#side note but i love this warden armour so much it's one of the better ones in this game.

[tragedia]

GREY WARDEN #02

[thesunwillshineonusagain757]

➳𝔸 ℙℝ𝕀ℕℂ𝔼’𝕊 𝕊ℚ𝕌𝕀ℝ𝔼 ♥︎

( So this is for the first day of the rhaelya week its my fist time writing something directly into tumblr and the first time I’m participating in a special ship week so have in mind I’m new. Thank you for reading )

Day 1: CANON DIVERGENCE

➴————-　♥︎　-————➶

Rhaegar wouldn’t know when he had started to love that girl, the blue-eyed beautiful girl that was Lyanna Stark, she was brave, and had determination beyond his , beyond anyone he had ever met that he knew whether it was because she had fought on the tournament of Harrenhal against her fathers wishes, or because she had gotten to the final fight against him. He hadn't known Lyanna was the knight of the laughing tree at the time, but he was memorized by the mystery knight anyway.

The knight had ridden their horse with mastery and confidence, like he hadn’t even when he was already getting proficient at it. He assumed the boy in the armour, couldn’t be older than fifteen, yet they were amazing. Rhaegar had made a mental note to congratulate the tutor or knight to whom that young man was squirting, but every day after his fights, when the crown prince sought him he had disappeared, evaporated, nobody had any idea of his whereabouts.

It all got worst when his father demanded to know about the young man and his true identity, all the knights were looking for the young boy who was wearing armour too big for his young frame, so when Rhaegar was told that the last combat of the tourney, that it would be worth the tourney's victory he was more than looking forward to it. And there he was the young knight looking to him, from across their battlefield. His father and all the realm looking down at them.

Yet for some reason, Rhaegar felt it was just the both of them, him and the knight of the laughing tree, the mysterious man that intrigued and had plagued his dreams since the first second he had laid eyes on the young man’s frame. If he told that the young man had taken so much of his thoughts, people would tell him he was in love with the man. But it couldn't be he had never talked with him, the unknown knight only fascinated him to no end, that was all.

The crown prince took a deep breath and so it began, dashed riding in the direction, his opponent, the young man rode towards him at similar speed, he saw an opening he could explore as he got closer with his lance, but as the position himself for the attack. The young man swiftly attacked him, almost hitting him squarely on the head, if he hadn't ducked his head at the last minute.

It was certainly a close one, so when he got to the other side of the arena, he turned to go back at the knight of the laughing tree, he was already waiting for him, so they both rode towards each other, Rhaegar saw the same opening she had seen the first time and as it was the only weakness he saw he decided to exploit it, but he should have known better. As they got closer, he thought to himself it must have been boring to watch, but before he could think again, something different happened, he felt a pressure on his chest, and before he could realize it he was falling to the ground.

He got back to himself second after his back encountered the muddy ground, he got with a helping hand he swiftly realized was Ser. Arthur’s hand, he took his helmet leaving the icy wind he shook his head and then looked in the direction of the knight who had defeated him, no one had celebrated the other knight's victory something he thought was a shame, Rhaegar had no problem being defeated , he was not unpredictable like his father.

The young knight rode to the place where his father and family were sitting, his father seemed displeased and that was never a good thing, so Rhaegar looked back at Arthur, who was already looking at his face.

“ If my father says anything ….”- Rhaegar whispered to Arthur

“ I’ll distract them, and you get the young man out of here .”- Arthur whispered back at him and Rhaegar a smiled in gratitude to his friend, who was more like a brother to him

But that wasn't necessary before he could the young knight was given a crown of blue roses, but the most unexpected and what shocked every single person watching the scene unfold, the knight of the laughing tree, took his helmet off, revealing something far to scandalous , the young knight wasn’t a young man, in truth the young knight was a woman , a young beautiful one, with black hair , skin white as snow, and eye silver-ish blue.

Rhaegar could describe the feeling, he asked himself if it was that, the feeling of falling in love, as he had read in the books and fairy tales in his childhood. That was the feeling of being drunk with the feeling of love. He knew her from somewhere but at the moment the thoughts were connecting her to anything she was.

“ Your majesty.”- She addressed his father with a sweet voice as she got down from her horse without help

“ It’s Lyanna Stark, the third child and only daughter of the warden of the north .”- Arthur whispered to Rhaegar

“ Lyanna.”- Rhaegar whispered her name, it felt sweet the name that was upon his lips

“ Your grace, I fought on this tourney to win. But not for any cause for one and only reason.”- Lyanna said kneeling in front of King Aerys

Rhaegar felt fear creeping up on his stomach, he would be able to kill his father he had thought , but if he harmed that young woman, Rhaegar would be capable of anything that he knew in his bones.

“ And why did you win, little thing.”- His father responded looking down at her with mockery

“ I won it for you your grace.”- She said, and the air seemed to change

Before when she had removed her helmet and revealed she was a woman, it seemed that the air had run out , that the tension had taken over the place. It seemed certain that his father would kill the young woman, but now Rhaegar wasn’t sure. His father sat up, he seemed to be surprised but most unlikely, he seemed pleased. A slight smile graced his face, something that now was something so eerie and odd.

“ You did ?”- Aerys asked

“ Yes, your grace, I won by the grace of the old gods and new, so I could crown you the most handsome and most inspiring of people. I came to crown you with this crown of rose I know it’s not much your grace, but it’s what I have to give you.”- Lyanna said with a determinate but sweet voice

Rhaegar understood what she was doing, by flattering his father, maybe he would show her mercy. It was a plan that might seem foolish , however Rhaegar knew that his father was in need of attention and praise that it might work out . He could see that his father was more than satisfied with the words of the girl who had now stood up and stretched out her arms so that the king would take her gift.

And most extraordinarily, his father took the crown of blue roses, with a radiant smile upon his lips, he crowned himself with the crown made of blue roses , and sat back at his place, that day had already surprised and surpassed every single expectation, yet his father had still something planned.

“ So what do you want ?”- Aerys asked the young girl

“ What, your grace ?”- Lyanna asked looking up to Aerys

“ Well, you fought valiantly for me , what do you want ?”- Aerys

“ Your grace, I … I didn’t think about anything. I’m sorry .”- Lyanna said as surprised as the people on the audience

“ Then maybe we can knight you, where is your tutor ?”- Aerys said

Buzzing took over the stands where the lords and ladies of all Westeros were seated, a woman, a knight, it would be the first time in history that a woman, even a lady had come close to being named with the title, so the surprise and shock that had taken everyone was understandable, not that Rhaegar found it something so surprising, for Visenya one of his ancestors had been one of the most skilled swordsmen or woman of Westeros.

“ Your grace, I’m not squirting for anyone, I learned on my own.”- Lyanna confessed

“ Well, then we will find you a knight .”- Aerys told her

Rhaegar would have thought his father was bluffing, but it had been long since he had heard his father sounding so sane, he looked back at Arthur who seemed to be as surprised as he was, and as astonished as everyone on that tourney were.

“ Oh I know already, my son Rhaegar is in need of a squire, you'll be his squire. “- Aerys said with a big smile

The commotion among the lords and ladies of the nobility only increased, but Rhaegar did not focus on them, for Lyanna turned to look in his direction, and when she looked at him, it was as if his soul flew away. She seemed scared of the future, and all he wanted was to protect her. Rhaegar didn’t know what the future would be. But one thing he was sure of, that big-eyed, curious, beautiful girl was the love of his life and he would fight to the end for her. He had been someone before and after Lyanna Stark, and if he had to die in Lyanna's defence it would have been worth it.

➴————-　♥︎　-————➶

[thessalian]

Molly!Warden vs What Branka Did

Kardol: For the Legion!

Molly: One side, dead-boys!

