#only orlesian boy allowed

[housederiva]

[bigfan-fanfic]

#1 for Tal and/or #9 for Tash for the codex entries!

An awesome list of codex prompts HERE

An overheard conversation about Tal:

"Emmrich, I have a question. About the Mourn Watch."

"Ah, is that so? Please, ask away, my dear Bellara."

"The Watchers all seem to wear purple and green, it seems."

"Well, yes, those are our traditional colors. The Mortalitasi at large tends to incorporate more white and green."

"So about Tal... why does he wear black, then? And he has those golden markings and jewelry..."

"Ah, well, perhaps this ought to be his tale to tell..."

"What? Oh, please, I promise I won't bother him about it if you tell me!"

"Well... Taliesin was found amongst the Necropolis Halls as an infant. None knew how he got there, and there were no tracks in sight by the time Vorgoth discovered him."

"Wow..."

"The dead at the time - the more honored and enlightened dead, whose animating spirits develop some of the body's memories and will, it is theorized - claimed him as their own. As such, Taliesin is considered one of the honored dead."

"That's... that's wild! How did the Watchers feel about that?"

"Some were unhappy. Taliesin was appointed Speaker for the Dead, and had a natural affinity for gleaning the meaning and intent of spirits - the honored dead trusted him as their advocate in executing their wills and funeral rites. But most enjoyed his spirit and joy. The dead also became quite... agitated at the notion of his being taken from them, and only ceased rattling once some senior Watchers performed some abbreviated funeral rites for the lad."

"Wow... no wonder he seems so..."

"Anyone who had lived solely among the dead for so long would be excitable about the world, my dear."

-A conversation overheard by Davrin when he was seeking out Emmrich in relation to an ongoing dispute Assan had with Manfred's scapula.

A future historian's account of Tash's actions:

After the Inquisition was disbanded with a scathing testimony at the Exalted Council by Inquisitor Adaar, the Child of Andraste alighted from Ferelden and Orlais altogether, traveling with the Montilyet family to Antiva, where he was quickly adopted by Ambassador Josephine, the head of House Montilyet which Tash had helped restore to glory despite the efforts of the Orlesian House of Repose.

King Fulgeno II saw the use of bringing the politically adept former Inquisitor into the fold and allowed him to utilize the royal family's house colors and name, and Tash Campana spent much of his subsequent days in peace, establishing political and mercantile allies in Antiva, Rivain, the Free Marches, and even Nevarra. Lord Campana, still lauded as the Child of Andraste, was even said to have meddled in the Antivan Crows, working to influence and oust some of their darker and cruler Talons.

Although the Child-Inquisitor had left behind Skyhold, his Castle of Lights, and told the world not to call on him when the Dread Wolf returned, the man he grew into had softened, finally opening up communication with Ferelden and Orlais.

-from The Dragon with the Open Hand, a biography of Lord Tash Campana written in 9:88 Dragon by Eldridge Keller, a historian from the University of Markham.

And as a bonus:

Something written about Tash by the cook

The poor lad's appetite has gone down since he lost that arm of his. I feel sorry for him - he went to Orlais with a family and came back with only the Ambassador and Madame de Fer. Even Master Tethras didn't come back with him. I remember back when we were fighting that Elder One, when the boy would come in my kitchen and help bake. Calmed him down, it did. They're saying the Inquisition's over. That we're all leaving Skyhold soon. I think I'll invite him to the kitchen one more time before it happens. He liked to bake. No reason he can't keep at it when I'm gone from here.

-from the personal diary of the Inquisition's head cook.

Something written about one of Tal's greatest accomplishments

The King of Nevarra has been made aware of the extraordinary development that has taken place in our Grand Necropolis, Myrna. It is fortunate, I suppose, that it was a Watcher with such an extraordinary relationship to our honored dead. The War of the Banners could have been the most catastrophic upset to the Necropolis in a very long while. Unfortunately, the living nobility are... not as understanding, shall we say.

It has been proposed that the young Speaker for the Dead be stricken from the Mourn Watch. However... considering his unique legal status as one of the very living dead we are bound to safeguard, I have instead proposed he be... encouraged to take a sabbatical. To see the world and examine firsthand its funerary rites. To have negotiated so well with the dead, at such a young age... it is my opinion that young Taliesin's skill would be most useful in his role as Speaker... after the living have cooled their heated emotions.

Give it around six months. No more than a year. What could possibly happen in so short a time?

-A letter sent to Watcher Myrna from Lord Henrik Van Markham

[hoboblaidd]

i feel like someone Has to ask abt halamshiral, so if no one else has, i will <3

ask meme - inquisition locations

god thank you bc Halamshiral is so interesting (and contradictory) from a Solas perspective.

Halamshiral itself is not a place of good memories, for either the elves or Solas personally, and the latter, at least, is his own damn fault.

First, the most important part of its history is elven, yes, but as far as we know, it’s all after the fall of Elvhenan. The Ancient Age timeline is iffy at best, but the Long Walk is well after Solas put up the Veil. 

Second, Halamshiral ties directly into one of Solas’ shittiest moves in the lore (which is impressive, given his long list of shitty moves). Because of Celene’s massacre of the elves, and Briala’s uprising, Felassan sees that the Dragon Age’s elves are just as real and worthy of living as the ancient elves. Felassan’s choice to allow Briala to keep control of the eluvians and tell Solas to, respectfully, fuck off, gets Felassan killed. Just because he dared to say that these are their people, too.

So Solas not only lost one of, if not the, last remaining allies he had, he “lost” Felassan because his pride and anger got the better of him. This is the Solas who didn’t blink over destroying the Conclave and the world at the start of Inquisition. He didn’t really gain a semblance of humanity beyond Make Thedas Elvhenan Again until he was stuck with the Inquisition for a while.

And yet for all this historical and personal shitshow, and how truly awful it must be to walk in its memories in the Fade, when we bring Solas to the Winter Palace he is having a fucking ball. He is vibing. Not only is he drunk off his ass, which I love, but it’s like he’s really living for the first time in a while. This is the most we really see him as himself, or at least, the slightly more carefree self he must’ve been once. The Orlesian Game is stupid, but boy does he seem to enjoy it. 

It’s understandable why - his rebellion wasn’t just battles. That great lore piece with Fen’harel and the noble (“kill the other daughter”) reads far more as a rebellion of subterfuge rather than an actual fight. If Fen’harel could “walk in both worlds”, he was probably doing Lelianna-level intrigue at a bunch of evanuris and adjacent functions before the Dread Wolf rebellion overtly took off.

Solas at the Winter Palace is like he finally got a shot of adrenaline he didn’t realize he’d been missing. Like, say, an extrovert finally extroverting after being in lockdown during COVID lol. He forgot how damn fun this could be.

The Trespasser Winter Palace experience is entirely different, and I think a lot of that owes to how changed he is after he gets his power back. Whether it's the power itself, the regret over Mythal, or that he now has more regrets over his impending 'my world-ending explosion is gonna make Anders look like a saint' (or all of the above). Trespasser Solas is back to being the Dread Wolf, and he doesn't seem like he's had any fun in the intervening two years so. Not drunk this time.

[herald-divine-hell]

I can't think of a specific question right now but I'd love to know more about your Inquisitor x Leliana headcanons. For any or all of your Inquisitors.

Aw. Thank you for the asks!

I have two Inquisitors whom I primarily ship with Leliana.

The oldest, and perhaps dearest to me in my heart, is Alexandra Trevelyan, but there is also Amayian Trevelyan, too.

Alexandra Trevelyan and Leliana

Alexandra was intrigued by Leliana when she first saw her, and it grew even more when Leliana called for seeking aid from the rebel mages than the Templars, which she assumed some of the Chantry like Leliana would have been more supported of.

Alexandra helps Leliana rekindle her love for stories. It is less that Alexandra pesters her to tell stories, but in this case it is Leliana who is hearing stories - the ones born when Alexandra explored the Fade during her time in the Circle, and Free Marcher and Orlesian tales she heard from her mother and father.

Although Alexandra is constantly seen by her fans (primarily my friends, lol) as being suave and seductive, when it came to getting Leliana to fall in love, it was less seductive (though it did play a role), and more earnestly on Alexandra's part. The poor mage is incredibly stubborn, and although she does not know Leliana like Josephine, she sees kindness in her, glimpsed between the cracks Leliana provides every once and a while. It makes her all the more interested in Leliana.

Leliana herself found Alexandra amusing, a pleasant past-time. Alexandra's wit endeared her, and both are increadibly work-oriented, so Alexandra often worked with her in the Rookery, aiding each other in the others report, and Leliana giving her advice as a good advisor is meant to do. It started expand from there.

For Amayian Trevelyan and Leliana

Leliana and Amayian actually met in Origins. During his time at the Circle, Amayian had a prophetic dream (born from his reincarnated soul of Andraste) that urged him to go south, to find a flaming rose upon a mountain of ash. This lead him to escape Ostwick to Ferelden, around the time the Battle of Ostagar occured, and when Loghain closed off the kingdom. Without much to go off on, in a foriegn land, Amayian sort of migrated, trying to head to the mountains. One night, he was found by the Warden and the co. and taken in.

Leliana fretted over him constantly in Origins. Amayian was just a boy, just shy of nineteen, who seemed to take everything too seriously and who had an emptiness in his eyes that endeared her to him.

Because of this, Leliana and the Warden nearly always sat by him. He almost became the Origins' crew little brother, though Amayian himself was uncomfortable with the situation and really didn't know how to react to it all.

One night, when Leliana was singing, Amayian heard an Orlesian lullaby being strummed by her lyre, and sang the song quietly to himself, because it was a similar song his mother sang to him when he was a babe.

This, of course, excited Leliana. She was finally getting something out of the mule-head. Gently and softly, she would push him to sing, and Leliana allowed him to toy with his lyre, teaching him how to play it.

Of course, Amayian fell. And he fell hard. And he didn't know what falling meant. He did not understand why his throat clamped shut and his heart raced. At one point, he went to Wynne, saying that he thinks he's having a heartattck.

Wynne found it absolutely amusing and tried to reassure him that these things were natural.

That only made him more stubborn. No it wasn't. He never had such a feeling before. He never once looked at a person and felt sweat gather on his forehead, touch the back of his neck. He didn't know why his eyes lingered when she smiled and why he liked hearing her laughter. He was afraid something was wrong with him.

Especially since the Warden and Leliana was in love.

Amayian also has a great fear of healing magic. His own failure to aid in his mother's bleeding when she was dying from blood-loss made him fear his healing powers. This became a point of contention because at one point Amayian did heal Leliana...but when the Warden was bleeding after the battle, Amayian froze up, and he fled.

This caused Leliana to be confused and angry with him. The confusion soon gave away and anger swiftly took over as the years gone by and her failures to find him, or the others to find him.

Fast-forward a decade later in Inquisition, and Leliana is both relieved and angry that this young boy is alive.

And who told him he could get so tall, anyway?

And she wants to be angry at him. But there is that boy she knows still there, even if he has gotten colder, his eyes harder.

She was willing to burn down a village. But how could she let this Amayian do that? This boy who was one of the first to draw his staff to defend her from Marjolaine's assassins, who took a dragonlings' claw to his back to save her.

Let her be burned, Maker, but leave the poor boy be.

And their relationship kinda expands from there. Both wanting to heal the other, but thinking themselves unworthy of healing.

[cewyll]

ALT DA:I VERSE — void and vessel, sheath and shear.

VERSE TYPE: open ( linked with @sanctamater ) VERSE TIMELINE: anywhere within the events of dragon age: inquisition and trespasser. if plotted, before and after this timeline are also workable!

