#so while i fully think there are others in the trevelyan line that have magic i think she was very terrified

[oopsallmabari]

rambling abt arya’s family members!

bann alwin trevelyan: 66 at the start of inquisition. current head of the trevelyan family, widow to miriam, father to eric, malik, and arya. as was customary for the trevelyan family at the time, bann alwin committed to pledge one child to the chantry, provided he had at least two surviving children. upholds the family motto well (in public). highly interested in fostering strong connections to the chantry. initially had some difficulty accepting eric’s commitment to being a templar (right ambition, wrong child). 

lady miriam trevelyan (nee lange) : deceased at age 50, would have been 63 at the start of inquisition. wife of alwin. gifted in textile arts. devout and traditional, polite but did not suffer fools. expected perfection from herself and her family. she was very invested in trying to arrange a marriage for arya since she wasn’t set to inherit, but once it became clear that would be difficult, she accepted arya’s early interest in following in eric’s templar footsteps.

knight-captain acting knight-commander eric trevelyan: 39 at the start of inquisition. knight captain of markham circle,now-disbanded, for 13 years. served as acting knight-commander for a couple months following the rebellion of markham’s circle and the death of knight-commander dupre fournier. the eldest son of the trevelyan family committed himself to the templar order and formally renounced his claim to the bannorn at age 13, though he received templar training at the trevelyan estate until age 18, thanks to a deal bann alwin struck with the order. eric remained at ostwick circle for a little over 3 years, until arya’s magic manifested and he was swiftly transferred away to markham.

lord malik trevelyan: 34 at the start of inquisition. youngest son and middle child of the trevelyan family. married to sofia trevelyan (nee de la Cerda), has two twin daughters brienne and daphne (ages 8) and an unnamed child on the way. though initially his parents expected to pledge him to the templar order when he came of age, at age 8 he became heir after eric gave away his claim. malik was initially resistant to the responsibility, though he certainly relished comfortable noble life. a flirt and a prankster in his youth, malik was known to be deeply charming to outsiders and a terror to his family. when he was 16, he played a prank on his younger sister arya--dragging her out of bed while she slept and unceremoniously dumping her into the stables with a particularly unruly mare. unfortunately, this would lead to arya’s magic first manifesting as she froze the stable in a panic.

[chipfics]

Breaking Down

crossposted from ao3 Characters: Alyssa Trevelyan, Cullen Rutherford. About: Pre-relationship hurt/comfort. Set in a Trevelyan Siblings AU.

Summary: Cullen hasn’t seen Alyssa cry since Haven, and it worries him. 1500 words.

Haven was two days behind them now.

The survivors trudged through the mountains, carting along injured who couldn't walk, using supplies as sparingly as they could. They had gotten away with a lot all things considered- but there was no telling how long it would be before they could find a place to resupply.

Cullen was worried.

For all they knew, Tristan Trevelyan was dead. Their Herald. Tristan was a bear of a man- tall, strong, swung his greatsword like it was made of paper. He was formidable and brave and loyal, a good man. A friend.

But he was mostly concerned about Tristan's sister.

Alyssa was small and spindly, not at all in build like her brother but sharing his freckles, green eyes and messy orange hair. She was a mage, distrusted by the people at first but now relied on because Tristan had trusted her so wholly, deferring always to her judgment.

She hadn't cried. Hadn't spoken about it.

Blackwall had to physically drag her away from Tristan, he had been told. She had screamed and fought him at first, but given up on trying to go back to him by the time they met up with Cullen in the pass to tell him the trebuchets had succeeded and Haven was buried...and that Tristan had stayed behind to stall the archdemon and Corypheus.

From what he knew now, the Trevelyan siblings had not seen each other since the fall of the Ostwick Circle. Tristan had rescued his sister from Templars and gotten her out of the city. She had spent the next several years with the Dalish Lavellan clan, whose lead hunter was now one of the Inquisition's scouts. She had only sent occasional short messages home to her family to let them know she was alive, and had reunited with Tristan at the Conclave. She was thirty now, and he was- had been- twenty-five.

They had a much older brother too- Roland, Cullen recalled. He was still in Ostwick with their parents.