Legionnaire: Don’t you speak to us that way, duster!

Kardol: We’ve got a duster or two that managed to squeak their way in here, salroka, so shut up. Besides, that’s a Grey Warden.

Legionnaire: How can you tell?

Kardol: Well, partly it’s the company...

Molly: YEET! *lobs herself at an ogre, blades first*

Ogre: *is very, very dead*

Kardol: But mostly it’s that she’s got the kind of disregard for life and limb that makes us look like sissies.

(Later...)

Oghren: Why do you keep dumping this Legionnaire armour on me?!?

Molly: It’s dragonbone. It’s excellent armour. You’re kind of honorary at this point anyway. And you’re the only person here it’d fit.

Oghren: There’s you.

Molly: I am reliant on speed and sneak. Clank is totally not my jam. Besides, because I’m built for speed, sneak, and flexibility, I don’t go in for the kind of strength I’d need to wear that.

Oghren: Ah. Yeah. I guess a warrior ... would ... probably have to be strong enough to wear this.

Molly: *sigh* Keep it in the pack for now and ask Alistair how he bulked up.

Oghren: You want me to take orders from him?

Molly: You want the spiffy dragonbone armour to knock you on your ass? I thought you saved that kind of falling over for a good night’s drinking.

Oghren: ...You’re worse than Branka.

Molly: Flattery will get you nowhere, salroka. I like ‘em taller.

(A little while later...)

Hespith: New people? Nope! NOPE!

Molly: Yeah, hi, sorry, but yeah. What was the fucked-up sing-song thing?

Hespith: Channelling my trauma. Doesn’t really work, but since I can’t throttle Branka for what she did--

Molly: Waitwut.

Hespith: Nope! NOPE! I DO NOT HAVE THE SPOONS FOR THIS! WISH I’D BEEN A MAN; THEY’D HAVE JUST KILLED ME THEN!

Wynne: Hespith, wait! We can help you!

Molly: *putting a few things together* No, Wynne. We really can’t.

Wynne: What? Why not?

Molly: Alistair, the Joining ... mages were heavily involved and there was some serious alchemical ... stuff, but ... now I’m thinking about the ... basic underlying structure of ... genlocks, all short and stout, and shrieks with the pointed ears and the lithe bodies and hurlocks being pretty well human-shaped--

Alistair: It ... does sort of fall down around ogres, though.

Molly: Not if you talk to Sten about the qunari for more than three minutes, it doesn’t! And notice how they’re all male-presenting?

Alistair: ...Remind me to add a note to whatever missive we eventually send to Weisshaupt about never letting women go to their Calling unaccompanied. That’s ... just ... better if it’s clean...

Wynne: Molly ... Alistair ... what is it?

Molly: I think we’re about to find out how we get darkspawn.

Oghren: Well, I assume when a mommy darkspawn and a daddy darkspawn love each other very much--

Broodmother: *REEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE*

Molly: That doesn’t look capable of anything in the same hemisphere as ‘love’, Oghren.

Oghren: ...I never thought I’d be so unhappy to see so many tits.

(Later...)

Molly & Oghren: I killed a titty-monster and therefore win at everything.

Branka: Oh, damn. There goes my never-ending stream of test subjects. Look, there’s traps. Sort it out. I want the Anvil.

Molly: You ... just ... what?!?

Oghren: She set it up so through the traps is our only way out, Warden.

Molly: And I guess I’m curious about ancient trap mechanisms anyway so FINE, WHATEVER, but I swear if I had some corrupter agent on hand your stupid wall would be dying to a fire bomb right now!

Branka: Woman after my own heart!

Molly: Not interested. I saw what you did to your last paramour.

(A few traps later...)

Caridin: So it’s all dwarven souls trapped in here. I tried to have it be volunteer only but ruthless kings just--

Molly: Say no more. I love my sister but Bhelen can never have this thing.

Branka: You’re not going to destroy it, are you?

Molly: Look, no matter who I put on the throne, the minute they heard about golem army, they’d ‘recruit’ hardcore, just like Valtor did. A lot of that ‘recruiting’ would be from the Casteless, because Bhelen’s ruthless enough to offer the right incentives and Harrowmont would just think, “who would miss a worthless brand?” But no one deserves this and I don’t give a fuck what tradition says so yes, I’m going to fucking well destroy it!

Oghren: You know she’s going to make us kill her for this.

Branka: Exactly! You’ll destroy it over my dead body!

Molly: First, Oghren ... I know, and I’ll apologise later, and I’ll probably also apologise for the wording of what I’m about to say next but YOUR PRIVILEGED ASS CAN SUCK MY METAPHORICAL! And Branka, either you can stand aside right now or I will destroy the Anvil over your dead body.

Branka: I have golems!

Molly: I have golems, a Templar, a powerful mage, a berseker ... but most of all ... I have someone that’ll win every time.

Branka: Which is?

Molly: *straight-up beheads a bitch*

Molly: That would be, “me”.

Caridin: That’ll do. Lemme make this crown and see you smash that fucking Anvil so I can yeet myself into the lava.

Molly: ...You do you, I guess?

(Much later, at the Assembly)

Molly: OKAY EVERYBODY SHUT UP! I’m back, Branka’s dead, I talked to Caridin instead, Bhelen gets the crown by Paragon decree, NO ONE GIVE ME ANY MORE SHIT TODAY, ALRIGHT?!?

Bhelen: Excellent! Thank you! Now, guards, take Harrowmont away for execution!

Molly: ...You couldn’t have waited to prove my point until I left this nug-humping city? Like, five minutes?

Bhelen: Thanks, Sis!

Molly: Happy as I am for Rica, that made me throw up in my mouth a little. Can I count on you to help against the Blight?

Bhelen: Sure! Good way to test my new ideas about warrior recruitment!

Molly: *sigh* Lemme just hug Rica and get the hell out of here.

(Later, back at camp...)

Molly: DAAAAAAAAAAH THE HALLUCINATIONS AGAIN!

Alistair: Pretty sure it saw us, Molly--

Shrieks: *REEEEEEEEEEEEEEE*

Molly: Your Blightmare nugshit can eat me and these things can get fucked with knives!

Alistair: Could’ve done without the visual, Molly, thanks.

[novamm66]

Chapter 20 – In Irons

Note: This chapter contains violence and major character injury.  

---

 “Are we agreed? Shrine of Dumat first, then we will head to the Western Approach and track Hawke’s party down. How quickly can we be ready to go, do you think?” Kiaya’s impatience was evident. 

Cullen exchanged a smile with Leliana. The week after the ball had been filled with meetings and socializing with the Orlesian gentry. Evelyn and Josephine had been busy and very successful at gathering support. Unfortunately, this had meant that Kiaya needed to remain hidden on the estate.

“You could leave today if you wanted,” Josephine answered as she flipped through her notes.

Kiaya sighed, “Well, I wouldn’t want to seem too eager.”

Cullen couldn’t hide his snort of laughter.

“I think the ship has sailed on that, Inquisitor.” Leliana smiled.

“Fair,” Kiaya nodded before grinning. “I am just a bit bored.”

“You could always come to the dinner at the Germain Estate tonight,” Josephine pointed out.

“I am not that bored,” Kiaya grimaced.

“Departing soon is likely a good idea,” Cullen said. “Catching Sampson will mean getting there before he realizes we know his location.”

“And it is concerning we haven’t heard from Hawke and Warden Stroud. The sooner we know what is going on out there, the better,” Leliana added.

“Then we will set out tomorrow. Is there anything else?”

“That covers everything for now,” Josephine replied.

Kiaya remained lost in thought, staring at the map while the other two women departed. Cullen couldn’t read the expression on Kiaya’s face, but she was biting her nails, something Cullen noticed she was doing more often of late. “Kiaya, I wanted to thank you.” Cullen’s voice shook her out of whatever thoughts she had been lost in and she smiled the radiant smile she saved just for him.

“What for?”

“For supporting my coming with you to go after Sampson.”

Kiaya reached out and took his hand in hers. “I will take every advantage I can get,” she sighed. “However, I’m not thrilled about the idea. But all my misgivings stem from the fact that I love you. Which shouldn’t be a factor in Inquisition matters.”

Cullen squeezed her hand. “I am glad you see it that way. I don’t want you to worry.”

“Oh that’s a given,” Kiaya wrapped her arms around his waist. “Just promise me you will be careful.”

“I promise.”

—-

Kiaya was right. Being this close to the red crystals was agony. The song was everywhere. It hummed in his ears and crawled under his skin. Standing at the gate as the fortress burned behind them, their mission a failure and Sampson’s taunting note clutched in his hand, Cullen felt as if he was at the end of his willpower, and as his adrenaline faded it took all of his strength with it. Tremors wracked his body, and it was only his stubbornness keeping him upright. He felt angry and useless as he watched Kiaya give instructions to the soldiers. It was what he should be doing, but if he unclenched his jaw he was sure he would be sick. He couldn’t fight against the rage coursing through him: rage at Sampson, at Maddox’s sacrifice, at the Inquisition’s failure to arrive in time, at his own weakness, and at the song that promised to fix it all. 

If you were taking it you would have stopped him. You would not be a failure. You would be better.

Take it. Take it.

“Cullen?”

Cassandra’s voice snapped his eyes open, pulling him partially out of the red fog. His eyes settled first on Kiaya, standing with Varric and the soldiers on the other side of the gate. Then he struggled to refocus his eyes on Cass. She was frowning at him, likely seeing his tenuously held control. Her mouth thinned but before she spoke, a screech and a bellow of pain echoed off of the stone walls, followed by the ringing of every weapon being drawn. The soldiers had pushed the red lyrium shadow back to the wall before Cullen had even registered what was happening, and his vision narrowed to Kiaya and Varric on the ground in a growing pool of blood. Cullen roared and charged the attacker, who didn’t stand a chance with the number of blades coming at him. The fight was over far too quickly for the rage and fear coursing through Cullen’s blood. His hands shook with the effort not to pulverize the body at his feet into the ground.

“Cullen!” The one voice he was desperate to hear cut through the haze. “Cullen, we need your help. Now!” The command in Kiaya’s voice had his body obeying before he could feel relief. A relief that faded at what he saw. Kiaya knelt on the ground, her hands, arms, and chest soaked in red, her bright eyes round with panic. Varric writhed on the ground next to her as Cassandra and Dorian were trying to hold him still while Kiaya tried to stem the flow of blood from around a blade of lyrium sticking out of his back.

“Cullen take Dorian’s place,” Kiaya ordered. “Now.”

Dorian shifted to the opposite side from Kiaya as Cullen knelt to hold Varric’s legs. Kiaya and Dorian were speaking quickly, faster than Cullen could follow, so he concentrated on holding Varric still.

“That was only a theory, Kiaya, and it was Solas’s theory, and he’s not here. Even if you get all out, you and I aren’t healers. He needs a healer.”

“We don’t have time for them to get here. Dorian, if we don’t try this now there will be too much in his blood. This is going to work. It has too.”

Cullen watched as Dorian nodded before quickly fishing out two bottles of lyrium, drinking one and holding the other out to Kiaya. Kiaya stared at it with a strange expression on her face. “Take it.” Dorian hissed. “We need all the help we can get.” Kiaya nodded, accepting the flask and swallowed it quickly. She glanced at Cullen over her shoulder before giving instructions. “Cass, Cullen, do not let him move.” She looked down at the dwarf, “I’m so sorry, Varric.” Then she shifted her marked hand to rest on the blade, and fade magic crackled to life. Varric screamed and thrashed against the hands that held him. Cullen tightened his grip and, for the first time, glanced at the Seeker holding Varric’s shoulders. Cassandra’s lips were moving silently, and her eyes were on Varric’s face. Varric’s body went limp as Kiaya withdrew the lyrium spike, and a fresh well of blood flowed.

“Now, Dorian,” Kiaya commanded. Dorian’s hands began to glow over the wound, joined quickly by a stronger glow from Kiaya’s outstretched hands. Sweat broke out on their foreheads as the two concentrated on the spells they were casting.

The swell of magic so close to him, brought the lyrium song roaring to the centre of Cullen’s mind again. He gasped and shifted backwards, away from the flow of magic, and stumbled to his feet. The pounding of hoofs and rushing feet broke Cullen’s trance and a whirl of activity descended as Kiaya and Dorian were replaced by the mage healers from the Inquisition camp. Cassandra wouldn’t let Varric go until Kiaya pulled her away. The healers quickly had Varric on the cart, and it jolted away. Cullen got lost in the whispers in his head, and again it was Kiaya’s voice that cut through.

“Cullen, are you alright?” She was looking at him as if this wasn’t the first time she had said his name. Dorian and Cassandra were already hurrying down the road. Cullen couldn’t meet Kiaya’s eyes for long, her face filled with exhaustion and concern for him.

She knows you are weak. She didn’t want you here.

“I’m fine,” Cullen snapped. His head was filled with anger and poison and it all wanted to pour out at Kiaya. He clung to his only rational thought. Get away from her, protect her from yourself. He forced his feet to move, jolting him forward, unable to meet her eyes as he left her behind.

—-

Kiaya stood outside of Cullen’s tent. She was frozen, worried about what she would find inside.

Please let him be alright.

When she had gotten back to camp, the healers had no new information about Varric, so Dorian and Kiaya had taken care of Cassandra. She hadn’t spoken a word yet, and the blankness in the woman’s eyes scared Kiaya. After they were cleaned up, Kiaya had left Cassandra in Dorian’s care, waiting outside the healer’s tent.

Kiaya took a deep breath and stepped through the flap.

Cullen was still in his armour, leaning on a rickety camp table hard enough that Kiaya could see the legs bow. His head was bent over a small open box with the letter from Sampson beside it. Without looking, Kiaya knew what the box contained, and her blood ran cold.

Cullen pushed violently away from the table; Kiaya was surprised it didn’t tip over. He paced the short distance to the end of the tent before whirling around and spotting her. The shock and anger on his face made Kiaya think she should have knocked.

“Is there something you need, Inquisitor?” Cullen’s voice was strained and cold.

Kiaya frowned at the title but ignored it. “I came to check on you.”

“Any word on Varric?”

“Not yet.” An awkward silence fell until Kiaya moved forward and reached for him. “Cullen��”

“Don’t,” Cullen snapped, jumping away from her. Kiaya stopped, trying to keep the hurt off of her face.

“Don’t,” Cullen repeated more gently. “I’m not, it’s not…” He growled and slammed his fists down on the table, causing the hinges to scream. He froze, staring at the box between his hands.

“I can’t do this,” he whispered, barely loud enough for Kiaya to hear. “This is my fault.” His voice rose in volume. “I could have been faster. I could have caught him. I could have protected us better. I should have known we weren’t safe. I was distracted and… I should have been on guard. This is my fault.” The last was said loud enough that Kiaya winced. Cullen’s legs gave out, and he barely caught himself on the table.

Kiaya took a deep breath. “Cullen, none of this is your fault, and I don’t believe things would be different if you were taking lyrium.” She moved towards him slowly, giving him the chance to back away. When he didn’t, she laid her hand on his arm. “What do you want? What would be best for you? Forget the Inquisition for a moment, and think about that.”

Cullen sighed, and Kiaya felt some of the tension leave him. “I don’t want to be that person ever again. I can’t be tied to that life anymore. But without it I am weak, and the memories that haunt me... I can’t.” He choked and cleared his throat before whispering, “What if I am not strong enough?” His voice was filled with despair, and it wrenched Kiaya’s heart.

“You are. Look how far you have come. Right now you are tired, and affected by the red lyrium, so it is not the time for decisions.” Kiaya waited until Cullen had nodded. “Can I get you some food?”

“No,” Cullen swallowed and turned a bit green.

“Then you should lay down.” Kiaya was relieved when Cullen nodded. It was quick work removing Cullen’s armour, and getting him into his bedroll, where Kiaya sat with his head in her lap. He was still tense, his eyes were screwed shut. She pulled a small pot from her pocket.

“This is a balm Evelyn makes for headaches. Would you like to try it?” Kiaya asked. Cullen nodded almost before she finished asking. He likely wasn’t really listening, but Kiaya continued anyway. “It’s elfroot, lavender, mint, and crystal grace.”

Kiaya continued to murmur anything that she could think of as she massaged Cullen’s head and shoulders until he drifted off to sleep. Kiaya sat and watched his chest rise and fall, grateful for the numbness filling her mind. She couldn’t find the emotion or energy to cry or to move, weighed down by everything that had happened and everything still to do. She leaned back against a tent post, closed her eyes, and let unconsciousness take her.

—-

Cullen stood in the courtyard of the inn, watching the last wagon of inquisition gear and people head for the harbour to board the ship back to Ferelden. The morning sun was warm on his face, and the breeze was gentle. It was a beautiful day, marred by the fact that he would shortly be boarding and leaving Kiaya behind. Cullen surveyed Kiaya’s companions preparing the horses. Bull, Sera, Blackwall, Cole and Dorian would be travelling with Kiaya by land to the Western Approach. Varric and Cassandra had already departed for the ship, Varric under healer’s orders not to move until he arrived in Skyhold, something that was already proving hard for the dwarf to do.

Cullen had woken the day after Dumat still feeling the effects of the day before, but they were not overpowering. He had discovered Kiaya slumped next to his pillow, still leaning against the tent post, a small snore the only sign she was alive. She hadn’t woken as Cullen moved her into his bedroll, and she slept there for almost a full day. It had been three days before Varric had woken up, and two more before the healers would allow him to be moved on a stretcher. It had been slow going back to the coastal town where they were now, but the week they had spent in the inn waiting for the tides and winds to change had been a boon for the shaken moral. Varric was recovering quickly, for all that he was being held together with a hope and a prayer according to the healers. Much to Cullen’s surprise, Cassandra had rarely left Varric’s side, and she hadn’t argued when Kiaya suggested Cassandra return to Skyhold. They had received word that Solas had returned there as well, and was waiting for their arrival to confirm what Varric already proclaimed: that he would be fine.

Cullen sighed as he returned to the room he and Kiaya had been sharing. She was still packing, although Cullen was beginning to suspect she was just trying to delay the inevitable. When he opened the door she was simply standing and staring at a shirt in her hands, far away in thought.

“Kiaya, it’s time.”

She jumped at the sound of his voice before stuffing the shirt in her bag and turning to him with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

“Stealing my shirt, I see,” Cullen teased. “I am starting to see Sera’s side of things.”

This startled a laugh from Kiaya, and this time her smile was real. “She started it. I can give it back if you want.”

“No, Love. You keep it.” Cullen said, and he watched her finish tying up her pack. “I put something in there for you. It’s a journal, to write letters in. I have left you my first letter inside. I will keep one as well and we can trade when we are next together.” Tears sprang to Kiaya’s eyes before spilling over. “Oh, Sweetheart, it wasn’t meant to make you cry.” Cullen pulled Kiaya close.

Kiaya hugged him tightly, sniffed once, and leaned back. “I know. Thank you. I love it and you.” She examined his face as her tears dried. Cullen knew that she was worried about him, although she never mentioned his weakness from that night. She had been firm that he take care of himself properly, making sure he was eating and sleeping regularly, and treating him with the same respect, publicly and privately, that she always had.

“You take care of yourself. Promise me,” Kiaya said, her eyes fierce.

Cullen gently cupped her face, again trying to memorize each freckle that dusted her skin. “I promise, although I am going back to a fortress while you are the one in the field. Maker,” his hands tightened around her, wanting to never let her go. “Please, be careful. Stay safe.”

Kiaya nodded before rising to meet his lips with hers and Cullen could feel her promise in the press of her body to his. Cullen returned the silent promise, pouring all his love for her back to her. It was a hard thing to let her go when she eased back, and Cullen felt as if a part of him went with her. It was both a wonderful and painful feeling, and one he felt Kiaya shared.

Cullen picked up her pack, and they left the room together.

—-

Happy February All! I hope you enjoyed this chapter. 

[enchantment1385]

OC then and now

I was tagged by the ever lovely @heraldofwho , thanks gorgeous!  This is gonna be a long post... Be warned! 

Faeron & Nico  Lavellan ~ 

Faeron has gone through the most changes since conception, of any of my OC’s with the biggest changing before he ever went public.  Faeron was a sleepless 4 a.m creation, who I just wanted to look ‘different’ to my other inquisitors.  Originally, he was going to be far louder, outspoken, and overly confident, all to mask the troubles he actually had, but, it never made it past his initial creation as it just didn’t ‘feel’ right. Especially after seeing the screenshot that eventually made me keep him. So, he became the gentlest, blushing, and shyest of them all!  He was always going to be a ‘dreamer’ as I liked the idea of tying that to the ‘rift mage’ specialisation tree. It also allowed me to make him a ‘good rival’ for Solas.

Nico was made as Faeron’s twin. She was always going to be his counterpart, and was always going to be the physically and mentally stronger of the two. Not to mention moodier, and bitchier one of the pair. (That isn’t me saying Faeron couldn’t beat her in battle. They spar often and know each others weaknesses, not to mention Faeron can just put people to sleep by willing it to happen. Bioware!! Where are my sleep spells?!)  

In trespasser, Faeron had grown his hair once again, which makes it all the sadder that he’d have to cut it all off by the time the events are done. I just never seem to give this poor sod a break, do I? 

I did try a different style, but, because his hair is dyed via a mod, if I change the style it defaults back to brown/black, which although you might think, wouldn’t look that different, it really, really does.

Run 1 vs 2 -

Last time, Nico romanced Cullen, but then ended up not marrying him in trespasser. With Dorian leaving, she just couldn’t give herself or her time to anyone but Faeron at that point. After I’d finished I kinda questioned the whole relationship choice tbh, just because, Nico is a brash, opinionated, hardass. I just find it hard to imagine her ending up with a chantey boy, who is, at least somewhat, anti-magic, at least to begin with. This time around I’m going to set her up with Bull to see if I think it suits her better, if not, she might just stay single, as alas, there is NO choice to ‘beat the crap’ out of Solas if you date him which IS very much what would happen if he ever pulled that shit on her. Also she’d never get rid of her Vallaslin, even if she knew. Yes, she’d be pissed, but she’d probably be more angry to Solas at that point stating that if that was true, why not say something sooner. Why only tell her and not Faeron.  Yeahhh... It’d be bad...   This as due to me messing up and not switching a mod off! 

I did think about setting Faeron up with someone else, but, honestly, I just feel he’d be so taken by Dorian, I can’t really see it happening, not to mention, who?? Also it’s Dorian who makes the moves on Faeron, as Faeron is hopeless with stuff like that.  Even though in reality, Dorian isn’t a great match for Faeron in a lot of ways. He’s always talking about leaving, which leaves Faeron feeling really insecure, and that he’s not ‘good enough’ or simply an ‘embarrassment’ to Dorian, but he loves him to much to to not be with him. 

In their first run, Faeron came off as a little bit too assured for me, not to mention generally being able to talk Nico round to his way of thinking 99.9% of the time, thus it feeling like a kinda one-sided run on completion. This time around I’d like to add a touch more conflict between the decisions that both would make in the main game, and what Nico wouldn’t negotiate on. I feel it would better help further develop the emotional strain that being in command puts on Faeron.  For example, handing Blackwall over to the wardens, which Nico felt was fitting, this however will have a MASSIVE impact on Faeron.

I decided to keep Faeron looking as close to original as possible, although I’m not sure his scar is in quite the right place, and his lips may be a tiny bit pinker...  I do love him in his eleven armour, and despite the stats sucking beyond comprehension, I am trying to keep him in it, because = <3.  This time round I want his emotionally struggling side to shine through a bit more, especially after drinking from the well of sorrows, and finding out who Mythal really is. Both of which really screwed him up and left him emotionally drained and in a state of depression. If I ever decide to emotionally punish myself by running him through trespasser again, I think he’d be a lot more resigned to not making it through the events, and not caring that he might not make it. 

Nico has had a slight cosmetic change, but nothing too drastic. I made her, ever so slightly darker skinned, to better match Faeron, and of course, gave her a cool new haircut, which I really love on her.  Her personality hasn’t, and likely won’t change all that much. Weirdly, I always knew who I wanted her to be, and it’s never felt wrong. And to clarify, Nico is NOT evil, she does have a good heart, and is very smart, as well as a brilliant strategist, it’s just... A, She doesn’t want to be where she is for quite a long time, as she resents helping the very people who they spent their lives avoiding.  And- B, She knows that the ‘best choice’, isn’t always the ‘right’ one. She can, and will sacrifice the few to save the many, something Faeron just can not do. She is also very slow to trust and (depending on situation) totally unforgiving if that trust is broken. And I’d like to add a bit more tension at the start of her run to show that.  As a weird side note - Nico is incredibly quick footed, and I have thought about  making her a rogue from time to time as I like the thought that she ditched the shield and just picked up another blade instead, but again, her being a warrior just seems to fit. (Damn you for taking away the dual wielding warrior build, Bioware!)

I also dressed them in matching PJ’s this time round because I’m an asshole, who would thinks that shit is cute...  

So on review, more angst, more tension, more gritty, and depressing this time round, but in cute matching outfits... ... Yay?  

No matter what happens, these two will always have each other, and whatever comes their way, they’ll face it together. 

Tagging: @john-cousland @keeperscompanionsdai @tessa1972 @dinah-myles @gugle1980 @sassylavellen  @dreadwolfiscoming @dreadhobo @goldfishfiasco @dickeybbqpit @quizzikemen  Next bit is stolen from @heraldofwho who says it better than I can... (sorry, and thanks, love.)  …if you cannot mod or don’t have any screenies, feel free to talk about developing headcanons or changing face-claims - or changes in backstory… Anything that fits the theme. :-) (No obligation and no pressure, of course, as usual.)

[loghainmactir]

just you and i; repost edition

title: two last wardens  series: just you and i (1/?) relationships: male warden/loghain mac tir, male warden/alistair theirin characters: padril mahariel, alistair theirin words: 1.4k summary: The Landsmeet is only a day away, and the stress is beginning to wear at Mahariel. After disappearing into the crowds of Denerim, a friend comes to console him. notes: Hi y���all! Because of tumblr’s brand new hatred of posts with links, I’m just reposting the full fic chapters here. They’ll still be on AO3, but I’ll no longer be only updating JUST AO3. Anyway, here it is!

They had arrived in Denerim a little after midday. With foreheads glistening under the bright afternoon sun, they headed to the estate in the centre of the Market. Still dirtied and bloody from their travels, they're treated to a lunch much bigger and luxurious than they’d had in years. Two impossibly large birds sat at either end of the table, vegetables plated around them. Padril hadn’t seen that amount of food all together in one spot before in his life, and he ate little. He swore if he swallowed anything, it’d just come back up again.

Escorted through the estate by Eamon, they made themselves comfortable where-ever they were told to. After a whole year on the road, sleeping with moth-eaten blankets and weather-worn tents, wearing the same set of armour every day- it was difficult to adjust. The Arl's estate was so wildly different to what they’d gotten used to that it was jarring.

As soon as everyone was looking elsewhere, Padril escaped outside.

They’d been to Denerim a few times before for the odd job or necessary purchase. Nothing that ever required more than a day’s stay, but the experiences made the crowds less overwhelming. Regardless, he kept Eamon’s estate within eyesight the entire time. He imagined it was all too easy to lose one single elf in this city; if anyone really needed him, they’d find him easily.

Padril settled at a stall run by an elderly human woman. She was hunched over and covered in wolf furs to protect her from the chilly Ferelden wind, her grey hair tied back in a tight bun. Her little wooden table was full of hand-made scented candles and soaps and incense. If she ever turned her nose up at his pointed ears and the vallaslin on his skin, he didn’t notice.

His eyes scanned the table for a moment, and he plucked a bar of cream soap from it. He lifted it to his nose and breathed in; it smelt like honey and vanilla, and he paid three gold extra for it. Well, he was going to die in the next few days, he figured he’d better smell good doing it. Padril turned around, about to pocket the soap, but instead he ran straight into what felt like a big, human-shaped metal wall.

They caught his elbow as he stumbled backwards, and a light chuckle came from them– oh, it was Alistair. He hadn’t removed his armour– then again, neither had Padril– and it made him look bigger than he already was. Alistair was tall and soft under all that metal. Good for hugs. But running into him like that kinda stung.

For the first time in a longest time, there was a warm smile on Alistair’s face. “Hey there, bud,” He greeted. “Preparing for the Landsmeet?”

A smirk played on his face. As much as he had come out to avoid the Landsmeet discussion, Alistair was one of his best friends. So Padril offered the bar to him. “Yeah, actually. Thought you could use it! You’re the worst smelling shem I’ve ever met!”

Alistair laughed and took the bar– his face crinkled as he smelt it and he tossed it back to him with a shake of his head. “I’m much more of a, uh, lavender kinda guy.” He admitted. “Uh—if you’re not busy right now, d’you– um, want to go talk?” Padril gave a sharp nod, and he followed him out of the market, hit the main streets of Denerim.

The streets were full of people; refugees from the blight were everywhere. Bleeding and crying in the alleyways, sleeping on steps, begging for copper at the corners. It was hard to move, and it took almost thirty minutes just to walk to the docks. Padril kept his hand on his coin-purse the entire trip.

They settled on the end of one of the wooden piers. Padril pried off his leather boots and let his feet dangle to the water underneath. Alistair sat a little back, made sure his metal boots didn't get wet. The sun was warm, and the water was bright blue and sparkling. For everything that was happening and was about to happen– it was beautiful. As beautiful as a city like Denerim could be, anyway.

For a few moments they sat in a comfortable silence, staring out at the Amaranthine Ocean. It was then that Alistair cleared his throat. “So... it’s tomorrow. Are you nervous?”

A hollow laugh escaped Padril’s throat. “I don’t know how we’re gonna do this. The Landsmeet— it’s full of nobles who’ve known Loghain their whole life. Or, almost. What have we done to earn their trust? For all they know, we’re the traitors.”

“Funnily enough, when you left that’s what Eamon talked about. He says there’s some who aren’t too sure about him. Like we can convince them we’re worth listening to, that the Blight is the real threat here.” Alistair scowled for a second as silence fell over them again. His voice grew grave. “We can do it. We have to. For Cailan. For Duncan. They need justice.”

As sure as Alistair sounded, Padril wasn’t quite there. “I’m so tired of everything.” He sighed heavily. “I want it to be over.” A thick arm wrapped around him, and suddenly, Padril was leaning into it— it was grounding, comforting.

“We can do this,” He repeated. “I mean, really, look at what we’ve survived so far. Zevran’s assassination attempt—“ That made Padril laugh, “The tower, the Anvil. We found Andraste’s ashes, Padril. We did that! What’s one more man to us, huh? That’s all he is.” It was clear he was trying to be reassuring. He was trying so hard— Padril appreciated it. “And afterwards we’ll go to Highever for Duncan, and Orlais for Leliana and Sten’ll go to Par Vollen but we’ll bake him cookies. We’ll have to find Wynne a giant quilted blanket—“ He stopped himself. “We’ll be ok.”

“Eamon will still want you to be king, you know.”

“I know.” He sounded so uncomfortable— Padril felt guilty for even mentioning it. “But they’ll find someone else. I mean, they’ve got to. I— I’d make a horrible king. A terrible one. Really! Could you imagine it? Me, in all those fancy robes? Ick.” Alistair pulled away, then, and gave a shudder. “Morrigan’d never let me live it down. I can hear her mocking me now. And all those meetings they have to attend— nuh-uh. Nope! It’s just… such a bad idea.”

He’d started to ramble. Usually, Padril would’ve listened regardless– but his mind was wandering. The cold seawater splashed against his legs, and he kicked it back.

“They’ll find some poor sod who actually wants it,” Alistair continued. “Like– oh, maybe one of the Couslands. I know they’re, um, few in numbers these days, but I think the youngest and the oldest children are still around. Fergus– the older one, I think?– is meant to be pretty popular. That’s what I’ve heard, anyway–“ He caught himself again, and quickly shut himself up. He could tell he was starting to feel self-conscious, now. It radiated off of him like heat, made the silence enveloping them awkward and uncomfortable.

So the elf nudged him in the ribs with his elbow and offered his most reassuring smile. It was a struggle, but for Alistair, he’d muster it. “I love you, y’know. And so does everyone else. We won’t let anyone rope you into something you don’t wanna do.” He promised.

It got Alistair smiling, at the very least. “I love you too, bud. Y’know, out of everyone it could’ve been– I’m glad I have you here. I dunno if we’d have gotten this far without you.”

Padril couldn’t help it, but he snorted. “Oh, trust me,” He grabbed his boots from where they sat by his side. “Anyone could’ve done this a lot better.” Before he could protest, Padril yanked a spare rag from the pouches at his belt, dried the water from his skin, and pulled on his boots. “C’mon. We better go see who Eamon thinks we should butter up first.”

He offered his hand down to his friend, and Alistair took it. Padril made sure he was a few steps ahead of him, avoiding his eyes. The Landsmeet loomed over his head. And what awaited them if they really did fail? Execution? Loghain would never realize the threat of the Blight in time. It was already too late. The past year would be for nothing, and Ferelden would probably fall. And it’d all be on him.

Creators, Padril thought. Why hadn’t everyone just left me to rot like they had Tamlen?

[pestopascal]

home is where the heart is

ZevWarden Week 2017 Day Two Prompt: Domestic “I missed you.”

cross posted: ao3

guess who forgot to post here

With one last look over his shoulder, Zevran finds himself clambering over the balcony. Antiva was becoming rather stifling in the last few days, the nights remaining sticky, a heavy heat layering over them, but he still paused at the doors being open wide. The absolute barest amount of wind picked up the curtains, ruffling them just. Over the horizon, the sun was just beginning to show, an indication that it was far later than he normally returned. Slipping through them, Zevran half expects to find the absolute worst situation. There is only one candle on the other side of the room, by the closed door.

Yet, Basilia soundly slept on, thin sheet covering her. Sighing, Zevran sheathed the dagger he had prepared himself with, and made his way over to the bed. Around Basilia were letters of varying importance, at least two books containing basics for languages found in the North, another to do with a magic experiment she was considering and lastly, two toys, thoroughly loved. At least he could appreciate that she had finally left the study, opting to finally sleep in their bed. Zevran almost didn’t want to disturb her, carefully sitting on the edge as he set about removing his boots.

He had not taken the time to realise just how heavy his limbs were, and adamantly kicks off one shoe, letting it land with a louder thunk than he should’ve. Sniffles in her sleep, from the sounds of crinkling paper, Basilia must’ve rolled over not long after. With a look over his shoulder, Zevran reaffirms the suspicion, as paper was not nearly as comfortable as she had lead herself to believe. A grunt follows, and she’s sitting upright, rubbing at her face, before she finally notices him. At the sleepy grin that graces her face, Zevran abandons the attempts of working off his armour, and moves across the bed.

Pecking her lips in greeting, he finds himself asking “did I wake you?”

Basilia shakes her head, a frown quickly following, telling him that she immediately regretted an action, so early after waking. “Hm? Oh, no, I should’ve woken earlier. I have to leave for Kirkwall later today.” And then she waves her hand, candles around the room springing to life, bathing the both of them in a soft, warm glow.

Ah yes, the fated trip back into that damned city. Zevran had heard her mumbling something about Nathaniel leaving the Arling only days prior, the lands now under temporary guidance of the Teyrn of Highever. Several other wardens had skipped off without appropriate dismissal, and Zevran had the slightest feeling that a return trip to Ferelden was in order, far sooner than either of them would’ve liked.

Tentatively, Basilia squints, a hand pressed against the leather breastplate, Zevran only noticing at the barest of pressure, effectively interrupting his train of thought. Not two seconds later, she pulls her fingers away, thumb and forefinger rubbing together. A very thin sheen of red covered her hand, and Zevran found himself grimacing, quickly speaking just as she opened her mouth.

“It’s not my blood.” The only remainder of one particular cell, but Zevran was sure he didn’t need to elaborate.

Basilia sits up then, fingers finding buckles, pulling away his cape, hood, gloves. All of it dropping beside the bed as she spoke. “You were gone longer than expected.”

“Did I worry you?” Zevran teases, finding himself smiling. Basilia was working at the buckles on his breastplate, when she pauses at the taunt.

“Always, Zevran. I trust you, but I do worry.” The belt holding all manner of vials and weapons was next to fall on the floor, leaving Zevran only in a simple pair of pants.

“As I you, whenever you decide to go off on some warden-y business.” Last time she had ventured to Kirkwall, it was nearly three months before she returned to Antiva. Far, far longer than was expected, and she had come back frowning just a fraction more than usual.

Smiles then, a light pull at the corners of her mouth. Hands on his sides, running over bruises, old scars, tattoos. Leaning in, Basilia simply presses her forehead against his. A small comfort for the both of them. “Lucio was asking about you again tonight.”

Zevran can feel his mouth turning down at that. “What did you tell him?” Neither of them liked lying to the boy, but it was becoming increasingly hard not to. So much tension in the North, it was no surprise they were going to return to Ferelden soon.

Humming, Basilia finally pulls away, tucking strands of hair behind his ears. “That you would be home in time for breakfast.”

A small chuckle leaves him, as he leans back, stretching his arms over his head. “You would indeed be correct. Have you always been able to tell the future, mi amor?”

He notes a twinkle at the corner of her eye, how one side of her mouth twists upwards. “Only when it counts. Come, let us get you a bath, before Lucio realises that you are home.”

Slipping out from under him, Basilia makes her way towards the bath sitting int eh corner of the room. Zevran had half a mind to think it was out a bit further earlier in the night, likely as he had expected to be home before now. Clear water sat undisturbed, and Zevran simply watches Basilia warms it with a likely vague thought. Finally, he makes his own way to the bucket beside the bath, stepping out quickly on to the balcony once more. Unceremoniously dropping the water over his head, an almost concerning amount of blood, mud, and other preferably unidentified liquids dribble down his skin, forming a pool at his feet. Taking the second offered bucket, water runs a lot cleaner — Zevran making a note to himself to wash off the balcony at the next opportunity, lest the neighbours start getting suspicious.

Basilia hands him a towel, and Zevran wipes off what he can before stepping back inside. From the lack of scrutiny he received, he was cleared to enter. Pulls at the ties of his pants as Basilia discards the shirt she was wearing, already stepping into the water. Zevran nearly stumbles, kicking out the material from under him, taking her offered hands and stepping in. There’s a buzz in the water, something now that was so natural to him, and had at first caught him off guard so easily. Taking a step back, water sloshing around his ankles, Zevran lets his eyes fall over her figure, before smirking.

“I have missed you. And I mean the both of you.” With that, he keeps his gaze pointedly on her breasts, causing Basilia to bark out a laugh, swatting him in the arm.

“Maker’s arse, you’re getting worse! I missed you too! And by that I mean I missed tongue and cock, nothing more!”

It was Zevran’s turn to laugh, and he wraps his arms around her, smiling into her skin when she hugs him back. Only to be broken once more, as Basilia pulls out of his arms, nose turned upwards. “You stink like a whorehouse fucked a fishery, Zevran. Did you fall in something again?”

“That is a rather apt description of where I spent the last few nights, sadly.”

Scoffing, Basilia began to sit herself down. “Get in the water. Andraste’s flaming tits…” she mumbles to herself as she leans over the edge, drawing close all manner of scents. Despite the thin amount of annoyance she was presenting, Zevran knew better. Catches her watching him out the corner of her eye, and feels his body warm just that fraction more when her earring glints in the light of the rising sun.

Zevran settles in front of her, knees drawn to his chest as she knelt behind him. Feels her fingers work their way through the series of braids that decorated his hair, loosening all a manner of ties and dropping them on either side of the bath. Lucio had been quite insistent on practicing on his father’s hair, the last time they had seen each other. A smile graces his face at that thought, and when he’s certain that Basilia has removed them all, she sets about running soaps and oils through his hair, nails running over his scalp as she worked. It almost made him fall asleep, had she not decided to talk.

“Lucio will be joining me this time. Been getting a little too cooped up and it’s starting to show.” Only so many tutors could keep the boy entertained, with both parents still involved in their own business. Neither Zevran nor Basilia had anyone personal in Antiva besides themselves, and it was not the first time they had brought up this fact. Soon, they could return to Ferelden. Soon.

But Zevran allows the disapproval to colour his voice. “To Kirkwall?” There were rumours spilling out from the City of Chains. And whilst they had survived a Blight and otherwise, whatever Kirkwall’s business was, it was none of theirs.

“Yes… I would send him to Amaranthine, Denerim — or even just the Circle — and he would be safer there but…” A drawn out sigh. Zevran knew she would have run through at least twelve different scenarios about how to handle the situation. Clearly, this was the best one. “Well, we’ll be going through Ostwick this time.”

Releasing a puff of air, wiping some bubbles away that had managed to get free, Zevran finally addressed the elephant in the room. “Do you think any magic will show?”

“I… no. Lucio’s had no reason to present any magic. And he’s barely six years of age. Being so young, it’s unlikely.” Zevran knew that she had shown some aptitude at that age, but decided against remarking on it. Neither of them would rest easy.

“I hear that ‘but’ in your voice,” he comments instead, taking the time between her answer to dunk his head under the water, letting the soaps run off.

“Well, I know how to run, if need be.”

Turning in the bath, Zevran knows that his own expression was as stormy as her own. “You truly believe things will escalate?”

“I don’t know. It’s outside my control and that—” Basilia cuts herself off, an aggravated noise leaving her. “I can’t intervene, but I can feel it, that I should. I just don’t know… what to do.”

A small amount of silence falls over them, Zevran reaching for her hands once more, bringing them to his lips. “Perhaps I will join you in Kirkwall.” At the confused look on her face, he continues. “There have been a few men who managed to escape me. Then, we can take a boat to Amaranthine, or even Gwaren, and that’ll be that. Back in Ferelden, where everything smells like dog.”

“No fisheries?”

“Sadly, no fisheries.”

Untangling herself, Basilia settles in the tub, head resting on the back, legs curved around him. “Thank you, Zevran.”

“There is no need to thank me, Basilia. I would stop everything, should you ask.”

“And I you.”

Just as their lips were about to meet, the door opened, rendering them still. Until, between the slight opening, Zevran spots a familiar pair of eyes, and grins. Rising from the bath, towel already in hand, he gets at least three steps across the room before there’s a shout of “papa!” Hoisting the boy into the air, Lucio has his arms around him in an instant. Hand on his back, Zevran turns enough to allow Basilia close, robe around her secure as she leans in to hug the both of them. Peppering Lucio’s face with small kisses, she presses one to Zevran’s cheek too.

“Perhaps it’s time for breakfast?”

[flowers4fenris]

Templar Specialisation confession/rant

Honestly I really hate having to choose my specialisation when I play DA:I as a warrior because I've been a champion and I've been a Reaver and now I'm tippy toeing around the Templar specialisation but I can't bring myself to choose it because I start thinking about what Cullen went through and how much pain it's caused him and since I love romancing him I can't bring myself to do it knowing how sad he will be. PLUS when I ask for his opinion on the situation he sounds so hurt and I get that "oh shit I accidentally stepped on my cats tail" feeling and I want to send myself through a fade rift for making him stress about my dumb ass decision. I think BioWare suck for doing Cullen's story AND THEN making becoming a Templar an option. For me it's like having someone who trusts you with their struggles seek your guidance and support by telling you all the horrible things they endure because of that specific thing AND THEN turning around and being like "hey you know that thing that's basically ruining/ruined your life? I decided to go and do that exact thing TEE HE HE" HOW SCREWED UP IS THAT????? Especially if you're in a relationship with Cullen since you're practically dangling the lyrium in infront of his face and plus what if the inquisitor decides to kiss him after taking lyrium? He'll literally taste it on her lips. It would be like if I decided to go on a diet and banned myself from eating burgers and my partner came home with the juiciest burger on earth and ate it in front of me whilst I was having a difficult day, IMAGINE HOW MUCH MORE PAIN HE WOULD BE IN KNOWING THE PERSON HE LOVES MORE THAN ANYTHING IN THIS UNIVERSE IS POTENTIALLY GOING TO SUFFER HOW HE IS SUFFERING ONE DAY AND HE IS GOING TO HAVE TO WATCH HER GO THROUGH THAT AS WELL AS RELIVE HIS OWN TRAUMA ALL BECAUSE SHE WAS AN IDIOT WHO WANTED SHINY ARMOR AND FLASHY SKILLS (that last bit about the armour and the skills is what is tempting my dumbass). Basically I just think the whole thing is stupid and insensitive (even tho I loved using my Templar powers in DA2 to smite demons with my holy light) I think it would've been better if the specialisation was to become a seeker and not a Templar, it would be more tasteful and cool af since the seekers haven't really been touched on (maybe DA4 will include more seeker action *fingers crossed* also depending on who's Divine) PLUS Templars are kinda douchey and I know that the Seekers in Inquisition were also douche bags but still. I think BioWare need to stop tormenting us with decisions like that (Hawke and who ever your warden was in the fade is a good example) but also I give them applause for making the game more interesting and thought provoking, so bravo. *SIDE NOTE* Also could you imagine if your Inquisitor dies in DA4 because you decided to become a Templar?? Or even worse he/she becomes like Samson because Solas the sneaky decides to capitalise on the lyrium addiction.

[playercharacter1]

I said that I’d wait to try the DLCs before working out how much of them I want to incorporate into the gameverse tale, and having played Dead Money I’m now inclined to think I want to incorporate more or less the whole thing - because it gives me a really handy post-game hook. Almost certainly messes with the canon timeline a bit, but I’m not out to write a novel any time soon so I’m handwaving it in the name of fun.

As noted, Larkin gets drawn into the Dead Money mess around the age of 23, spends a week or so suffering, and gets out with...maybe one gold bar, which allows for a comfortable few months in recompense. (A spending splurge that means she recovers well from her time amidst the Cloud, with a healthy portion left over as savings to be squirrelled away for emergencies.) She parts with Christine on loosely friendly terms; they didn’t know each other long enough or under relaxed enough circumstances to bond in any great depth, but after dragging someone’s dying ass up a staircase and collaborating on a murder plot with them, it’s only natural to hope their future endeavours go well.

At age 25-26, nine-ish months of game plot occur. Blah blah etc, Larkin eventually deposes House and establishes herself as a significant power in Vegas, with Veronica and Yes Man helping her out. The first six months that follow are barely bridled chaos, and even after that there is a hell of a lot to deal with; there are plenty of people who respect Larkin for being The Courier who pushed the NCR and Legion out, but no small number resent her for upending the status quo so dramatically (and nearly plunging the city into complete economic disaster in the process). There are of course also the handful who simply see her as easier pickings than the elusive House ever was.

And Larkin’s certainly more exposed than House, because she still insists on striking her deals and seeing things carried out in person. There’s a danger to it, but there’s equal danger in sitting too far out of the action; she knows how easy it to have vital information hidden or misconstrued by those with an agenda. It’s around this period that she upgrades her look a bit from the grubby wastelander half-angling to be underestimated. Still goes armed and armoured (because there’s presenting a confident image and then there’s asking to be stabbed), but it’s less of a chunky / patchwork mess, and more...something like the assassin suit in style, I suppose? A sleeker, meaner Larkin, balancing practicality against image, her background and experiences against life as a permanent part of the Strip.

Two-ish years after the Second Battle of Hoover Dam, Larkin’s progressed from significant power to dominant power, generally recognised as the head of what loose hierarchy exists, and had a few close calls. A wary eye is still kept on all horizons, with rumours out of both east and west speaking not of war, not yet, but enough hostility to settle uncomfortably between her shoulder-blades. She has alliances, but people are fickle; she has the Securitrons, but they’re known and familiar and far from invulnerable, and their numbers have been whittled down over the years. As she lounges at the top of the Lucky 38, she finds her thoughts drifting back to a misadventure from her youth and the unique tech she’d witnessed there.

At age 28, Larkin returns to the Sierra Madre with Veronica in tow - a Veronica who’s older and tireder and still trying to do what’s right. The former scribe has been loyal, has been valuable, and has been growing ever uneasier with her friend / sometimes lover and all that’s been done in the name of staying safe or making improvements or it’s not like this is how I want to play it, V, but it’s how it has to happen. After being cast aside by her old family, however, she can’t make herself abandon what small measure of it she has here. 

She’s taken completely by surprise by the face who greets them at the gates.

Larkin has long since guessed that Christine’s Elijah and Veronica’s Elijah are likely one and the same, and Veronica’s presence is at least partly grease on the wheels: Look at this! Old friends, all three of us. Who’d have thought? It works, too; nobody’s throwing themselves into anyone’s arms, but beneath the bewilderment and disbelief there’s real relief at finding out they’re both alive, and the faintest echoes of an old tenderness, a young love cut short but never forgotten. As for Larkin, well, Christine’s memories of Larkin are of a resourceful and reliable ally, and in the wild weirdness of the moment Veronica’s doubts are submerged again as they laugh together and shake heads over how they’ve all changed and oh, god, it’s really Christine? It makes for a warm welcome.

The good feeling lasts maybe a day or two as the warden shows them about and ample tales are traded. Then, on the second night, Larkin casually comes out and says that she’s here for the tech - for the holograms predominantly, but she’s not averse to the other bits and pieces that make the Sierra Madre such a fortress. She’s not after Elijah’s dream of hunching like a mad vulture over a dead zone, but the holograms alone would vastly improve her security.

Christine says no.

More than that, Veronica says no. She, more than Christine, knows what Larkin’s not saying, knows what kind of edge she’s seeking, has watched her walking slowly but steadily down a path that is becoming harder and harder to condone. And now - away from Vegas, away from the politicking and the danger and the Hard Choices That Must Be Made - she finds herself appealing to the young woman she befriended in the first place. Is this really necessary? Heck, do we even need to go back? It was just...it was so nice travelling out here, just the two of them (and a Securitron) like the old days, and Christine’s presence is reminding her of a time she was truly happy, which makes it easier to recognise that she’s not anymore. That she hasn’t been for a long time now.

Veronica’s reluctance only firms Christine’s stance that what’s in the Sierra Madre should stay in the Sierra Madre; likewise, Christine being present means Larkin can’t resort to her usual manipulative tactics to talk Veronica around from her misgivings. It means a long conversation that gets just close enough to ugly for Christine to grow wary - before Larkin finally smiles, holds up her hands, and says alright, very well, the point has been made. Can’t blame her for trying. Have you gotten much news from the south in your six years of solitude? Ah, well...

(And Veronica thinks, later, she should have known that moment for what it was, but she never really thought she’d end up on the other side of it.)

By the time they all part for bed, things aren’t quite as comfortable as they were before the disagreement, but Larkin waves off Veronica’s attempt to talk privately, claiming weariness and no hard feelings. Veronica hesitates, looks down the hallway a long moment before turning in...and then wakes during the night to find Larkin has attempted to lock both she and Christine in their rooms in order to take the tech by force.

What commences is three-ish days of cat-and-mousing in the deadly playground that is the Sierra Madre; no bomb collars this time at least, but an infinitely more personal fight. The longer it goes, the less Larkin holds back, and the ruthless resourcefulness that saw her turn the tables on Elijah has only been honed further since they last met. She is The Courier-

But Christine is the Warden. She has spent those same six years guarding this territory. She knows it inside and out, she taught Larkin half her skills with computers; the Cloud barely scathes her lungs, and the Ghost People shy away from her and those she protects. Eventually, with Veronica’s aid, she ends the bitter struggle over the Sierra Madre’s treasures by taking it out of the equation altogether - they rig a bomb that triggers a chemical reaction and ignites the Cloud like a funeral pyre that will burn for nearly a decade.

All three make it out before it goes; as deeply distressed as Veronica is by Larkin’s actions, as brutal a confirmation this has been that the woman she liked and loved (as a friend and, in a few precious moments, a little like something more) has gradually become no better than House, no better than Elijah - she doesn’t want her dead. She makes sure her old friend has a fair chance to escape.

Veronica and Christine flee together. Nothing has quite been rekindled between them yet; it’s been such a long time, and so much has happened. They’re quiet and hurting, leaving more things burning in Sierra Madre’s fires than tech and treasures. There’s a strange sense of lightness though, the slow awareness of freedom - from Christine’s vigil over the city of the dead, to Veronica’s dogged loyalty to a cause she’d long lost heart in - and for once the future is a total, enticing mystery.

Larkin limps back alone to New Vegas, humiliated and hating. To have lost a fight she started is a grievous blow to her pride, and the paranoiac edge that can in some ways be traced to the her first encounter with the Sierra Madre is now spiralling after the second - it doesn’t help that both Christine and Veronica are ex-Brotherhood, a group that Larkin has developed an increasingly personal grudge against. She genuinely believes that the fight isn’t finished here, that they’ll return all high and mighty to deny her Vegas as well, and even if they don’t someone else fucking will, there’s always someone who wants what she has.

She might not be wrong.

She will be ready.