TL;DR: elizabeth was raised in an isolated andrastian doomsday cult, intended to be a living nuke/messiah/world-ender. thanks to her mix of bloodlines and fade-related experiments done on her during childhood, her cocktail of powers is formidable: magic, capital D Dreaming, and the ability to interact with the veil and the fade — which is made stronger by the orb incident at the conclave.

this incident separates liz and amelia from the cult. in haven, they find each other again and start a new life away from comstock's power and control. once again, elizabeth finds herself becoming an idol. she is so tired.

detailed bio (lol) below.

this is gonna be an ongoing wip so i'm just gonna do a quick and dirty bullet point list for now.

in a secluded forest in the dales, scattered with abandoned orlesian estates, zachary comstock created a niche andrastian doomsday cult.

naturally, he wanted to create a baby messiah that would, at his bidding, fully end the world so that he could create a new one from its ashes. does NOT believe in magic, notably. he's like.... the anti-solas. lmao

anyway he marries amelia, an ex-bard who became a god-fearing woman, and "had a baby" "with her" (she had a lil tryst with booker, half-elven, a templar recruit passing through)

uh oh! baby is a mage! baby is a dreamer mage! baby is making friends with entities that want to be roommates in her brain!

after baby born, comstock recruits robert and rosalind lutece (mage-researchers who were exiled from tevinter for magic crimes) to help turn baby into a nuke.

amelia threatens to beat the shit out of rosalind if she doesn't help elizabeth not get eaten by a demon.

with the help of some cult-loyal former templars, they rework comstock house into a sort of... solitary circle tower? essentially doubling as a house for the family to live and a laboratory where elizabeth's abilities can be observed and analyzed as they grow.

AND BOY HOWDY, DO THEY GROW.

YOUTH, POWER, & THE SIPHON.

thanks to the absolute CLUSTERFUCK of the luteces' fade/veil experiments on baby liz, her magey magic, and her dreaming, elizabeth's power spikes exponentially when she hits puberty. this very nearly destroys not only her body and mind (abomination. yeehee) but the environment around them (tears).

this is a good sign. this means it's working. BUT it needs to be Handled.

underneath the house, the luteces build the siphon: some kind of... you know what i'm not gonna figure out how it works rn. but it's essentially a contraption(???) that suppresses her multidimensional fade/veil shit, stunts her dreaming abilities, and dulls her magic to normal-mage-people levels.

this allows comstock to have direct control of how much power elizabeth has! like any good dad should :)

as in infinite, the luteces regularly wipe elizabeth's memories of the experiments done on her, so she just thinks her power spiked and then dulled on its own for whatever reason. in general her memories of childhood are pretty foggy, though the one constant throughout is her bond with her mother, @sanctamater.

THE CONCLAVE.

oh boy i sure hope shit doesn't hit the fan!

elizabeth is sent to the conclave in an attempt for comstock and his cult to gain a foothold in general thedosian politics. she takes her mother amelia with her, but amelia waits in haven while the conclave happens.

shit hits the fan. liz suffers an orb incident.

interestingly, the new mark on her hand seems to interact directly with the powers she already possesses — this is something i wanna develop further but don't have the brain juice to think about right now. we'll table that for later.

liz and amelia are an inseparable unit thereafter. deprogramming them — especially amelia, who has been through A LOT — is going to take time. but i believe in them :)

shit will probably hit the fan again later when zachary finds them, but you know what? we don't gotta worry about that right now. right now, we're building an inquisition and cringing so hard when our mom makes sure we wear mittens before we go to emprise du lion.

and the rest is history (to be documented another time as threads happen)!

[altuspavus]

[ UNDERCOVER ] : while pretending to be a couple for the sake of a mission or other purpose, sender and receiver find themselves giving a Remarkably Convincing performance that leaves them questioning how platonic they really are. (oh boy this would be Interesting for Dori and Ari)

@triickst | meme here

Really, none of it makes very much sense to Dorian, no matter how many times it has been explained by multiple people with different points of view. Including half of their little... outing, he supposes it could be classed as. Truly, it begins to feel like a cruel little joke at Dorian's expense, what with everyone else simply seeming to 'get it' and refusing to explain in detail to him, perhaps because he's a Tevinter noble, he simply should understand by default, or perhaps because he's a Tevinter noble, he should not be trusted despite being an important member of the Inquisition, despite the fact that he knows full well that he's proven himself trustworthy already.

Or maybe it's all a sick joke, maybe someone has caught on to the fact that his glances at Aristide linger a bit longer than they strictly ought to, occur more frequently than a friend's should, maybe it's been noticed how he tends to stand closer to the Orlesian than to the others.

Whatever the reasoning, it leaves a sour taste in Dorian's mouth when he dares to linger upon the thoughts.

Instead, then, he focuses on the positives. They are in civilization proper, and though it is still the South, it's far kinder to Dorian's physical existence and happiness than Skyhold could ever hope to be. Another positive is that his company is, of course, precisely who he would like to be on his arm at any party, in that silly little dream world the man sometimes allows himself to indulge in.

And truly, they do make a rather dashing couple. Their features somehow complement one another's, between the two of them they have to have been the most complimented couple of the entire night, and Dorian would be lying if he didn't say that he's felt jealous glares upon the back of his neck more than once. It helps none of Dorian's annoying, complicated, distracting thoughts and feelings when they share a kiss initiated by Aristide, something likely done in order to better listen in on some conversation or something. It's easy enough for Dorian to justify, to stab a dagger into his own emotions with reason. Any feelings he's quarreling with are only amplified by the kiss, and if Dorian read into people's expressions more than he ought to, he'd almost be able to convince himself that Aristide felt similarly. Oh, the things the heart can convince the brain of.

Still, though, he knows this is all for a job of some sort, some information gathered perhaps. Frequently as Dorian must remind himself of that fact, his mind still repeatedly wanders. Wanders to how good Aritstide looks, how pleasing of a pair they make based upon the glances of reflections Dorian has managed to catch out of the corner of his eyes, how strangely right it feels to have Aristide on his arm despite the fact that the two of them were men, in respectable and noble company, openly appearing to be intimate. Appearing as such being all they were doing, and the thought again twists some sort of bramble wrapped about Dorian's chest.

A moment of quiet finds them slightly apart from the rest of the party, a moment during which they could gather their thoughts, though Dorian's only seem to grow messier as he tries to capture them. He squints into his glass of deep red wine, a tad too dry for his taste but better than he's had of late, he can't truly complain. Wouldn't complain to Aristide regardless, wouldn't bother him with something he's heard far too many times on Dorian's tongue before.

"Nice, isn't it?" The words tumble out of his mouth before he can catch the thought and swallow it down. The intention behind them: the two of them, together, the envy of many others that night, based upon comments, whispers, and glances. The interpretation behind the words, though, could be anything. They were vague enough.

The rational part of Dorian wishes to leave it vague, keep from breaking his own heart and potentially getting himself shunned, thrown from the Inquisition and back to the wolves of his home country. Unfortunately, it seems that the rational part of Dorian has abandoned him. "Having someone to attend these with, I mean. Someone on your arm who can look just as good as you do." A moment of panic bubbles up in Dorian's throat. "—No one else here suspects a thing."

[bumblewarden]

Bouncing off my last post of substituting what will probably happen in DA:D with my own stories (not required reading),

I try and fail to keep my tangents contained to the indented sections. If you are reading this and not already familiar with my canon worldstate: Novhen Tabris is the HoF, he underwent the Dark Ritual with a romanced Morrigan, he did not go through the eluvian, and he reunites with Morrigan and Kieran after the main story of Inquisition

By DA:D, Kieran should be somewhere around 20, so imagine him as a companion!

Given, even with the differences between OGB Kieran and human Kieran being rendered mostly null in Inquisition, BioWare would still have to account for world states where he does not exist at all. Companion is a rather big role to leave to chance like that. I cannot see them allotting a different number of companions based on previous worldstate choices like that (Unless that happens in Mass Effect? I’ve only played a few hours of the first one, but based on some spoilers i’ve read, that might be a thing? idk), and even more, i seriously doubt BW would be willing to do a Genealogy of the Holy War-style replacement for him

Now ignoring all that: Companion Kieran. He's a mage, obviously. He could bring back the Shapeshifter specialization, maybe make it worthwhile this time. Since this is [my city now], he can also get some rogue flavorings. Maybe he can't use daggers or a bow with any combat effectiveness, but my boy sure can sneak. He deals full flanking damage too, so if you fail to notice the charging bear on your 6, you're likely to end up on the pyre

In the linked post, i mention how the DA4 protag could possibly be the one to conclude the research for the cure to the Blight and has to decide which of the warring Warden factions to give the cure to. Kieran has a clear side in the conflict and would be heavily gunning for the new protag to give the Blight cure to the Hero of Ferelden and the southern Wardens. He would be open about having spent the past decade or so living at Vigil's Keep. I'm not sure how open he would be about being the son of the HoF himself

I prefer to ignore the canon that the result of unions between humans and elves are always 100% human, biologically or otherwise. Alistair has to be human-passing for his Origins plotline to work as written sure, but that doesn't have to extend to all elf-blooded characters. Yeah sure it’s probably because of the elves being originally spirits or whatever fine, but i’m not compelled.  Kieran specifically would have looked mostly human to have survived the scrutiny of the Orlesian court without being outed during his childhood, but his elven features can become more pronounced as he grows older

In the case of Kieran being visibly elf-blooded, he has little to lose in the racist Thedosian society from revealing his parentage as it was a forgone conclusion, but he might be worried about how it would affect his father's reputation. (As we’ve seen with Soris’s epilogues, the elves of Denerim are likely to take poorly to the news.) After spending so long in Orlais hiding both side of his family tree, i don't know if he'll be able to properly internalize that he's allowed to tell people if he wants

Once Novhen's told the rest of the Tabris family, i don't think he any longer cares about keeping it any tighter than an open secret

If the protag presses, they can find out that Kieran's da father is a Fereldan Warden who is taking part in the rebellion. He won’t say which of his parents is elven, and he won’t spill all the details on his father’s position within the Wardens. It won't be until the party goes to Vigil's Keep that they realize that by a Warden, he meant the Warden. Forget about the advantage this will give HoF's side in the conflict should the player wish to support him; this cure means that Kieran might get decades more to spend with his da. Who would deny a friend that?

If the protag gives the cure to the opposing faction (the First Warden��s) instead anyway, it probably won’t cause him to leave the party. He’ll have his own reasons for following I’m sure. But it will cut off friendship and, if it was on the table, romance alongside a heavy, heavy drop in approval. 

[rosella-writes]

WIP Wednesday

Thank you @noire-pandora, @melisusthewee and @kittynomsdeplume for the tag! I'll eventually get up to snuff on this whole thing I swear, lol

I meant to work on Eunoia yesterday and today, but instead I got obsessed with my cute little saarebas OC, Turin (the beginning of her story is here). It's a little long, so I put the rest under the cut.

Tagging @emerald-amidst-gold and @dreadfutures if you'd like!

Saarebas — no, Turin, she reminded herself — picked at the fragrant vegetables on her plate. The elf across the table from her cocked her head and gestured at her food.

“Eat up, da'len,” the elf said, her wrinkled face lifting in an encouraging smile. She had those funny tattoos some of the other elves wore — hers were dark red, faded with time, and twisted all over her face like a tree. Solas had told Turin they were called valla-something.

“Come now,” the woman continued, still smiling. “Or I’ll have to tell him. You know how he worries.”

Turin frowned. “I wish he wouldn’t.”

The woman — Eris, Turin remembered — chuckled. “As do we all! The man is made of worries, even if he lets few of us see them.”

Turin continued to pick at her food, then finally raised the fork to her mouth and winced at the strong, garlicky taste. She wasn’t used to solid food yet. Arvaarad had kept her lips sewn tight, and the bindings only allowed for mushy foods like porridge and broth to pass through them. These leaves and things? She had to chew them.

“There you are,” Eris murmured. “I know, you’re not used to it. But it gets better. Wait until you try the little cakes Lunette makes.”

Turin cocked her head, then jumped slightly when her horn bumped the low chandelier over the table. Her horns had grown in the last few weeks, since she now had access to proper food and they were no longer being trimmed back and capped. She had to remember to move her head carefully in these little rooms the elves built.

“Lunette?” she asked. “That doesn’t sound…”

“Elfy?” Eris said with a sharp laugh. “No, she’s Orlesian. From that horrible little alienage in Halamshiral. She’s got plenty of stories about how terrible that empress and her little assassin-maid are. Not sure how many of them are true, but I don’t care, so long as she keeps making those sweet frilly things now and again.”

Turin took another bite. “Cakes. Frilly things. What are these?”

Eris looked surprised, but she quickly schooled her expression behind a calm, fond smile. She reminded Turin dimly of her tamassran — or, rather, what she could remember, before she got her magic and Arvaarad had taken her away.

“If you finish your dinner,” Eris said sweetly, “then I’ll show you.”

Lunette’s accent was strange. Turin thought it sounded like she had a little bird warbling in her throat when she spoke — and she spoke a lot. She fluttered around the kitchen, directing other elves with imperious distaste, and pointedly did not look at Turin at all. She wondered if she was just standing too still for Lunette to notice her.