Still, Alyssa's lack of reaction to anything concerned him. She was throwing herself into directing the actions of the survivors. When the rest of them fell to bickering she cut in with objective reasoning and got them moving forward again. She was very good at it- a natural leader, really. And it wasn't bad that she was working to help, not at all.

But Cullen thought of her as a friend, now. She was sometimes wary of people, but had opened up more and more over the recent months. Her spirit was gentle and her heart had room in it for everyone she met. She hated to see people suffering and did a lot of work in the infirmary putting her healing magic to good use. She was still doing so now.

It was dark. Middle of the night. They were sending occasional rear patrols- just in case, Leliana said. Just on the off chance any stragglers were trying to catch up, or in case they had been followed. Cullen would be going out in the next one, but that was not until the next evening.

He found Alyssa behind the infirmary tent, shivering in her cloak. No, no- as he got closer he knew better. She was sobbing. He could hear her, see her shoulders shuddering as she wept into her hands.

A little bit of his heart splintered. She always put up such a strong countenance. Even her smiles were carefully guarded, and she was rarely very emotional, though often lighthearted or glib in her banter with others.

He had never seen her break down, and that she was doing so alone now, in the middle of the night- it bothered him.

Cullen wasn't good at comforting, wasn't good at knowing how to deal with emotional people. But Alyssa deserved better than to spend her tears and her grief all alone. He approached.

“Lady Trevelyan,” He said quietly, just loud enough for her to choke back a sob and look up abruptly.

She wiped her face, immediately trying to look presentable and put together. He frowned.

“Cullen,” She said, voice still watery, “Oh, I'm so sorry you found me like this. What do you need?”

“Nothing,” Cullen returned, and he stopped just in front of her. He unwound the scarf he was wearing and put it around her neck instead. “I just wanted to see how you were holding up. I got my answer.”

“I didn't want to break down in front of my patients,” Alyssa admitted quietly, “Or anyone else. Everyone is suffering enough without me making a scene.”

Cullen frowned more deeply. “You have more right than anyone to be grieving,” He said. His voice felt gentle, not like the harsh weather they were experiencing. “You've nothing to be ashamed of.”

She took a shuddering breath in and then tears streamed down her face again. “Cullen, I-”

She reached a hand up, chapped from the cold and covered in freckles like every other part of her. She gripped the front of his cloak.

“He was my baby brother,” She whispered pitifully, “I'm supposed to protect him. Not the other way around. He's not supposed to die for me. He's not supposed to-”

A series of sudden, quiet sobs broke out of her and Cullen felt a pain in his chest.

Alyssa had a strong, fearless spirit. She threw herself forward no matter what the obstacle and really, the Inquisition might have fallen apart without her working so hard to propel it forward with her.

It was wrong that she had felt like she couldn't be seen grieving. Like it would cause a scene. Everyone was crying now. Everyone was struggling. She should be allowed the same luxury, shouldn't she?

He wondered where Allain was- the Dalish hunter who had befriended her and escorted her to the Conclave. Still working with the scouts, probably. Still, Alyssa would normally open up to him more, wouldn't she? Could she not even cry in front of someone she had known for years?

There was a long moment where Cullen couldn't move, heart aching for his friend, but then he realized there was something he could do, even if it would feel...strange. Awkward.

He drew Alyssa into his arms. Gentle at first. But when she curled into him easily, fully, clung to his shirt and wailed, he squeezed. Held her tightly. He couldn't imagine how he would feel if one of his own siblings lost their life trying to protect him.

For several minutes he stood and held her. She was so small and fragile feeling in his arms. Sometimes he forgot just how tiny Alyssa was. The confidence she carried herself with meant that her presence was much bigger than her physical body. Her wild and strong magic also made her a force to be dealt with in a fight. But really, she was hardly over five feet and didn't eat enough. Thin, spindly, small. And there was no telling how much smaller she felt right now.

Eventually she tired herself out and the gasps came slower and her breathing steadied a little. Cullen had begun rubbing the small of her back at some point without really thinking about it. She had felt frigid when he first hugged her but was feverish now from the crying.

She tugged herself away from him but kept her hands fisted in his shirt. He moved his hands to her shoulders.

“I'm so sorry for all that,” She said quietly, “...but I think I needed it. Thank you.”

“You aren't alone, Alyssa.” Cullen said without thinking. But he meant it.

Alyssa wiped a few leftover tears from her face. The smile she gave him was weak, shaky, but deeply grateful. “You're a very sweet man, you know.” She remarked with a crack in her voice.

The compliment caught him off guard. She teased him sometimes, even flirted a bit. It was a terror to deal with, but this wasn't teasing or flirting. It was from the heart, her eyes soft despite the redness around the lids. Cullen found himself grateful the cold had already flushed his face before.

“I- hm. Thank you,” He managed, and coughed. He had to tear his hands away from her shoulders.

He told himself, not for the first time, that this wasn't the time. Never the time, never the place. The teasing and flirting was just her way of bantering with people, he would tell himself, ignoring entirely that she never offered comments along those lines to anyone but him.

His arms missed having her in them, he realized quite suddenly. Oh, that was very bad. He inhaled deeply then exhaled.

“Are you going to be all right?” He finally asked.

“For now,” Alyssa said with a wan smile, “I think I got most of it out. I'll...I'll go and try to sleep for a while.”

Cullen nodded, and they parted. With some guilt, he tried to push away the thought of how small and soft she was when he was holding her, and how nice that had been.

He prayed. Silently, desperately, that Tristan had by some miracle survived. For Alyssa's sake, if no one else's.

[forthelulzy]

Heaven By Violence: Chapter 6

When there's nowhere else to run Is there room for one more son One more son If you can hold on, if you can hold on Hold on — “All These Things That I've Done”, The Killers

To put it mildly, Dorian Pavus is up to his well-groomed mustache in it.

He knows. The Elder One knows by now that they ran, knows exactly who betrayed him. Well, never let it be said he is a coward. He was never on their side. Felix and Gereon Alexius are dead, having outlived their usefulness. There is nothing for him now but warning the Inquisition.

The south is bloody cold, but Dorian can’t feel it now. The horse’s sides are heaving; it will collapse any moment. He reaches down and presses his palm to the beast’s flesh. A burst of light and Haste takes hold; the horse whinnies in fright but keeps going, the snowy countryside turning into little more than a blur. Thank goodness there aren’t any trees nearby—

The horse drops out from under him and he’s flying, head over heels in a bundle of robes. He doesn’t have time to make a peep before he’s tumbling down, rocks jabbing into his sides. Tacere yelps somewhere, and the horse screams. It feels a frightfully long time before he hits the bottom of the hill. He lands in a pile of snow, at least. Small victories.

He stares up at the sky for a moment, the sky that now only contains traces of the Breach that has been there for months. Green clouds swirl around the area where the hole to the Fade used to be. The Herald — and her templars — closed the Breach an hour or two ago, while the two of them were running. Yes. He was running.

Tacere’s pointed face blocks out the sky above. Those amber eyes reflect any amount of light in the dark. They almost seem to glow now.

“Come on,” he hisses in his strong Orlesian accent, uncharacteristically grim. “Haven’s that way. We can make it ahead of the army if we get moving.”

Dorian takes the offered hand and the elf helps him up. The horse is to his left, all four legs broken and throat cut. The wound steams in the cold, but the beast is already dead. Tacere’s work.

His ankle twists unnaturally and he stumbles with a curse. He knows only enough healing to take the worst of the pain away, and he bites down hard on his lip as he follows Tacere into the darkness, heading towards the light in the distance. Haven must be celebrating the Herald’s victory. They won’t be for long.

***

“Why exactly are you here?” he had demanded the day he met Tacere in Redcliffe. The rogue had materialized one day in the tavern and acted like he’d always been there. It would fool most people but not Dorian, who had used the same trick himself when forced to interact with the locals. He avoided them in case Alexius caught on, but a few cases demanded it.

“Darling!” Tacere had said, and if he had a scarf he would have fluttered it in shock. “I am here for the same reasons you are. Mostly.”

Neither of them had been in Redcliffe for long, but already Dorian knew he would have to leave, warn the fledgling Inquisition. Word was the Herald of Andraste had ignored the mages’ plight and gone directly to the templars, who didn’t even want her help. But he felt it his duty to at least let her know about the Venatori and the Elder One behind them.

“Oh, really? And what might these other reasons be, hmm?”

Tacere had smirked, which then grew into a wide grin. “Oh, just looking for someone.” The words were innocent but the grin was not. “Why so suspicious, mon chéri? I could ask you why you’re here, but I won’t because I already know.” He winked and slipped away, fading into the shadows before Dorian could hunt him down and force him to explain what that meant. Now they are crashing through the forest (why is there suddenly a forest?), within fireball distance of Haven, and he still doesn’t know what Tacere wants. He would have thought murder or espionage, but he doesn’t want to suspect the elf of something he will probably be accused of as a ‘Vint’. Dorian can feel the army behind him, the impending doom. He loves dramatics, but this is ridiculous.

Tacere has broken through the treeline up ahead, and a moment later Dorian does as well, emerging onto a well-trod path. The elf looks back at him, then his eyes are drawn to something above Dorian’s head and the look on his face really doesn’t belong there, it just doesn’t—

“Run!” Tacere seizes him by the arm and then they are sprinting for the gates of Haven. A sprawling camp is set up outside, but everyone must be celebrating within the village. Or maybe not — a watch-bell rings somewhere, and shouts of alarm reach Dorian’s ears even through the blood pumping furiously to keep him at pace with Tacere. The elf is not injured, but he is shorter, and that is the only reason Dorian isn’t left behind in the snow.

They reach the gates and Dorian fully intends to ram into them, making a suitably dramatic entrance, but the doors hold tight and both of them bounce off, Dorian landing on his back — the slush seeps into his robes in an instant — and Tacere doing a rather impressive roll to pop up a few paces away.

He scrambles up, muttering a curse. “If someone could open these, I’d appreciate it!” There is no response from Haven, and he turns to stare at his rogue acquaintance. “Now wha—”

He’s talking to the Venatori sneaking up on him, apparently, and he squeaks and dives out of the way before the zealot’s sword comes down. He conjures a fireball; the Venatori drops without a sound but for the crackling of his burning clothes. Dorian grimaces — the smell — and looks for Tacere. Time for another plan.

The vanguard is upon them, and the elf is currently weaving around no less than six of them, dodging blows and sliding his daggers into flesh with wild abandon. Dorian could swear the little elf is laughing. He picks off the ones on the edges of the fight; though Tacere is in his element and doing just fine, and Dorian is a bit unnerved by the bloodthirsty way he teases the Venatori, he would be remiss not to try to help.

He doesn’t hear the doors open behind him, doesn’t realize the templars have come out to investigate until his magic cuts off and he is seized by a full-body spasm. He collapses, frothing at the mouth, and twitches as his vision fades and returns, fades and returns. Was that… a smite? He’s never been smited before — how dare they!

Gradually regaining control of his limbs, he pushes himself up, gets his face out of the slush and spits out pink-tinged foam. His whole body aches, like he’s run out his mana over and over for hours. His head spins, but at least they haven’t killed him yet. He can be grateful for that, if nothing else.

“Dorian? Dorian!” Tacere’s lilt echoes over the sudden silence, and then the elf is kneeling beside him. He’s drenched in blood, hands covered in the stuff reaching out to Dorian’s face, and the mage pulls away. Tacere drops his hands. “What the fuck did you do?” This is directed at whoever is standing behind Dorian, but the mage doesn’t turn to look. He’s having trouble keeping his stomach from crawling up through his mouth, thank you. At least he didn’t piss himself.

“Fletcher, help the townsfolk get to the Chantry. We will have words later,” growls a man. Fereldan, from the accent. A clank of armor as someone leaves.

Then a woman’s voice — at least he thinks it’s a woman, but it is very deep — says, “Tac? What in the world are you doing here?”

Tacere smiles through the blood and ichor on his face, and it reaches his eyes for the first time Dorian has seen. “Ree-Ree! Sorry, love, but there’s no time. Dorian and I came to warn you. The rebel mages were taken over by a Tevinter group called the Venatori. They’re under… well. He’s up there.” Tacere points back the way they came, to where two shadowy figures stand on an outcropping. The army streams down the valley on either side.

“The Elder One,” he supplies in an embarrassingly unsteady voice, since Tacere is being coy with his information. “The other is Calpernia, who commands the Venatori at the Elder One’s behest.” He struggles up, letting Tacere and the Fereldan man help him, and leans on his staff. “Fine, I’m fine. Exhausted, but— it is supposed to come back, isn’t it?”

The Fereldan nods, opens his mouth to say something. But then the woman Tacere called ‘Ree-Ree’ — and she can only be the fabled Herald of Andraste, Irene Trevelyan — barks, “Cullen, get everyone out here. We have to use the trebuchets, stop as many of them as we can. Tac, you and Dorian get up to the Chantry. You can— oh, shit.”

“What? What is it, Herald?” Cullen says, even as he motions to the people gathered just inside the gates to come out and fight. They rally at his command, charging out of the village. Most of them haven’t had time to put on armor, but they will give their lives for this cause.

Irene shakes her head, looking at Tacere. “Julien,” she breathes. “He’s in the infirmary. He won’t be able to move on his own.”

“On it, love,” the rogue says, and salutes. He tugs Dorian towards the doors to Haven. “Come on, we’ve got more heroics to do.”

***

Tacere leaves Dorian in the Chantry and runs off to find Julien — whoever that is — but Dorian can’t stand the looks the people already gathered there are giving him. He feels impotent, even with his mana slowly returning and the dizziness gone. He has to help. The Venatori haven’t breached the walls, so everyone is either on the front lines outside or huddled inside the Chantry. He still looks for stragglers. Not that they’ll listen to him, but if he can save someone—

He’s near what appears to be a tavern, light still spilling out from the open doors. Everyone left in a hurry. He draws even with the building, watching the walls — the battle does not sound good out there — and stops short.

He sees the lantern first, overturned on a table. Then he sees the flames, merrily eating the alcohol-soaked surface and making their way towards the walls and floor. The wooden walls and floor. Then, and only then, does he see the woman, frantically scooping bottles into her arms from behind the bar. She hasn’t seen the fire. (He doesn’t want to think about her possibly having seen it and deciding to ‘rescue’ the inventory anyway; he has enough to weep over in regards to the intelligence of the average denizen of Thedas.)

“What are you doing?” he shouts, and she whirls around, bottles slipping from her arms to shatter at her feet. “Get out of there!”

She gasps and edges around the bar, away from him, towards the fire. He’s about to shout again when the flames make the leap, consuming a banner on the wall and spreading to the thatch roof in a matter of seconds.

“Kaffas!” Dorian launches himself towards the woman — or where the woman had been, as the tavern has filled with choking smoke — and reaches out, finding her flailing arm. He tugs her towards the door, out of the path of a falling beam, which crashes down right where she had been standing. The heat is overwhelming, the smoke clogs his lungs and renders him blind as his eyes water. He’s wanted to return to blessed warmth every day since he arrived in Ferelden, but this is not what he meant.

It is pure, dumb luck that he manages to stumble out the door with the woman in tow, as he can’t see it. He releases his death grip on her arm and collapses again in the snow, coughing up bile. He’s done his part, and could happily live the rest of his life never diving into another burning building ever again. The smite’s lingering effects don’t help.

Still coughing, but with rather less disgusting results, he unhooks his staff and uses it to haul himself up. He finds the woman behind him, watching the tavern burn with a hand on her mouth and no care for the heat radiating off the doomed building, or the sparks leaping off to fizzle in the snow. She turns around slowly. “You… what do you want?”

It takes a lot of willpower not to sneer; his father would sneer, and Dorian Pavus is not his father. It is that thought that makes him say, as gently as he can, “Get to the Chantry. Everyone is gathering there.” He half expects her to think it a trap, but something comes over her face then, some steely determination, and she nods at him before taking off up the hill at a sprint.

Dorian sighs. Well, he never did think it was going to be easy. He turns back to the hunt.

Just over the walls, a flaming rock hurtles toward the mountain pass the Venatori are undoubtedly still swarming over like so many ants, cracking against the steep slopes. A moment later the side of the mountain breaks off, starting an avalanche that will bury the main part of the horde. A cheer rises from the front lines, the sound faint to his ears but still bolstering his spirits. They could win this.

That, of course, is when the archdemon appears.

***

The Chantry man — and Dorian really must get his name at some point — stumbles towards the doors, waving in the last of the front lines. It’s just Irene, Cullen, and a few people he vaguely recognizes as being there at the gates, including four soldiers in the Inquisition uniform. Nine total of the dozens who defended Haven.

“A fucking archdemon, Cassandra,” Irene spits out, tugging at her hair. