for the good man he truly is.

Above all and with a flower on his lapel, Thom is Josephine’s.

[wardenrainwall]

so I have been working on this in fits and starts for a while now, trying to find the focus to write. Disaster!Evelyn and Blackwall/Thom - The AU version. In which post Trespasser Thom time travels to do his best to change things (like saving Evelyn's husband and son from certain death in Kirkwall).

Then Thom and Evelyn have a chance meeting. - Someday I will actually fully flesh out this story and post it, but until then, a snippet ('cause I really miss writing and sharing it with people)

--

“Share my bed tonight.” Evelyn looked up, startled, and found the same man she had seen earlier when stabling her horse. Her heart skipped and heat flushed her cheeks. From the moment she had first seen this man she had felt something. Some sort of recognition, though she was certain she’d never met him before. Dark hair streaked with silver, a beard that was neatly trimmed and was more silver than black. His pale blue eyes seemed to see right into her, and she parted her lips, ready to tell him off.

He reached up, rubbed a hand over his jaw, and ducked his head. She heard the rasp of his palm against his beard. “Apologies, my lady, that was untoward-”

Evelyn had never sought out a bed companion, never found an escape with a stranger, or even another soldier, despite what her husband may have believed near the end. “Evelyn,” she said, bracing her hand against the table as she pushed up from her seat. “Yes,” she told him, her heart beating faster in her chest. “But you can share my bed, I have a room across the way.”

“As my lady wishes,” he said, taking a step back. He held out a hand, gesturing for her to lead the way when she finally noticed the cane he leaned on. “I’m Thom,” he said.

“Thom,” she echoed and felt as if she’d swallowed a jar of moths. Nerves and excitement had her blood pumping faster. Evelyn had never done anything like this. And she’d only ever been with Alexander. It had been years since even him though.

There was so much guilt surrounding Alexander that as they crossed the road to the inn, she began to reconsider. Through the door of the inn and up the stairs, Evelyn eased her pace when she realized she was practically running. Glancing back at Thom, she saw the corner of his mouth twist up into a grin. And she also realized that his steps weren’t hindered by whatever injury, but rather by the fact that he was staring at her.

“Are you leering at my ass?” she asked, not affronted by the idea, but rather warmed by it. When was the last time someone had looked at her like that? With such want and desire. Never, she realized. Alexander had never been so sure of himself.

“Yes,” he told her and she couldn’t help the snort of laughter that escaped her.

One night, she told herself. She could have this one night before she returned to Ostwick and to her parents' bidding. Slotting the key into the lock, Evelyn felt Thom’s hand caress the back of her head and stroke down her hair. Glancing over at him, absurdly she felt her cheeks warm. “The way you look at me-” she broke off, voice catching because she couldn’t put it into words. Couldn’t explain what she felt, what the way he watched her did to her.

Pushing the door open, Evelyn took several quick steps into the room, suddenly overwhelmed by this man and what she was about to do. “Ev,” he said and it was a caress down her spine. Pleasure in the simple shortening of her name. Alexander had always called her Evie. Turning, Evelyn saw Thom lingered by the door. “If you’ve changed your mind-” he started and she shook her head, knowing without a doubt that if he left right now, she’d regret it for the rest of her life.

Two long strides back to the door, and Evelyn curled one hand in the collar of his tunic, the other cupped the back of his head and she kissed him. Too hard, bruising, oh, Gods, what was wrong with her? But Thom only let out a low groan, fisted a hand in her hair, and wrapped the other around her waist, his cane clattered to the floor.

He took a step, and she let him lead. Distantly heard the door slam shut before her back was against it. Thom kissed her. He stole her breath, made her head spin, and desperately she wanted, no, needed more.

[sky-scribbles]

Party banter with Inquisitor Essek

(Because this ridiculous crossover has taken over my life. A brief explanation, as much as explanation is possible: a mis-cast spell has yote a post-campaign Essek through a planar rift and into Thedas, and he happened to land in the Temple of Sacred Ashes. These banters go up to the destruction of Haven, which is why Cole isn’t here - but he will be in later instalments!)

Cassandra: Leliana has found no information about you. Not a thing. Essek: Considering that most mages are met with disgust and imprisonment, it would be... imprudent of me to advertise my presence. Cassandra: Living in secrecy is one thing. Leaving no mark on the world at all is another. Essek: And you would prefer, I think, for all my secrets to be at your disposal.  Cassandra: Are you surprised that I suspect you have something to hide? Essek: Is hostile intent the only possible reason for secrecy, Seeker?

Solas: It would appear that your mark is affecting you physically, Herald. Essek: My hand was not green before, no. Solas: Aside from the obvious. While I tended to you after the conclave, you did not always seem to be asleep. At times, you lapsed into true unconsciousness. At other times, you seemed to trance, half-sleeping. Essek: Ah. Yes. I suppose... the connection to the Fade has altered the way I sleep. I find I can enter these trances at will, as a substitute for sleep. Solas: That is fascinating. The ancient elves could enter an endless dream called uthenera. Perhaps this is a related phenomenon. Essek: So one would assume.

Essek: So, Sera. I was going through  my research notes - Sera: [Sniggering] Essek: And I found that they had been expertly illustrated. Sera: That's what your weird rifty timey magic shite needs. All the butts. Essek: They certainly add interest. Although... that drawing of me closing a rift full of demon butts? You should have shaped my cloak so that it looked like a dick. Sera: [laughs] Like a dick! You're all right, Herald Weirdyhand. Essek: And you are quite the jester.

Varric: How is it you can just walk around pitch-black caves without a problem? Don’t tell me you're part-dwarf and it's stone-sense. Essek: Ah, no. I would assume it is yet another change from the mark. Varric: So this thing lets you fix the sky, and it's a free torch? Who knew that being Andraste's chosen came with a multi-purpose toolkit? Essek: There is no evidence for my being chosen by anything other than political convenience.  Varric: You’re not crazy about the whole Herald business, are you? Essek: About people deciding that I am the mouthpiece of an unproven god who does not speak to anyone, and yet whose name and teachings people use as an excuse for war and conquest, without investigating the truth behind those teachings? No. I am not.

Blackwall: So what does an apostate do, if he's on his own for... I don't know, how many years? Essek: Arcane research, mostly. Why, what does a Grey Warden do when he's on his own for however many years? Blackwall: Kill darkspawn. Recruit for the Wardens. Kill more darkspawn. Essek: And your fellow Wardens do not accompany you? Blackwall: You don't need more than one person to say 'how do you feel about fighting darkspawn for the rest of your life?' Essek: Did you... ever find yourself becoming lonely, in your solitude? Blackwall: I... sometimes, I suppose. Never gave much thought to it. Easier that way. Essek: Mm. I know the feeling.

Dorian: So you think Alexius’s perception of time was fundamentally flawed? Essek: I do. Time is not a straight line, through which one can jump ahead, skip back and rub bits out. Dorian: How would you have done it differently? Aside from the whole ‘conjure a world infested with red lyrium and catastrophe’ part. Essek: Imagine time as a branching thing. Every choice we make causes potential timelines to fade into non-existence. Essek: But their potential remains, waiting to be tapped. Alexius should have attempted to manifest a timeline in which I was never here, rather than removing me from this one. Dorian: Well, don’t tell everybody how to make it work. Wouldn’t want them to get ideas. Though perhaps you’d like to compare notes, later? Essek: I... would like that. 

Vivienne: You carry yourself remarkably well, Herald. Almost like nobility. Essek: Only 'almost'? I shall have to try harder. Vivienne: And despite your youth, you deflect personal inquiries with the deftness of a seasoned player of the Game. Quite remarkable, from a hedge mage. Essek: I'm mildly curious: 'hedge mage'? Vivienne: A self-taught mage, dear. One who has gone without the instruction of a Circle, or even a Dalish clan. If you ever require tuition, I am at your disposal. Essek: I’m sure you are. But I am not especially interested in whatever you think you have to teach.

Sera: You’re proper weird, you are. You go all swanny around the noble piss-bags, all smiles and pretty words like Lady Josie, but you put teeth in it, like Vivvy. Essek: Like Vivienne? I should hope not. Sera: And then you screw the nobs over like Josie does, ‘cept she makes them love her for it and you make them scared. Leliana kind of scared. Essek: When people don’t know you, or what to make of you, they fear you. It makes them... malleable. It’s something I’ve learned to use. As has Leliana, it would seem.

Varric: You doing all right, Smiles? Essek: 'Smiles'? An intriguing choice. Varric: Same reasoning as Iron Lady and Sparkler. Meet as many messes as I have, and you get good at spotting masks. Essek: Indeed? Varric: You fell out of the sky, got attacked by a shit ton of demons and put in charge of an army, and never once stopped smiling. Kind of impressive, actually. Essek: Thank you. Varric: Also, creepy as shit. 

Solas: I'm curious about your name, Herald. Essek: My name? It's Essek. Sera: [laughs] Solas: I meant that it isn't elven, though your family name sounds very like it. Solas: ‘Thelyss’. I wonder if it is is a result of syllables from the name 'Lethallas' being lost and altered over the years. It means, 'a gift to one's kin.' Essek: Ha. Solas: You don't find that likely? Essek: Me being a gift to my kin? Highly unlikely.

Iron Bull: So, boss, what do you make of my guys? Essek: They clearly have an array of talents. Iron Bull: Oh, come on. I didn't ask for what the Herald thought of his new recruits, I asked what you make of my guys. Essek: Very well. They are... unusual. Enthusiastic. I think that some would underestimate them, some would be thrown off-balance by them, and many would do both. Iron Bull: Ha. Yeah, we like to keep people guessing.  Essek: I like them. They are... lively.

Sera: I don’t get it. You can screw over noble shite-faces without being scary. And you’re not scary! I know you and you’re not scary, so why be scary? Essek: Well, I don’t find you scary either, Sera. But I’m sure our enemies do, when they’re on the wrong end of your arrows. Sera: That’s different things, though. I learned arrows because arrows mean nobs are dead and I’m not. Essek: Exactly. Like you, I have had to fight for survival in my own ways. And unlike you, for a long time, I was without friends. Sera: So... you learned how to do scary because you’re scared? Essek: I would say more... aware of potential dangers. Sera: So, scared.

Solas: As for your first name, the final syllable is not even a sound that occurs in elven. Is it Qunlat? One of your parents is Qunari, I assume? Essek: Ah. Yes, of course. Solas: So it is Qunlat? Iron Bull: Nah, that’s not Qunlat, whatever it is. Almost sounds like it, though. Kinda like ‘isskari’. Name for Ben-Hassrath who get hold of weird magic crap. Essek: Oddly appropriate. But since I'm not in contact with my family, the truth shall have to remain a mystery.

Blackwall: Are you all right, Herald? Essek: Fine, thank you. I simply have somewhat sensitive eyes and skin, and it is a very bright day. Blackwall: If you need to stop, I could... I don’t know. Hold a shield over your head? Essek: I appreciate it, but no, thank you. It is tolerable. Blackwall: Didn’t meant to offend. Essek: It is all right. I - [sighs] I apologise. That would help, if you could. Years of solitude have made me... reliant on my own self-reliance, I suppose.  Blackwall: I know what you mean. Shield parasol it is, then.

Sera: Don’t need to be scared, right? Anyone gives you shit, I give ‘em arrows. Or just pies. Or worms in their shoes. Essek: [chuckles] Thank you, Sera. Please do. Sera: Did think you were scary at first, you know.  Essek: What changed your mind? Sera: Scary wouldn’t grin when I drew butts on things.  Essek: ... Are you at all fond of cupcakes, Sera?

[shutupaboutandraste]

hello! for dadwc - "6. Ice cream on your nose" with shiva cadash/blackwall?

^u^ Thank you so much for the prompt I hope you like it!

Words: 744 Pairing: Inquisitor Cadash/Blackwall For @dadrunkwriting

Ice cream was not a delicacy the Cadash family had ever partaken in. To be fair, her branch of the family wasn’t allowed to partake in delicacies until they reached a certain age. Shiva was still young. Her role was supposed to be one as a weapon, stoic and efficient. 

Then fate had slapped a green mark of power on her palm.

Friends didn’t come easy to her. In fact, she tried to keep everyone at an arm’s length as best she could. Vivienne had taken a shine to her, though. Despite her best efforts to stay stalwart, the mage had broken down a wall that had been up since her birth and since then Vivienne had been eager to get her to try new things. So, when Josephine had ordered ice cream in order to appease some Orelsian nobles that were visiting, Vivienne had been insistent that she try some. 

And it was wonderful-- never in her life had she tasted something so sweet and creamy. And this was just vanilla! According to Vivienne, there was a lovely flavor that was made with Rivani cocoa beans called chocolate. She had left to go get some from the shipment, leaving Shiva sitting on a chair, her legs not long enough to reach the floor. She tried not to let it bother her while she focused on the ice cream. 

“There you are,” a deep voice rumbled from the door to the kitchen. 

A small smile crossed her face. There was another encouragement from Vivienne, though she had been more subtle about it. When Blackwall had seemed interested, Shiva had tried to ignore it-- despite a blossoming feeling in her chest, despite the fact that he did not care she was a dwarf, despite the fact that he made her feel like no one else ever had. To be honest, she had never stood a chance once she had let her walls come down. Now, she dare not imagine life without him. Even if dying to Corypheus was a true threat, they had each other. 

Still, after discovering the existence of Thom Rainier, Blackwall had been distant. Always a gentleman, always kind and willing to speak, but unusually nervous as if he were attempting to walk barefoot over broken glass. The truth had hurt, but Shiva had done many things in her life that most would consider cold or evil. It did not make her a popular Inquisitor all the time, but Blackwall loved her anyway. 

“What brings you away from your work?” she asked, trying to sound pleasant. Her usual struggle with being truly friendly was evident though. If Blackwall minded, he didn’t show. 

He chuckled, “Is seeing you not reason enough, my lady?” 

“I suppose,” she replied, turning her head to hide the faint blush on her cheeks. 

His hand reached out to cup her cheek gently. Blackwall was far bigger than her, could have grabbed her and forced her to look at him. Carta dwarves had done so to her before. Yet, instead he let it rest until she was ready to turn back to look at him. Wet seemed to touch his eyes, shaking his head as if marveling at her. Shiva did not consider herself beautiful, yet he always complimented it. Even in the way he looked at her, he showed that he adored her. 

After a moment, his thumb moved, wiping the tip of her nose. Her thick ginger brows furrowed as she watched him, only to catch the glisten of melted ice cream on his thumb. Lifting it up to his mouth, he licked the melted dessert away, smiling at her. The pit of her stomach warmed. 

“You had ice cream on your nose,” he told her. 

“I could see that,” she replied, trying to press away a loose curl that had fallen out of her bun. She gestured to the other chair, “Care to join me?” 

“You? Always,” he said, pulling the chair out to sit by her. Once more his hand reached out to cup her cheek. 

This man was going to be the end of her, she swore it. So, she released a shaky chuckle before lifting a scoop and feeding it to him. He accepted it readily, sharing the last bit of her ice cream with her. Maybe everything would feel right once more. 

And if Vivienne waited to come back until after the two had finished the bowl? Well, who could blame her?