“Lunette,” Eris cooed. “Do you have any —”

“Non!” the elf huffed, irritated. “I am saving them! Curse you and your sweet tooth, madame. You and him both rid my kitchen of sugar.”

Eris raised her hands and dropped them plaintively, paired with a dramatic sigh. “But the little one has never had a sweet in her life. Let her try, please?”

Lunette stopped in her tracks. She had a bit of flour streaked on her cheek, and her dark hair fell in her wide eyes as she glanced up — almost fearfully — at the giant in the room. Turin shuffled her feet, trying her best to appear, as Eris put it, small.

The little cook shook her head, cursing in her funny language under her breath, then disappeared into a cupboard. She emerged, sourfaced, with a pair of little white things in her hands, sitting pretty on a napkin. She placed them in Eris’s outstretched palm.

“Take them outside,” Lunette snapped, “before one of the boys sees them and comes hunting for the rest.”

Eris smiled fondly. “Ma serannas, da’len,” she hummed.

Lunette just scoffed, then shooed them out of her bustling kitchen. Turin bumped her horns on the doorframe on her way out — she reminded herself to try ducking in sideways next time.

She hurried after Eris — how was such an old woman so fast? — and finally settled in with her on the battlements of the keep after what felt like miles of hallways and stairs. The air was cold there, and the wind was strong. She smoothed her scarf down before it hit her in the face.

“Here,” Eris said, placing one of the white things in Turin’s hand. “Sit.”

She did, beside Eris on the stone stairs that led down the inside of the great wall. Her height let her peek over the top of the wall, however, out over a vast, green expanse of world. It looked like this keep sat at the center of a great valley, ringed by mountains she’d never seen on any map. She wondered, not for the first time, where Solas had taken her.

“Try it!” Eris reminded her.

Turin regarded the soft little treat in her palm. “You said they were… frilly?”

Eris snorted. “That’s what he calls them. Some joke from an old friend. He never would explain it — and he always looks so sad when I ask — so I left it alone. The moniker stuck, though, and Lunette has given up trying to get people to call them petit fours.”

Turin frowned. “Pettee furs?”

Eris smiled, then took a big bite of her treat. “Don’t bother, da’len,” she mumbled, crumbs falling from her wrinkled lips.

Turin regarded her treat again — a cake, she reminded herself — then took an experimental nibble. Sweetness burst across her tongue, almost too sweet, and she loosed a surprised little grunt.

Eris laughed. “Good, hmm?”

Turin took another bite. Past the sweetness was softness, something that tasted tart and then warm, like fruit or sunlight. It reminded her of juice on a hot day. The sugary coating on the cake was thick on her tongue.

“They’re lemon-flavored,” Eris informed her, finishing off her cake with gusto. “My favorite. Sometimes Lunette gets too creative with her flavors, like putting deep mushroom and chocolate together. Blegh.”

[morganaseren]

OC Introduction

Tagged by: @illusivesoul Thanks! Sorry this took so long!

Tagging: @this-is-something-idk-what, @noeldressari, @alessandramortt, @theherowarden, @jellydishes​ As per usual, I can never figure out who has or hasn’t been tagged by this. No pressure if you don’t want to participate though! Below is the template you can use.

My answers will be under the Read More.

---

Fandom:

Role:

BASICS

Full Name:

Nickname(s):

Pronouns:

Sexuality:

Occupation and Titles:

Birthday & Age:

Physical description:

Clothing style:

BACKGROUND

COMBAT & SKILLS

Preferred fighting style:

Special skills:

RELATIONSHIPS

Family:

Love interest:

Best friends:

PERSONALITY

Positive traits:

Negative traits:

Likes:

Dislikes:

Fears:

Guilty Pleasure:

Hobbies:

Fandom: Dragon Age

Role: Inquisitor

BASICS

Full Name: Niamh (pronounced “Neev”) Cousland

Nickname(s): Neevy (from Sera), Brat (from Leliana lolol), Storm Pup (mostly from her late mother’s side of the family)

Pronouns: She/Her

Sexuality: Lesbian

Occupation and Titles: Niamh is the leader of the Inquisition forces and is also hailed as the Herald of Andraste. Although all her rights to the Cousland estate along with any titles associated with it were forfeited the moment her magic manifested, her ties to her family name are still recognized and vice versa--perhaps especially so now with her being Inquisitor. Thus, in accordance to an older tradition from her late mother’s family, she is also titled the Storm Wolf of Highever per her brother Teyrn Fergus Cousland.

Birthday & Age: Niamh was born on the 3rd of Cloudreach in 9:08 Dragon, so she’s 33 as of Inquisition and 36 as of the Trespasser DLC.

Physical description: She’s a woman of middling height (5′6″ or 168cm). Niamh’s hair is pitch-black, which settles asymmetrically around her face with a longer fringe covering one of her eyes--a pale, misty-grey hue. Physique-wise, she’s full of wiry muscle, especially along her arms, shoulders, and back--testament to years of heavy staffwork.

Clothing style: This is more dependent on what setting she finds herself in. Around Skyhold or in more official circumstances, she tends to garb herself in formal wear such as the one seen below.

When she’s out and about on missions, her attire consists more of cloth and leather as depicted in the screenshot above. As a native Fereldan, she has a tendency to favor fur in her overall field outfit, which is evident in the black Great Bear fur seen along the spaulders atop her shoulders. Then, as an occasional artist, her sketchbook is ever present, constantly hanging from her belt as she draws flora, fauna, and anything of interest in her travels to properly document later. Littered amongst the sketches are also occasional plans for whatever project she’d like to work on back at Skyhold.

Art and crafting is ever her way of relaxing.

Despite being an artist, her color palette in terms of clothing remains relatively simple even if the cut of them are always finely-tailored. She favors darker colors overall with white and varying shades of grey. Occasionally, a splash of color is thrown in every now and again for visual emphasis.

For instance, the red scarf you see on her is a gift from Bethany Hawke. ;3

BACKGROUND

Niamh is the youngest child of Bryce and Eleanor Cousland.

She was born beneath a violent storm that only settled as her newborn cries filled the world--a telltale sign perhaps of the destiny that would later be laid out before her.

She was taken away to Ferelden’s Circle when her magic manifested at the age of four. Niamh was the youngest to enter Kinloch Hold that year, and she was inconsolable for several months as she struggled to adapt to her new surroundings and the many strangers that were meant to be her new family of sorts.

Of all the mages present, she was closest to Jowan since he was only a year or two older than her, and the then young boy was responsible for drawing her out of her sullen shell--enough to where she could finally be comfortable with interacting with others after months of frightened silence. The two children did everything together and were otherwise inseparable. Unfortunately, their relationship would later become strained as they entered into adolescence, especially as Niamh grew into her magical abilities and surpassed him entirely in power, astounding the likes of First Enchanter Irving and Wynne--both whom became her respective mentors--with her command over the elements. 

Niamh was able to successfully undertake the Harrowing at the age of seventeen, earning the right to be recognized as a full-fledged mage. She was never designated an Enchanter throughout her time in the Circle, for she had no personal apprentices of her own. The few new ones to arrive at the Tower were assigned to those who had passed the Harrowing before her, but she was content to help them and the Senior Enchanters however she could. Her kindness, patience, and calm diligence earned her easy friendships.

...or at least she thought so until some of her colleagues turned on her with Uldred’s coup following the onset of the Blight.

Caught between blood mages and Templars who believed she had a hand in Uldred’s machinations, she likely would have succumbed to either party eventually had her sister Saoirse--now a Grey Warden--not arrived to help cleanse the Tower of abominations and save First Enchanter Irving and the remaining Senior Enchanters.

For her efforts in saving them, Niamh was allowed to accompany her sister on her travels across Ferelden along with Wynne. She formed a fast friendship with Leliana early on, and it eventually led to heavy infatuation on Niamh’s end, but it stuttered to an abrupt halt when she realized her sister was also in love with the bard. Believing that she had nothing of worth to offer to Leliana as a mere mage, Niamh buried her feelings for the other woman, watching from afar as she fell for Saoirse.

Saoirse was as bold as all great heroes could ever hope to be, and so she was well-suited for Leliana, but it was Niamh who tempered much of her sister’s impulsiveness, especially when it came to matters of diplomacy.

---

"Can't we just--"

"No." Niamh just kept her gaze forward as they walked out of the Deep Roads, refusing to look at her sister.

"But it's a good idea!" Saoirse insisted earnestly.

"Saoirse, in no world where you throw the crown at the two candidates for Orzammar's throne and expect the least most concussed to be King can ever be considered a 'good idea,'" Niamh deadpanned.

---

Yet, for all her brilliance with tactics and matters of negotiation, Niamh was unable to convince Saoirse to allow Morrigan to use her Dark Ritual despite knowing it would have saved any of the Grey Wardens from being sacrificed. Worse, her sister made her promise not to tell Leliana of Saoirse’s own plans to slay the Archdemon in the final battle.

As expected, it resulted in Saoirse’s death.

Racked with guilt over never telling Leliana the truth of the matter, and believing she had been left the last of the Couslands--a mage that Thedas would have never recognized--she disappeared following the end of the Fifth Blight. Niamh placed herself in a self-imposed exile abroad for over a decade until news of a Conclave by Divine Justinia was brought to her attention. The Divine had hoped to bring together both sides of the Mage-Templar War and negotiate its end.

For Niamh, this led her to return to Ferelden. It was her last hope to see if the world could finally begin to change for the better.

Instead, she was given a far different destiny...

COMBAT & SKILLS

Preferred fighting style: She prefers keeping herself at range on the battlefield, for it allows her to better survey it. She sees everything like an intricate chess game, and she always tries to place herself and her team at the best advantage to overcome their opponents.

As a mage, Niamh incorporates a lot of staffwork in her fighting, especially when it comes to casting magic. However, when she was living abroad, she had to learn to adjust her fighting style altogether so that she would never be suspected of being a mage. As such, she taught herself to fight with spears and polearms, as they were still similar enough to normal staff-fighting that it wouldn’t require a completely new foundation with which to work from.

Because the new style of fighting required her to be within relatively close quarters of her enemies, she learned to try and limit the time of the engagement with them as much as possible with quick, brutal strikes. That methodology happens regardless of how many opponents there are. A quick takedown means a much quicker escape after all. As a runaway apostate, she couldn’t risk leaving a trail of bodies behind her wherever she went.

Special skills: Niamh is specialized in all the elemental houses of magic although she favors lightning the most. During her time with the Inquisition, she also specialized in necromancy--much to the surprise of many.

RELATIONSHIPS

Family: Of the renowned Couslands, only she and her older brother Fergus remain, but despite their years apart(she honestly didn’t know that he survived the Battle of Ostagar until she returned to Ferelden in 9:41), they remain loving and supportive as always toward one another. Of her late mother’s family, the Mac Eanraigs, she gets along well with them, especially her Aunt Eithne (who will be making her first official appearance in chapter 24 of OtSttCA).

Love interest: Leliana (although they won’t be an official couple until close to chapter 30 or so)

Best friends: Dorian, Sera, and Cole. She views the three of them like younger siblings, which was an admittedly odd feeling for her at first, given that she’s the youngest of her own siblings.

Of her other companions, she is also closest to Vivienne although Niamh sees her more like a fond, maternal figure than a best friend. She greatly respects how the older woman was able to take her status as a mage and turn it into a position of power within the Orlesian Imperial Court, especially when so very little of it was ever afforded to their people. When it comes to the mage allies she gathered from Redcliffe, she trusts Vivienne’s judgment in overseeing them along with the Knight-Enchanters Niamh requested of her back in chapter 13, especially since Niamh travels so much between missions. Then, when it comes to just about anything regarding Orlais, she goes to Vivienne as much as Leliana or Josephine, mostly wanting the insight of a mage in regards to the culture and politics seen there.

Then, of her War Council, Leliana and Josephine are her absolute favorites. Niamh and Leliana have so much history between them that it’s impossible to separate themselves from one another, and she appreciates Josephine’s sweet nature as well as her diplomatic acumen.

PERSONALITY

Positive traits: Her adaptability. There’s an almost... chameleon-like nature to Niamh at times. As such, she can acclimate herself to whatever her environment asks of her and find a way to thrive in spite of it all. She’s also quite intelligent. Ever the eternal student, she constantly looks to expand her wealth of knowledge. Had she not been born a mage, she likely would have done well as a scholar in the world of Thedas. Niamh is also benevolent, always seeking to place more kindness into the world rather than contributing to the bad already within it.

Negative traits: After years of being taught rather toxic, religious doctrine from the Chantry in regards to mages, Niamh has rather low self-esteem, especially when it comes to the subject of love. She doesn’t believe herself worthy of Leliana for instance. As brilliant as she is, her mind can be rather restless at times. This can lead to overthinking outside of any tactical or official setting, which tends to feed back on her latent anxiety as a leader. Then, having spent a decade constantly on the move, she’s not used to staying still for long periods of time, which lends itself to some trouble, especially if she’s injured. She is quite literally the worst patient ever. :P

Likes: Storms, the ocean, mabari, tea, strategy games, sweets, books, art

Dislikes: The Chantry, Templars, discriminatory behavior, incivility,

Fears: The Rite of Tranquility, outright failure as a leader

Guilty Pleasure: Niamh has the most terrible sweet tooth. If given half the chance, she’d get her entire day’s sustenance through sweets alone. She actually does like fashion; she just couldn’t allow herself to indulge in it since her nomadic lifestyle before joining the Inquisition didn’t permit such luxury. She’d happily window-shop the entire day away if given the opportunity.

Hobbies: Sketching, painting, crafting, reading, chess

[aces-to-apples]

Oh I think it's completely in character for all of them, it just hurts my feelings.

Varric's at the very least culturally Andrastian and to some degree thinks everyone from the Fade is evil and untrustworthy; Isabela purports herself to be a radical autonomist but frankly is just a traumatized contrarian who wants to keep everyone at a distance; Fenris is devout Andrastian and has just about every Tevinter-related trauma under the sun, and while he's a reasonable and cool-headed guy, he's not exactly doing the work to unpack any of that; and Aveline is a cop who married a Templar and, while she may not actually believe in the Maker, is absolutely Andrastian down to her bones.

Merrill's the only one of the crew who isn't hostile and dismissive, but Bethany is the only one allowed by Anders to be sympathetic and understanding about it. And let's be frank, that's because she's human; I love Anders dearly but his attitude and treatment towards the Dalish are absolutely not it.

My boy Carver is the only one whose problem with Anders isn't related to Justice at all, and is instead down to his unprocessed grief, his inferiority complex and daddy issues, and the fact that he just finds Anders fucking annoying lmao rip. Out of the whole pack of them, that's downright reasonable in comparison.

So, no, I don't think everyone disliked Anders and Justice because of plot convenience; I think it's perfectly consistent with the characters presented to us. It just makes me sad because I love them both dearly.

Which is why I'm so glad that the Veilguard crew, while being reasonably cautious of the quote-unquote abomination, are willing to trust and care for Spite like a regular person once he's proven his own reasonability. And some of that is down to them being Northern Thedosian and less influenced by the Orlesian chantry, but also some of it is down to them not being a chaotic pack of traumatized 20-somethings desperately scrabbling against every societal system that wants them to just lie down and die.

It's a nice change, and makes me long for a world where Justice got that too.

Crying and throwing up at the VG crew's reaction and treatment of Spite vs. the KW crew's reaction and treatment of Justice. I love their mean little asses but mean little asses they were...

[bigfan-fanfic]

The Dragon’s Tutor - First Impression

My thanks to @kemvee for letting me use her character, the incomparable Amie from her story “Educating the Commander.” We were talking about a meeting between our characters, and IDEAS occurred. I have other ideas of them two to write in the future, so I’m crossing my fingers that Kemvee actually likes this...

Note: This was meant to be short but I kept on going! Another Note: ACK! Sorry it got so long!

- - - - -

“Lady Montilyet, beyond the concerns of our responsible allocation of funds, I do not believe this... woman to be a suitable instructor for our young Inquisitor.” Cullen frowned, glaring at the Ambassador, who easily understood that Cullen was unwilling to say the word he was thinking in the presence of the boy in question.

Josephine coldly raised an eyebrow. “How fortunate, Commander, that the decision does not lay entirely within your hands. Else our young Inquisitor would be kept in the dark about the dangers he will face when dealing with the Game.”

“Politics, geography, etiquette, languages - all these things are vital to the Herald’s safety in the Game.” Leliana tutted. “And what with his instruction in magic, history, tactics, and his journeys throughout Thedas, we simply cannot prevail upon Josie, Benny, Madame de Fer and Master Tethras much longer - each has their own duties - Madame de Fer and Josie also take their time to teach Henry -”

“Lord Cousland has expressed that he doesn’t mind-” Cullen started, glancing at Henry, who had stepped back from the War Table, hoping not to be involved.

“Lord Cousland cannot always be available.” Leliana snapped. “He has valuable contacts and skills that Josie and I require and like it or not, Cullen, the Inquisitor needs a dedicated tutor.”

“The Inquisitor,” Tash’s voice was soft, and yet it rang throughout the War Table room. “would prefer if you stopped talking about him like he wasn’t in the room.”

“Apologies, Tash.” Cullen said softly, suitably chastened. 

Tash nodded. “I like learning. And I know it’s necessary, and that it is a burden. I, er... I don’t exactly have the best experience with teachers.” He frowned.

 Cullen’s mind briefly flashed to the memory of watching Madame de Fer verbally eject Commander Helaine from Skyhold after learning that she was most disapproving of Tash’s status as an apostate and hedge mage, as well as his Qunari heritage, enough that she had called him a useless ox-boy. That had been the straw needed for Vivienne to take over Tash’s instruction in magic. Though it had been amusing to watch Vivienne tear the woman to shreds, Cullen quickly frowned again when Tash continued talking.

“Back in Markham, the Chantry sisters didn’t like it when I came for lessons. They would kick me out.” Tash shuddered in a way that made Cullen certain the boy was being quite literal. “On the bright side, that meant I got to learn from my Papa. The baker one, not the Tal-Vashoth. So that was fun. Still... is this person nice?”

Josie smiled softly. “Of course. Lady Amie is as gracious a woman as you could ever hope to meet. And as a Courtesan, she has much practical experience in the subjects we wish her to instruct you in. And her presence will attract support to Skyhold, acting as a beacon that the Inquisition is able to engage with the upper echelons of polite society.”

“What’s a Courtesan?” Tash asked suddenly. “Is it like a courtier? There’s ‘court’ in it. But then what would ‘san’-ing be? ‘San...’ Does that mean something in Orlesian? Or is it Antivan? It sounds like Antivan.“

Cullen had blushed bright red and shrugged as if to say See?

Josephine barely resisted the urge to scrunch up her nose at the man. “A Courtesan is a lady - or, generally a lady - who assists nobles in... ensuring they find enjoyment. Men woo her as they would someone they wish to court, and in exchange, she will assist them in their every need.”

“So... sort of like a concierge?” Tash tilted his head. From his position somewhere in the corner of the room, Henry gave a loud, high-pitched snort. His face was red and he appeared to be somewhere between laughing and crying. “But a mobile one.”

“That is... an interesting way of putting it.” Josephine smiled. Cullen scoffed.

Tash’s gaze snapped to him, his lips suddenly tight in a frown. “There’s something none of you are telling me, and I’m going to find out what it is. You know, it’s pretty annoying that you’re all perfectly happy with me walking around dangerous places until my feet feel like they’ll fall off, but you won’t tell me what some silly little word means -”

The doors opened (much to Cullen and Henry’s relief, interrupting the young Inquisitor), and in walked Madam de Fer, accompanied by a most extravagantly dressed woman. Her long traveling gown was of a rich red velvet, cinched at the waist and elegantly flowing downwards, a black fur trim at the hem brushing the floor and matching the trim of the flared sleeves, long black silk gloves covering her arms. She wore a black silken brocade vest over the gown, disguising her corset among the intricate raised silver design. A shimmering opal rested among the folds of lace crisscrossing her décolletage, but even this was all outshone by the vivid silver locks she sported, the wavy hair lustrous and thick as it cascaded across her shoulders.

“May I present the Lady Amie, our dear Inquisitor’s new instructor.” Madam de Fer said softly, before standing off to the side and allowing Amie to move forward to embrace the approaching Josephine.

“Lovely to see you, Amie.” Josephine smiled at her. “I do hope you had a safe journey.”

“Of course, Lady Montilyet,” Amie responded, with a subtle curtsy and a shake of her wavy silver locks. “The carriage you sent was more than satisfactory.”

“A carriage?” Cullen practically snarled at the mention of extravagance.

Amie’s eyes flicked about the room, taking in whom she knew and whom she had only been informed of. Madam de Fer, of course, she knew well, and Josephine. Leliana, of course, was the Divine’s Left Hand, and they had a mutual friend in the Lady Montilyet. 

The men in the room were of a decidedly more unknown bent. The famous Benezio Cousland was absent, as was the mysterious giant Avvar elf that was supposedly the Inquisitor’s bodyguard. But that left the Commander, Cullen, his face etched with disapproval, practically shaking his head at her, eyelids narrowed over amber irises. A slender young man stood in the back of the room away from the table, all messy brown hair and wide eyes as he took in her ensemble - confusing, he had no noble bearing and yet his physique and general air did not suggest common origins. And finally, the Child of Andraste himself. His Worship, the Lord Inquisitor. 

As befitting the stations of all present, Amie gave a deep straight-backed curtsy to the young Inquisitor, gazing through the silver strands of hair to take in his brown hair, pulled into a messy knot; both of his lustrous dark horns, swept high and back like a dragon’s, covered in what appeared to be a blue knit covering embroidered with little flowers; and most of all his eyes, a bright, shining gold like a sunrise, similarly examining her, meeting her eyes boldly. “Your Worship. It is an honor.”

“The pleasure is all mine.” the boy replied easily, smiling at her, although suspicion still lurked in his sunrise eyes. “I’m told you will be my new instructor?”

Amie straightened, marveling for a moment at one so young and so short having such power. Her eyes flicked to his left hand, which gently pulsed with green light before she fixed her gaze on his face. “That is correct, Your Worship.”

“Tash.” the boy corrected. “Well, technically Ataashi, but I like Tash better.”

“Now, Lady Amie’s duties will not all consist of your instruction, Inquisitor.” Leliana cleared her throat.

Amie smiled easily. “I shall be performing my customary duties as well as taking charge of your education in the Game.” Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed the Commander shaking his head in annoyance.

“I haven’t been doing that badly, have I?” Tash winced - though Amie could tell he had noticed the silent outburst as well.

“By no means,” Amie smiled gently. “You have performed admirably thus far, if what I’ve heard in Orlais is to be believed. But you are entering a new tier of the Game, and extra preparation is not at all inappropriate.”

Cullen scoffed, and Amie only deigned to step back, not even raising an eyebrow. Tash, however, tilted his head. “Something wrong, Cullen?”

“Only that I still wonder if this is the best use of Inquisition resources.” Cullen frowned, clearly holding back. Amie assumed a lazy smile, showing her lack of concern in his protest. He clearly was in the minority here. “With her... fee, we could easily train another troop of soldiers!”

Tash nodded. “True... but I’m certain that with our new friend’s help, there’ll be plenty of soldiers coming in. It’s...” Tash looked around as if he could pluck a word from thin air. In any event, it seemed to work, as the boy beamed. “An investment! It’s like having a party. Sure it costs a lot, but it makes the nobles and the soldiers happy, and then they tell others and we end up getting more than we spent. Right?”

Cullen looked torn for a moment but then grumbled out a “Yes, I suppose you are correct.”

“Great! So we’re all on the same page.”

Amie smiled. “If it pleases you, Your Wor- Tash, then our lessons will begin tomorrow. I shall prepare as well as I can. I understand that you already know how to read and to write?”

Tash nodded proudly. “My Papa taught me. And how to do sums and figures. And I know a little bit of Antivan.”

“I can attest, Lady Amie, that dear Tash is a natural at the ways of the Game. Even among the children of nobles, you could not ask for a more able student.” Vivienne said softly, and Tash’s cheeks darkened as he smiled.

“I will look forward to our time together, then.” Amie smiled at him, warmly this time. And it was true. She hadn’t known what to expect, but she was pleasantly surprised to find that the Inquisitor truly was just a child. An intelligent one at that, but certainly a child. Already she felt a protective stirring over him, seeing him grinning at praise.

“Thank you. I... I’ll look forward to it as well.” Tash said, flashing her a grin.

[herald-divine-hell]

WIP Wednesday

This piece is a constitution of the WIP uploaded the previous day. some changes were made, but overall I have aided more!

~

Above the withering gray wall of fog, the black walls of Ostwick rose like pillars of night from the snowy earth. The sounds of the seas were in Leliana’s ears—the rumbling groans of the seas as frothy white mauls crashed against its sides, lifting them high and pummeling them down in swift moments near disorienting; the whistling of ropes unlacing and growing taunt; the shouts and beats of sailors as hurried toward this task or that; the hissing of the masts and the cracking of the sails as the winds snapped them full with air. And beyond, the fog combed through the deep blue-gray waters, slow-moving fingers that trailed as lightly as a lover across their beloved’s scars. Absentmindedly, she wondered how many scars did the sea bare? And soon after that—did the stroking touch of the fog aid them in the easing of the hurt?

Perhaps it was happenstance that she had been staring at Amayian’s back when the thought came to her. 

Leliana had found him standing there before the sun slipped a ruddy finger over the horizon and across the waters, his eyes fixated northward as the thin lace of white grew thick and lumbering. The wind had been in his hair, dark wavy curls writhing as the salty air grasped and tugged, flowing like some veil of night speckled with the starlight of sea-spray. The tails of his long black coat danced lightly along the wooden panels of the ship, the sleeves drawn back past his elbows, revealing the white cotton shirt beneath, dabbled with gray from splashing water. A fine embroidery silver latticed across them, in swirling vines blossoming with forked leaves; trailing and lost as they reached the cuffed coat-arms. Standing there, frozen, with only that shifting wind grasping at his hair and his coat, one would think he was a statue with all the shades of living men. 

A thought flitted through her mind, a soft voice she had nearly forgotten. One bounded in warmth and fitted for smiles. The tones dragged scrapping daggers deep across her chest, leaving a burning ache at her heart. He always seemed like a statue, didn’t he? 

Yes, she admitted, the words a long drawl, wary to leave the iron chains confining her mind. Always wanted to draw the first watch. Amayian Trevelyan had already been an eager sort, in actions to say the least. In everything else, well…When it came to words, those seemed lost to him.

The gentle voice chimed, laughing. Remember when we tried to have him tell an Orlesian tale. 

Something close to a twitch tickled the corner of her mouth. Oh, yes. She recalled that one. A poor attempt, in truth. He had all the story-telling ability of a boulder, all stone and solid truths. Zevran had not allowed him to live it down, even if the poor boy had no idea why the ending - And then he died - was a terrible conclusion. There was no fervor in those stories, even if she could tell that he was told the story faithfully - perhaps too faithfully for her taste, but it was an amusing one still. And he had been so quiet then. Shy was not quite the right word. Detached, withdrawn, even dour. But not surly. Unfriendly, but not grumpy or mean-spirited. Perhaps when I teased him a little about a jest that soared well over his head, but there was nothing angry in his voice. Only neat confusion. Always neat, that one.

Leliana was not sure which voices spoke, the Sister or the Nightingale. The tones mangled to one, one fond, the other edged close to hardness. But the memories stirred, quiet at first before rushing like a cliff-climbing wave cast by the sea. Violet and blue skies jeweled in stars; amber flames twirling with the sudden sputters of a racing song; a lanky boy with thick curls that touched the ends of his ears but grew as time went on, almost shaggy. But neatness, despite it all—neatness in his words, in his precise, measured actions, even for a boy of nineteen.  No, Amayian Trevelyan was never mean-spirited, even when warranted. He was not much of anything, to be true—neither happy or sad, angry or shamed. When Leliana dug her fingers deep enough, hints could be caught, dragged slowly out to be examined. Most had been a glimmer of a blush tracing the outlines of faint dark freckles on olive skin, a quietness in the voice when she leaned close and fixed the positioning of his fingers as she taught him how to strum a lyre properly, where to settle it in his grasp, how to hear the wrongness of a certain plucked note. And the blush was the greatest struggle of all not to tease him. Perhaps she had feared that if she did so, he would settle—never cast away—the lyre onto the ground, thank her for the lesson, and pull away from everything Leliana had tried so hard to bring out, and return to the icy greetings that marked his tone when he first joined Enasalin and Ralia and the others. But he never did. He simply took it, knowing or unknowing what the words meant in truth. As if it was to be expected, as if he could ascertain some points that he could use. 

The cold voice traced a dagger along her spine, slow, methodical. To use what? To serve. And when service did finally come, what did he do? He fled, like some coward. There was no mockingness in that tone from the Nightingale—from Leliana’s self—but merely the truth. Amayian had been so…eager…to follow whatever Enasalin or the others gave him requests to be complete. But when Leliana had needed him, truly needed him, she saw for a moment hesitation, and soon after the confusion in that hesitation, in those guileless eyes that were as smooth and clear as glass in a mirror. And then he turned, and ran. Ran from Leliana. Ran from Enasalin. 

Her hand drifted for a moment to her stomach, felt the cold of her chainmail despite the leather gloves, reaching out to her—the grief and the pain of childbirth. Her children. Their children. Born from a foolish moment of weakness, on both of their parts. At times, she wondered if she used him…

Just like Marjolaine. 

Leliana closed her eyes, drew her stomach-resting hand into a fist, and for a moment felt a coil of shame in her heart, clogging her throat. She remembered those nights well enough, the fear in her heart when she saw the bloody ruin of his back from where the dragonling’s claws racked him from near his neck down the length, all torn flesh and pulsing blood, strips of scarlet and peeled pink and white across deep olive skin. She remembered the azure glow of Wynne’s magic, the trickles of sweat crawling down her temple, falling between the deeply creased furrow of her eyebrows. She remembered the shallow breaths of his shoulders and chest, the slickness of his hair drenched in sweat, the small lines as flashes of pain crawled over his features. And the heat. She remembered the heat, worse of all. Living fire was his skin, scorching the palm of Leliana’s skin that she nearly feared her skin would slough off and leave her bones cracked and shattered. For days and nights she sat by his side, offering him to drink, feeding him only the smallest pieces of meat and bread that he could keep down, all while the pain slithered across features, as if a thousand arrows struck him over and over again. 

But in time, the pain receded and the strength returned to him, slowly and surely. A truly slow progress, but progress nevertheless. And I never once left his side. The anger striked out with the hissing snap of a viper. Leliana gave him water to drink and food he could keep down, tiny chunks of bread softened in carrot and vegetable soup, sprinkled with small slivers of meat hunted by Sten—and Sten had seemed more determined than in any hunt to find something for him to eat. The softie. Still, she stayed by his side, when only fears could give her comfort as no other words could. 

And how angry she had been when she had awoken one night to see him sitting up from his bed roll, staring down at her with those quiet fiery eyes, a warm copper, the soft fire of a hearth within the white storm of winter. And he had apologized for waking her, and that her nose crinkled and she would release a small whenever he shifted away from her cuddles. And though anger stirred twisted in her heart, relief swarmed her limbs like swelling streams of music, light and warm and leaping. And my arms had wrapped around him. Words were spoken too, bitter and cracking with the lingering fear scratching at her throat and wettening her eyes. But Leliana could not recall the exact words, all gray blurs and distant murmurs in her mind. The only thing she could recall, between those long stretches of mist, was her lips against his face, leaving countless kisses upon his skin, and his questions of, “Were you harmed?”

Always concerned for others, she thought, lips thinning even as a flicker of a smile threatened to break across her face. And when I asked if he was okay, all that concern melted out of him, filled with excuses. That the wounds would heal—they always do. Or the pain has receded to a small thrumming along his back, but he can still fight if need be. Whatever was required for us. But never for him. And still, he drew her in, and things sped beyond either of their controls, fueled by the worries in their hearts. He had been unaware, inexperienced, but always ready to learn. Whenever there was a task ahead, all things were fixated upon that alone. And it had Amayian who pressed eagerly against her body, slipping Leliana slipped on his lap, cradling his face in her hands, rubbing at the line of his cheekbones, capturing the sculpture of his features with her fingers and palms. And she recalled his words, slicing like an arrow piercing the air, unlike any other. Allow me to ease your worry. 

[jaygrl22]

OCtober day 11: craft

this one was a bit tricky, so i went with one of my minor ocs, Tarelen (aka Hush). Didn’t realize just how much he preferred using the others’ nicknames until i started typing! anyway here’s my elf boi making a gift for his dumb human crush, Silks (aka Kàde).

@oc-growth-and-development

---

Hush quietly whittled the wood in his hand. He was more than aware of the nearby templars watching him. Mages in the Tower weren’t normally allowed anything sharper than a quill tip, let alone an actual knife.

He still couldn’t believe the First Enchanter had allowed it. And all he had to do in return was stay at this table as he worked and turn the knife in before he left the room. It was quite the deal. Considering who his friends were and the sort of trouble they got into, he was always pleasantly surprised whenever Irving and Greagoir allowed him to do anything special like this.

Then again, out of the lot of them, Hush knew he was the most respectable of the group. He’d undergone his Harrowing at a far younger age than most of the mages in the Tower and passed with flying colors. For a long time, he’d been the only fully-fledged mage until Trouble passed his. But, as Trouble was always in trouble, he'd lost most of the perks that came with the rank before even earning it.

He imagined the next in line would be Silks. The Orlesian-born mage was skilled, if not a bit flashy, but Hush still couldn’t help but worry how he would react upon realize he had to fight off a demon. Knowing Silks, it would probably be a desire demon, or maybe even Pride.

Hush hoped it wasn’t. He hoped it would be something easy, like a rage demon. He’d probably still run around screaming for a bit, but he was clever. He’d figure something out and defeat it.

If not… If anything happened to that ridiculous boy… If Hush lost him…

He shook his head, focusing on the carving in his hands. Silks would be fine. He was sure of it. But, just to be safe, he was making him a—

“Hush!”

The elf froze. Speak of the wolf and he will appear.

Silks grinned across from him, taking a seat. “Here you are, my dear Hush. I was looking for you all morning. I thought maybe you were causing some mischief without me,” he said with a wink.

Hush scoffed, continuing his work. As if he would do anything so obvious. Causing a ruckus in the middle of the day was Silks and Fauna’s style, not his. Hush was far more careful with his trickery than them. So careful in fact that few in the Tower even believed he took part in their group’s mischief making.

Silks nodded at the wooden figure. “What’s that?”

His cheeks warmed. “A gift,” he muttered.

“Oh, for who? Is it for me?” Silks’s smile grew. “It’s for me, isn’t it?”

Hush ignored him.

“You’re blushing. It’s for me.”

He glared at the smug shem. Silks orange eyes were dancing with mirth as he smirked across the table. Hush let out a low grumble, his face getting even hotter.

“It looks very nice,” Silks said sweetly. “You’re so talented, Hush. I wish I could take you to my family’s estate in Val Royeaux. We have the loveliest white trees along the south wall.” He sighed, getting that faraway look in his eye when he talked about his old home. “I’d bet you could make something brilliant out of those trees...”

Hush hummed, trying not to enjoy the praise too much, but was pleased to know his small talent was enough to capture his eye. Despite living in Ferelden’s Circle Tower longer than the rest of them, Silks still had his expensive tastes. That was why they called him “Silks” in the first place.

“I see you smiling, Hush.”

“I’m not.”

Silks laughed and Hush felt his heart beat faster. 

“Whatever you say, my love,” he teased.

Hush sighed, wishing he wouldn’t say such things so carelessly. He wondered if he would call him those sweet names without the humor… But that would be bad. Mages weren’t allowed to have relationships. If the templars suspected anything serious between them, they might send one or both of them to other Circles as punishment. Hush didn’t want his family to be ripped apart because he couldn’t keep his stupid feelings in check.

“Kàde,” a soft voice hissed. They turned their heads to see Flames hurrying over to the table. “Kàde, Lav’s going to set nug dung on fire in the barracks. You need to stop her or they’re gonna throw her in a cell for a month!”

Hush groaned. Fauna was always doing something ridiculous like that. It was as if she enjoyed being on the templar’s Most Hated list. He was, as always, extremely grateful for Flames’s clairvoyance. If not for her warnings, they would’ve been torn apart a long time ago by their own stupid actions.

Silks shook his head. “That elf has a death wish, I swear. Thank you, Elia,” he said standing with a smile. “Why don’t you stay and keep Hush company?”

“Because you won’t find her in time if I do,” she said fidgeting.

He huffed. “Fine, fine. You’ll be alright alone a while, darling?” he asked with that teasing grin.

“Go away, Silks,” Hush growled.

The shem laughed and headed for the stairs.

Flames stayed behind a moment, then smiled at him. “You have no idea how happy he’s going to be when you give that to him,” she said pointing to the carving in his hand.

“Will he like it?” he mumbled, his cheeks getting warm again.

The white-haired girl smiled and nodded as she turned to follow their friend. “He’s going to love it, Hush. He’ll be speechless!”

Hush snorted out a laugh and went back to his whittling. Silks? Speechless? He shook his head, grinning. He’d believe that when he saw it himself.

[laurelsofhighever]

The Falcon and the Rose Ch. 68 - The Traitor and the Nightmare

Chapter Rating: Teen Relationships: Alistair/Female Cousland Additional Tags: Alternate Universe, Fereldan Civil War AU - No Blight, Romance, Angst, Action/Adventure, Friends to Lovers, Slow Burn, Mutual Pining, Misunderstandings, Cousland Feels, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort

Read it on AO3

--

Loghain sat alone in the solar that used to be his wife’s refuge, where she had penned her letters and seen to the affairs of the teyrnir, where they had shared carafes of wine on the long summer evenings when he returned from the capital, and which now let in only grubby light through unwashed windows banked with half-rotten leaves. Around him, dust muted the colours of the furnishings, made duller still by the cold touch of the air that fogged his breath and congealed his barely-eaten breakfast of fried potatoes and bacon. The dreary atmosphere didn’t seem to trouble the witless elven servant the magister had sent to spy on him, but then he too had lost the energy to complain about petty discomforts. His mind drifted in and out of focus, memories and desires slipping away like mist whenever he tried to grasp them.

In a shaking hand, he held Anora’s letter tighter. The paper was creased and stained, ragged from being read so many times. If not for the intimately familiar handwriting, he would have thought the pleas to flee into exile – to confess, abdicate, and run – were just another ploy meant to make him doubt himself. As it was, the words confused him. She mentioned a Nightmare, and a change in his personality leading Ferelden to ruin, and while the accusations rang true, for the longest time he had thought it the effect of the war, a necessary withdrawal for the greater good of the people. Now, with his army broken and nothing more rigorous to occupy his thoughts, his mind drifted to the betrayals, the harsh punishments, and the desperate words of the Falcon in the moments before he ran her through. She had called him a traitor, accused him of being in thrall to a demon. Anora’s letter was dated after the battle at Highever, and Erimond’s spies had reported the Falcon’s survival, so perhaps the new favourite had stolen the queen’s ear, twisted her mind. Perhaps the story of the demon had been nothing more than a last attempt to preserve her own life.

And yet, with the shadows of his dreams chasing him into the waking world, and Erimond’s plans kept from him, could he afford to ignore the warning? If there really was a demon, and if it had already worked such evil through him, then what more might it accomplish if he flinched from his duty and allowed it to rampage as it willed across Ferelden?

The door to the hallway squeaked open. Startled, he shoved the letter into the folds of his winter sleeves as another one of the magister’s servants, more present than his elven guard, stepped crisply into the room.

“Master Erimond wishes to see you, Your Lordship.”

As if compelled, Loghain set aside his fork and rose from the table. In the moment before he moved, he blinked down at his legs, wondering how long it had been since he had questioned one of the magister’s whims. The stray thought was not enough to stop him following down the corridor like a mongrel on a leash, but it occupied him enough to keep his gaze from drifting to his reflection in the mirrors his wife had once added to brighten the hall. He no longer cared to look at himself; his bloodshot eyes and thinning, greyed hair took away what little was left of his appetite. His clothes still remained presentable, not that it could be counted for much.

He traipsed after the servant through familiar corridors until they came to the great hall. The windows had been shuttered but a gap in the roof at the far end let in the light and illuminated Erimond at the centre of a conglomerate of tables, like a gaunt spider at the centre of a huge web. No other room in the castle provided him with a hearth big enough for his experiments, or enough table space to run them simultaneously while keeping notes. Books and broken ends of chalk littered the work surfaces around him, bracketed by arcane equipment and vials of dark liquid thick as blood. The magister himself looked up when he heard footsteps, and in the shadows cast by the fire, the bruises under his eyes made his skin look like wax.

Loghain had little sympathy. “What do you want?” he snapped.

“Your opinion,” Erimond replied in smooth tones, “which as always, I value highly. Over there.”

He pointed to the end of the table nearest the window, where a pile of maps was laid across the wood. Wary, Loghain sidled past the magical artefacts to examine the top one, his lip curling at the vague, undetailed cartography he would never have allowed from his scouts. It showed, in broad strokes, the land south and east of the Brecilian Forest, with roads and features sketched out of proportion. Many of the place names had been roughly scratched out using a different ink, rendering it entirely worthless to anyone else who might want to use it.

“Thanks to our enemies, our original plans have met unfavourable ends, and we must turn to less expedient avenues if we are to succeed,” Erimond scoffed, scratching a note into his book, uncaring of the contempt directed at him, if he noticed it at all.

“Yours,” Loghain said.

“What?”

“They are your plans.” He licked his lips. “Mine were to keep Ferelden from the hands of its enemies.”

The magister paused in his work. His expression remained placid as he set down his pen, and his steps carried him across the floor unhurried, but when he spoke again there was a threat in his words potent as a raised whip.

“I require a location,” he explained. “A place of much bloodshed, where the Veil is worn thin by magic. This squalid backwater is not enough.”

Nothing good would come of it. When the Nightmare impressed itself upon Cailan, and then upon the Falcon, he had glimpsed its mind, its intent, and now he shook worse than he had as a boy hearing the thunder of Orlesian cavalry along the road to his farmstead.

“I will not help you.”

“You do not have a choice,” Erimond sneered. “Use your knowledge of this miserable land to give me a location.”

“No.”

Incredulity flashed in the magister’s eyes, before his face closed in a snarl and his hand twitched as if reaching for the staff still on the other side of the room. Loghain grasped for the locket around his neck. Whatever instinct drove him to it came unbidden, but he saw his chance in the instant of hesitation as Erimond stalked towards him, and felt his lips raise in a feral smile. He would not be yoked like a beast of burden.

Light exploded behind his eyes – a searing pain that brought him to his knees. A different, distant pain seized his hand as the metal rim of the pendant burned his skin, giving off an almost sweet, metallic odour that made his stomach roil. When the horror of it finally faded, his throat raw from screaming, his vision focused on the narrow points of Erimond’s shoes. A low chuckle fell from above, cold like the drip of melting ice.

“You are my creature,” Erimond told him. “You will be used as I see fit, and you will remember that for as long as I have use of you. Now get up.”

Loghain’s legs moved, fitful starts as he struggled to refuse the command, but his will had been too worn down for too long, and with a steadying hand on the edge of the table, his body pushed him to stand. The map was still in front of him. Its poor artistry drew his eye against his will, away from Gwaren, along the uneven line of the Imperial Highway, over the desolate expanse of the Korcari Wilds and a place so remote he knew it only through legend and hearsay. He watched a smile grow in a slow curve around the magister’s mouth.

“Perfect.”

[kessielrg]

[KH+DA] A Life Forgotten

Summary: Inspired by @chibi-mushroom‘s Dragon Age AU for the Kingdom Hearts series, focused solely on Anora. [can be read standalone without knowledge of Dragon Age or Kingdom Hearts][oneshot]

Rating: K

Word Count: 2,215

If you like the story, please reblog!

---

“Jump, Razzie!”

The little girl, no more than 5 or 6 years old, hesitated for a moment. Her short, raspberry red hair was gently tussled by the wind that passed by the top of the cliff. Her cousin, Kieran, waited for her at the base of the cliff with his arms outstretched. The smile on his face illustrated that this was nothing more than a game- like they were playing in a parlor with the girl about to jump off the table. But the distance was far greater than that. Quite a ways down, actually.

This was where most of her memories started. This cliff, her cousin patiently waiting for her, and her tiny heart beating in her chest like it wanted to come out. The memory was so old that it usually felt like a dream instead. She tried hard to hold on to it; it was all she had left of a life she never knew.

She took a few steps back, then started to run at full force before jumping off the cliff. She couldn't keep her eyes open as she fell. The wind stung if she tried. But there was a peace as she fell; it felt like the world was slowing just for her as she made her free fall. No one but her cousin could see that she was actually slowing her descent through an unconscious act of magic. To the outside observer, Anora Guinevere Ravishta was flying.

Even when her arms started to wrap around Kieran, it felt like she was trying to hug him, not holding on to him for dear life after making a fate-defying fall. Her sense of weightlessness immediately left when she had wrapped her entire little body around her cousin. She allowed her eyes to flutter open and was instantly greeted with her cousin's beaming smile.

“You did it Razzie!” Kieran happily cheered, doing a little jig as he held her. Anora was sent into a flurry of giggles from the movement. Her cousin's laughter mixed with her own as he slowly ceased dancing to press their foreheads together. What stopped this memorable moment between the cousins was the sound of someone clearing their throat not far from them. The duo turned their attention to a Templar.

This Templar wore an armor that would very soon be very familiar to Anora. The top portion of the Templar regalia as much like that of a regular knight, the symbol of their organization taking a prominent stance on the breastplate. The lower half was more like a blood red robe that stopped a bit ways from the ground. On the Templar's head was a square-like helmet that did not give any indication of what this person looked like under. Anora shrunk a little. She had yet to know the wrath of the Templar Order, but even now she felt intimidated by their armor.

“The young girl's father is here to see her.” the Templar told the two in a gravely voice.

For a small, subtle, moment, Kieran held Anora bit tighter.

“Tell him we'll be there soon.” he affirmed, regardless. The Templar nodded and went back to the main camp to pass the word along.

Kieran waited for the Templar to be out of eye range before setting Anora down. Hand in hand, the two walked back to the main encampment. Anora had decided quite early on that the Avvar were a weird set of people. They were a nomadic bunch, never quite staying in the same place for very long, and their houses were more teepees and tents than brick and mortar. Anora was more fascinated with the augur. The augur was a special mage that frequently talked to the spirits from the Fade- or, as the Avvar called it, the Land of Dreams. The augur talked to the spirits from the Fade, to whom the Avvar refeered as gods, and in trade the spirits watched over the Avvar people.

The Templars were not easily a welcomed (or even a familiar) party among the Avvar. Many of the Templars from this side of the mountain came from Ferelden. A feud between the Avvar and Fereldens was a long and bloodied one- the reminder of which came from one passing look at the glorified soldiers. Kieran and Anora were Ferelden as well, but there was a small exception to them that caused either indifference or quiet scorn. Kieran was a student from the University of Orlais, sent to train into becoming an ambassador of sorts for the Avvar people. The Orlesians were more welcome than the Fereldens, due to the former providing trade and goods that the Avvar could not make otherwise. Had Kieran not be the kind, easy going young man he was, the Avvar would have denied him the moment the empress requested him.

Anora had never quite been sure when the Templars arrived at the Avvar encampment. Despite all the talk then, there were only four of them. She would not understand until later how much danger a single Templar could carry, or what the Avvar did to train their kind's mages. She would not know that Kieran had tried to delay the Templars from finding her by having her with him. She never even realized that the Templar in charge had been her own father. Perhaps, in another time, Kieran would have been successful in keeping her with the Avvar. Maybe she would have become the augur's apprentice. But in this one, she was made prisoner.

Her father, like the other Templars, was dressed in the standard regalia. She would never know his face, but his voice was a lot like Kieran's.

“It is time to stop running,” he said, more to Kieran than the both of them, “Anora is being sent to the Circle.”

“I won't let you do that.” Kieran opposed. “She'll be safe here with the Avvar. You have no right to take care of her anymore.”

“She will go where I say.” Anora's father demanded in return. His stance was neutral, almost unnervingly so, as his voice rose to thunderous levels. “She is a mage, she is Ferelden, she must go to the Circle as per the Chantry's laws!”

Kieran was visibly shaking.

“Anora, go to our tent.” her told the little girl, his tone riddled with a harshness not intended for her. “Unco and I need to talk in private.”

If Anora had known then that this would be the last time she'd see her cousin for almost two decades, she would have put up more of a resistance. But, in this very moment, she looked from Kieran to the Templar before giving a small nod and doing as she was told. They both listened for the sounds of her tiny footfalls to fade before giving each other deadly glares.

“You're not taking her.” Kieran said first. “The Avvar have one of the better methods of letting mages begin their talents, and it doesn't involve keeping her held captive.”

“No child of mine will become an abomination to 'begin her talents.' It's a bloody miracle that we have no control over stamping out all of these undocumented mages. Anora is Ferelden, ergo we must-”

“It doesn't matter whether Anora is Ferelden or not!” Kieran thundered, stamping a foot to the ground and clenching his hand into a tight fist. “She's family! You can't abandon family to rot in some fancy named prison cell!”

Anora's father was silent for a long time. The air electrifying around the two men as both were too stubborn to agree on the other's solution.

“What would a boy like you know about family?” Anora's father then slowly asked. Hatred dripping from his voice with every chilling syllable.

“Apparently more than you! How could you even think about abandoning your own dau-”

Kieran never got to finish because his uncle had been so enraged that he slapped him. The young man immediately staggered backward, nursing his cheek as the wound throbbed. The Templar stepped closer, taking the young man by the scruff of his collar to demand eye contact.

“You understand little of the sacrifices it takes to be in my position.”

“But you always have a choice.” Kieran spat. “Don't you?”

Once more, a silence came between the two before the Templar set Kieran down. No other words were exchanged between the two as the Templar left. Neither of them even needed to say where he was going. It took Kieran a moment to process this, and when he did he let out an anguished yell as he started to charge after the Templar. He didn't get far because the augur had appeared directly in his path.

“Let her go.” the augur said to him in a soft, comforting, tone.

A spell had not being cast, but in that moment everything in Kieran paused. He looked at the augur with bitterness and equal exhaustion. With the traditional mask the augur wore that covered all but their mouth, it was hard to gauge just what expression the augur was giving the young man.

“Excuse me?” was all he could say. He didn't mean for it to come out so harsh, thankfully the augur gave a nod of silent apology.

“The old gods that protect our hold have spoken, young one. Her destiny lies at the Circle.”

For a moment, Kieran was too stunned to respond. When he did talk, his voice wavered; “You… you talked to your spirits about her, when we're not even…?”

“The gods protect our hold because we give them gifts and offering, not because they have a fated loyalty to us.” the augur explained. “We give them what they ask, and in return they show us their wisdom. It has been this way for millennia and it will be that way for the next millennia.”

Hearing this, Kieran was even more at conflict. “Ser, in all respects, I think you fail to understand how differently magic is treated outside of the Avvar. If Anora goes to the Circle, then she may never get out. She may even forget that I'm...”

But the augur silenced him with only a gentle hand on Kieran's shoulder.

“The gods gave me a message for you- one of assurance. They said, 'kin has betrayed her, but love will protect her.' Trust the gods, young one, they know more than we could ever fathom.”

Kieran didn't know when he started crying. He knew his legs gave out before trying to hold onto the augur for dear life. The augur was patient, allowing the young man to let out his frustrations, fears, and sadness out. Only fate could guide Anora now.

. . .

They never even got to say goodbye.

The Templars left the Avvar clan within the hour. When Anora had come to realize that she would never return to her cousin, she cried a lot too. The Templars were not as understanding as the augur had been- telling her that she had to shut up. One Templar even slapped her, which only made things worse. By the time the company arrived at Kinloch Hold, Anora's face had become stained with tears. No Templar pretended to be kind as they moved her inside.

If she had noticed things a bit more clearly then, she would have realized that one of the four Templars never entered the hold. He had remained behind, contemplating the wisdom of his young nephew, while also wondering how he was request a change of station.

As Anora was brought into the hold, forced into several corridors she would come to recognize like the back of her hand, the company went past two new Templars and a girl just a year older than Anora herself. The other girl, sporting blue hair with matching eyes, suddenly stopped in her tracks to gap in awe at the new girl. One of the Templars noticed the blue haired girl's surprise, then took a look at the Templars. In seeing Anora, the Templar seemed to understand why the blue haired girl could not stop staring.

“It seems you may be meeting a new friend, Aqua.” the Templar said to the girl with a grin.

“I doubt it, Campbell.” the other Templar huffed. “She was among the Avvar when she was reported. May already be an abomination. I heard that after they collect her phylactery, she'll be sent to First Enchanter Mickey right away.”

“If her being an abomination is such a concern, shouldn't she see the First Enchanter now instead of later?” Campbell questioned with a raise of his eyebrow. Aqua looked up at the Templar with a curious tilt of her head.

“Why would she be an abomination?” the young girl asked- her voice sounding even more curious than what her expression was.

Both Campbell and the other Templar looked down on her in such a way, Aqua shrunk a little in her spot. It was Campbell who bent down to give her head a little pat.

“Keep to your studies, Aqua,” he assured her, “You'll find out on your own eventually.”

The seven year old still curiously looked at him before a wide smile stretched across her face. “Right.” she agreed with a confident nod.

But, still… just who was that girl?

[brialavellan]

It has been 20 years since Inquisitor ‘Manehn Lavellan defeated Corypheus, and 18 years since the Exalted Council. Solas is furthering his plans and so far, all efforts to stop him seem to be in vain….until the Well of Sorrows begins to speak to ‘Manehn once more. Led by ancient magics and beset by enemies from Ferelden and Orlais to Antiva and Tevinter, ‘Manehn must gather allies old and new in a race against time to defeat Solas - at any cost.

(NOW ON AO3)

Chapter 1 ||  Chapter 2 || Chapter 3 || Chapter 4 || Chapter 5 || Chapter 6 || Chapter 7 || Chapter 8

CH 9: Smoke and Mirrors

“What good luck we’re having,” Katrina murmured to herself as she made her way down the stairs towards the Cathedral exit, her hands on the hilts of her daggers and a smile creeping across her face.

Everything was going as planned. The bait was irresistible. It was almost foolproof, if Briala wasn’t so cautious, so cagey. Decades of loyal-enough service had won her a spot in Briala’s inner circle among her most trusted spies. However, if Natalie was too sloppy, and if Katrina did not choose her words and actions carefully, the web of careful intrigue would be torn to shreds.

Briala would not look lightly on traitors. Solas would not look lightly on failures.

She was about to open the doors towards the outside grounds when she heard the faintest footsteps following her. She turned to see Briala hot on her heels in russet brown leather armor with a crossbody bag and a bow on her back.

Briala was trained for years in the art of subterfuge, misdirection and occasional assassination. Her calm masked her anger. This slaying was merely more retaliation. Or misdirection. None of Solas’s agents were so sloppy as to be seen. She was sure of it. But she couldn’t let any potential lead go to waste.

Briala pulled Katrina to the side and checked her surroundings to make sure no one was listening.

“Where did you say the boy took off to?”

“The catacombs, my lady.” Katrina whispered back, “I was on my way to inform Amir and -”

“No need,” Briala said, “We’ll look ourselves.”

Katrina paused for a brief moment, caught off-guard by Briala’s insistence, worried this meant Briala was getting suspicious.

“Of course, I can take you to the last location I saw him,” she said as they both left the Cathedral, crossed the grounds, and made their way towards the bustling streets of Val Royeaux in front of them.

Carts and carriages rumbled past while pedestrians darted in between. Merchants and peddlers yelled to the crowds from stalls, shops, and street corners, selling wares from Orlesian finery to Fereldan leathers, from Tevinter curios to Nevarran books. The cacophony of sights, smells and sounds would be nearly unbearable to those newly initiated to Val Royeaux’s streets, but both Briala and Katrina knew these streets intimately. They had wandered the hidden alleys and the underbelly as much, if not more than the cobblestone streets that weaved their way across the city.

Briala and Katrina darted into a nearby alley and nearly collided with a family of huddled, filthy, weary elven beggars, all tearing into a loaf of hard tack with skeletal fingers, their pale skin as pallid as bleached bone.

“My lady,” a small boy with matted auburn curls scurried up to Briala and tugged at her sleeve with wide and sunken brown eyes. “Can you spare something, please?”

Briala pulled out a sovereign and pressed it into the palm of the young boy and closed his fingers over it.

“Don’t despair, little one. Have pride.” she said as the young boy stumbled away, wide-eyed, clutching his prize. She let herself be still for a moment as the boy presented his gift to the others, who eyed her with a mixture of gratitude and suspicion. She could have coaxed him for information but she wanted to pay a kindness without demanding a price.  

Katrina noted otherwise. “You could have pressed the boy for information, ask if he’s seen anyone around.”

Briala glanced back at the boy before turning to Katrina. “We’ll find a better lead in the catacombs, and I have sovereigns to spare for bribing.”

They kept walking through the alley, watching for anyone who would tail them or would attempt to accost them, before coming to a dead end. They crouched behind a wall of crates and bags, both scanning the ground and tracing the cobblestone surface with their fingers until Briala found a rim of steel and a small slot. She took a small socket wrench from her bag and placed the wrench into the slot and pushed hard with both hands, nearly wrenching her own fingers in the process. The cobblestone began to move and loosen with the shriek of grinding metal. Briala pried the circle of cobblestone from the slot and descended into the catacombs, Katrina following closely behind her and pulling the cobblestone on top of them with a loud scraping thud.

————————

Cassandra and Vivienne found a templar and a servant to clean up the body and the mess, respectively. Vivienne had suggested taking the body to a doctor to examine the wound and deduce any potential clue, and Cassandra had agreed. The Knight Vigilant had ordered rotations doubled and a pair of templars stationed outside the Divine’s office, which she had protested.

“I do not need a full garrison, not when forces are stretched thin. Put your men back in the Circles or out on patrol where they belong!” she argued, “We need to find who did this!”

“With all due respect, Your Perfection, your life is obviously at risk, and we will not allow you to come to harm,” the Knight Vigilant implored her. “One garrison to protect you now beats the ten I would have to put on the streets to calm rioters if you are slain.”

“We have men looking at the scene and watching for anything suspicious.” he said to mollify her. “We will let you know immediately if anything is amiss.”

Vivienne coaxed Cassandra to turn towards her and placed both hands on her shoulders with a gentle squeeze and reassuring tone. “It’s for your sake, darling. The Knight Vigilant speaks sense. Yes, you can handle yourself, but let them do their jobs.”

Cassandra closed her eyes, and took a long, heavy breath.

“Very good, Knight Vigilant,” Vivienne said with a wave of her hand in dismissal, “Let us know if you find out anything at all.”

“Of course, Grand Enchanter,” The Knight Vigilant said with a bow as he departed. Vivienne and Cassandra retreated into Cassandra’s quarters.

“Despite everything, Briala has her uses and her network of agents are vast enough. They will find something,” Vivienne said as Cassandra sat herself down at her desk. “Whether they will act quickly enough is another question. The important thing now is that we find out who was so brazen enough to do this. I will interrogate the girl’s associates.”

Cassandra shifted in her seat and rapped her fingers loudly on her desk, trying to displace her energy into something as close to punching as she could manage. She was far more comfortable with a straight and honest fight, but she was grateful to have someone well versed in the ways of the Court to advise and support her. She did not have the head for the politics of the Chantry and the patience to learn the intricacies of the Grand Game. For her, it was not only a distraction from her work as overseer of the religious life of all Thedas’s people, it was an affront. She believed that the Divine should not stoop to such pettiness. Many of her beliefs had been tested since she had been voted into her position.

“I don’t think you should do that.” Cassandra said after a long silence, “If you’re right, you’d be in danger. Maybe I should go with you. A Chantry sister would not think to lie to my face.”

Vivienne laughed at her naivete. “They will absolutely lie to your face, my dear.”

She saw Cassandra’s jaw clench and face redden and reached to grab her hand, gently squeezing it as she leaned against the desk. “Chantry sisters are Chantry sisters because they wouldn’t last even five minutes at a simple soiree without losing their status, their wealth, or their lives,” she said with an apologetic smile. “I appreciate the offer. And the sentiment.”

“Now, why don’t you change into some armor, take a guard with you to the training grounds, and beat out some of that nervous energy?” Vivienne teased her as she rose to leave. “I will inquire about her dealings. I’m positive, as I’m sure Briala is as well, that all traces will lead to Natalie.”

Cassandra took a deep breath and rose to her feet. “I will take your advice. All of it.”

“Of course you will,” Vivienne said with a mischievous smile as she departed. She walked down the hall and down the stairs, leaving the Apartments and crossing the grounds to the Chantry sisters’ living quarters. She would find a few initiates there, and a few answers. She had lied to Cassandra. Some sisters were actually quite good at the Game. 

But she was better.

————————

Useless! Useless! Useless!

The word drummed in Mirwen’s head as she combed her way through every scrap of paper in every book she could get her hands on in that squalid library. They had nothing, of course. No information that she didn’t already know. In fact, most of the books were wild conjectures and half truths all bathed in anti-elf sentiment and disdain for every magic outside of a proper Circle’s purview. Contempt leaped from the pages.

Even the “forbidden” books were merely re-treads of the same theories in less palatable language for a rigid Chantry. All books with any mention of blood magic were here, she noted, not because they condoned such magic (none did), but because they mentioned it existed.

Mirwen took a deep breath to suppress her bitter disappointment.There was no reason for her to feel this way, she thought to herself, just as there was no reason to expect that the any shemlen Circles had answers. Maybe Tevinter’s libraries might bear more fruit. Their magics were appropriated from elven magic, after all. Legend did say their first magister, Thalsin, had learned blood magic from the elves.

And what all of Thedas had learned within the two decades she had been alive was that most of their legends were true.

As she lifted the last tome from her reading stand and put it upon the shelf, she noticed a small paper placed in the empty space, meticulously folded. She glanced around the room. The paper wasn’t there before, and her section of the library was sealed off. She took the paper and placed the book back on the shelf. She gingerly unfurled the paper. At her touch, odd symbols began to scroll across and envelop the page. These symbols could reveal themselves only to a mage’s eyes, she hypothesized, and though the symbols were unclear in their meaning, there was a definite pattern to them, a flow of structure that suggested that this was a cipher of some sort. 

Footsteps and voices coming closer to her snapped her back to her senses. She took a few sidelong suspicious glimpses around her as she hurriedly shoved the note into her small belted satchel, just as the First Enchanter was unlocking the door.

Varric peered into the room, the First Enchanter standing behind him, with the smallest glimmer of a smile.

“Did you find what you need?” he asked. “Shall we go back to the Keep?”

“I found nothing at all, unfortunately,” Mirwen said as she adjusted her belt. “Let us move on.”

————————

Back at the Keep, Mirwen and Varric shared a small table and a scrumptious meal, with servants waiting to change courses and serve water and wine. The air was warm with the scent of succulent foods and the vaulted walls of the Keep’s dining hall were softened by the glow of candlelight and of a setting summer sun. Mirwen felt much more comfortable in this space than the squalor of the Alienage, the cold sterility of Kirkwall’s Circle, and the harshness of Sundermount’s rugged peaks. A small amount of guilt began to gnaw at her as she ate. She enjoyed such finery to the point that she almost expected it, while her brethren wanted for little more than food, shelter and safety. 

She couldn’t help it. She was, in all arenas except magic, quite sheltered after all.

She tried to put her unease out of her mind by listening to Varric talk. She could see why he was a prolific author and she smiled softly as he weaved his tales of her mother’s heroics and their long-past battles. Mirwen placed her head in her hand, feeling strangely nostalgic as she listened to Varric wax on. She did remember his love of stories, and her love of his love of them from when she was small.

She remembered her mother’s other friends as well. She remembered Dorian. She remembered Iron Bull. She remembered Blackwall and Sera too. When her mother spoke of them, there were faint flickers of faces vaguely familiar from the time when she was a toddler in pinafores teetering around Skyhold. But that was all they were. She knew Vivienne well and Cassandra well enough, but these were her mother’s friends, her mother’s stories, and her mother’s memories - not hers.

Now, she wasn’t so small anymore. Now, she felt incredibly irked by her sudden complacency. Her mood soured immediately and Varric’s sweeping tales now sounded like meaningless drivel. There was no more time to waste on nostalgia, she angrily mused, her breath quickening. Not when her mother and Davhalla were aimlessly wandering Maker-knows-where while Briala was up to Maker-knows-what and while they fumbled for answers, an immortal self-proclaimed God was Void-bent on destroying everything.

His rising has shattered her small world once before.

And he was coming for whatever she had left.

As Mirwen silently groused and Varric talked to her to soothe her nerves, the doors slammed open and Aveline barged in with a full retinue of guards, her jaw clenched and her face as red as her hair. Three elves flanked her and the guards, dressed in bl leathers and brown cloaks with short swords on their belts and sour grimaces. Mirwen recognized their leathers and their faces. They were Briala’s people, she was sure of it.

“Varric, we need to go. Now.”

“That bad, huh?” Varric said with a weak chuckle.

She shoved a small, bloodstained paper into his hands. Varric’s eyes widened as he scanned the page.

“From my retinue stationed outside the Alienage,” she said grimly. “Sent by courier just before they were cut down.”

“Well, shit.” He looked at Mirwen, his jaw slack and eyes wide. “We need to get you back home. Immediately. You’re not safe here anymore, no matter how many guards I post outside my doors.”

“I can take care of myself -”

“This is a little beyond taking care of yourself, Sugar Plum,” Varric said, his voice trailing off, followed by a small stream of curses, “Ancestors preserve me, I didn’t want it to come to this…”

“They have not taken the docks yet, but we would have to go through Lowtown to get there.” Aveline said. “Unless…”

She drew out parchment and quickly scribbled a crude map of Kirkwall. “Remember Hawke’s estate? Her wine cellar leads straight to Darktown. And she would just be another elf fleeing the chaos. No one would know or notice.”

“Sure, you can get to the docks from Darktown, but how many of your guards would you like to send to their immediate deaths?” Varric pointed out, “Guards would draw way too much attention.”

“We don’t send my guards,” Aveline said “We send -”

“Here on behalf of Marquise Briala.” the youngest of them, a petite man with striking black hair and carrying a fourth cloak, addressed them with a slight nod of his head and a strong Starkhaven accent. “We’ll make sure she’s safe. We’ll stake our lives on it.” The other two nodded at his words.

Varric pulled Aveline closer and whispered. Mirwen couldn’t hear what he said, but could read his lips as he asked her the most important question.

“Can we trust them? If some of her spies have turned before - “

Aveline looked at Mirwen and back at the spies that stood at the doorway as the sound of shouts and fighting began to make their way up to Hightown’s sealed gates.

She whispered back. “We don’t have a choice anymore, do we?”

Aveline approached Mirwen and unclasped a small silverite dagger with a golden handle that gleamed in the warm glow of the candlelight from her belt. 

She pressed it into Mirwen’s hands.

“Consider this a gift from us that we hope you never have to use,” she said firmly, her eyes darting to the side where the elves were standing.

Mirwen nodded as she took it and cinched it on her belt. “I understand,” she said darkly as she rose from the table. The young Starkhaven elf handed her a cloak to put on and carefully fastened it while pulling the hood over Mirwen’s head.

“Keep that cloak covering you nice and tight,” he advised with a crooked grin, “Fancy-dressed elves don’t last two seconds in Darktown. As long as you follow our lead, you’ll be fine.”

“Right then. I’ll take you to the estate,” Aveline said with a firm shake of her head. “My guards here will stay near the entrance to the Keep. Varric, I beg you to please stay put until I get back.”

————————

Aveline and the elves promptly left the Keep and sprinted to Hawke’s old estate, occasionally sticking to the shadows to avoid drawing attention and to give time for Mirwen to catch her breath. As they approached a Kirkwall mansion at the foot of the stairs that led to the Keep, Mirwen could see what time had worn away. The white marble that shone in the Kirkwall sun was a dull, drab gray from decades of accumulated dirt. The glass windows were shattered from vandals, and the crest that had hung above the door, a proud mark of Hawke’s heritage, was hanging askew and weather-worn away to the point that she could only see a vague outline and smatterings of blood red. This was formerly a glorious building, now decaying and dying, as if it too mourned the loss of the Champion.

Aveline wrestled with the rusted lock for a short while before impatiently bashing in the door with a plated boot. The elves scrambled inside and Aveline slipped them her map. As she pulled the door, now hanging off its last hinge, shut, she urged them one last time.

“Do everything in your power to keep her safe.”

————————

The Starkhavener moved down the stairs towards the cellar, keeping to corners and signalling with a quick wave of his hand to move forward. The other two trailed behind Mirwen, eyes darting towards the slightest hint of shadow or movement. Mirwen kept her cloak pulled close. She had reluctantly left her staff behind. It would draw too much attention, the spies had warned her. Varric had promised she would get it back “when the shitstorm settles down at least a little bit”.

The years of disuse had turned the cellar as fetid as Kirkwall’s sewers. Waves of vermin scurried across the tiles, parting at the sound of their footsteps. Rank puddles pooled in spots where slick water dripped from the ceiling. They had even found a couple of groveling squatters, who had seen a flash of the elves’ blades and decided not to take a chance on attacking the group, or the pangs in their bellies would no longer come from hunger but from steel. By the time they had descended the ladder into Darktown proper, Mirwen was queasy from the noxious smells.

They stopped for a moment to let her breathe, and huddled close to a corner, watching waves of elves and humans alike slip and scramble as they fled from the fires of Lowtown into the tunnels. The guards and rioters would not dare descend down here. That is what all four of them were counting on.

What they were not counting on was that someone was waiting for them.

As they crept forward towards a hatch that would take them towards the docks, they were met by three elves - a woman holding a staff and two men holding axes - all three grinning with homicidal glee as they approached.

“I didn’t think you would make it at all,” the woman taunted. “I’d hate to go through all this trouble to find out you were all eaten by giant spiders and such.”

Briala’s spies moved forward to guard Mirwen.

“Sorry to disappoint,” one of the other ones said in a brusque Fereldan accent. “But we have no time to stick around.” All three unsheathed their swords and rushed towards the mage but were intercepted by the two melee fighters.

The clatter of blades was muffled by the sound of people fleeing, but she could hear the death wail of one fighter falling, his axe clattering to the ground, and a hiss from one of Briala’s people as the other fighter made contact with his side.

Mirwen stood ready to cast but found her arms grow leaden, her head beginning to ache, and her magic sputtering away. The mage began to approach her as Mirwen’s knees began to buckle.

The mage, eyes gleaming, walked up to Mirwen and began to taunt her, “All of this effort over a child who is useless without her -”

She shrieked as Mirwen tackled her to the ground, flailing and reaching for the staff. The mage rolled over and grabbed her by the cloak, choking Mirwen and throwing her aside. Mirwen snapped back up and drew her blade but the mage had readied herself, grabbing Mirwen’s curls and slamming her head to the ground. She began to stand, assured in victory before a leather boot collided with her face. The black-haired Starkhavener rushed forward, snatched the staff from her hands, snapped it over his knee and threw it on the bodies of the melee fighters all three had slain. Then he calmly walked towards the mage who now struggled to her feet and cut her down.

Assured she was dead, the Starkhavener raced to Mirwen’s side, ready to apologize, but she waved him off with a weak smile. 

He smiled back, “Guess you were right, you can handle yourself fine.”

The Fereldan elf lifted Mirwen from the ground, examined her head, and slapped a poultice on her scalp under the matted curls where she had begun to bleed. The third clutched his side, mildly limping as he approached. The Fereldan elf turned towards him and slapped another poultice on his wound.

“I can do better,” Mirwen said as she approached the man and gingerly touched his side with her fingers. He winced but stayed still. A few words from her lips and the bleeding stopped. Flesh and sinew began to stitch itself back together. He said nothing back but nodded with grim approval.

The Starkhavener walked towards the hatch and bashed it open with a swift kick. The Fereldan elf went first and motioned for Mirwen to follow as they all descended a long ladder. Mirwen could hear the rush of water and saw a small ballinger waiting in an expansive stone grotto. She could not help but gape at the size of this cavern, for she could not possibly fathom how Varric or Briala’s spies could have kept something like this hidden, though she had to assume someone knew something.

Otherwise, how could they have been attacked?

Anxious to get to safety as their feet found ground, the elves rushed towards the ballinger while several elves already on board wrestled with the sails. Mirwen and the others hurried on board. They set the ballinger loose, all exchanging wary glances even as they shook hands and smiled.

Mirwen watched from the deck as the ballinger emerged from the grotto and she caught a glimpse of Kirkwall within sight. Her veins turned to ice as she saw the furling of black smoke and flickers of orange that were starting to engulf all of Lowtown. She turned from the sight, took a deep rattled breath and descended into the hold below.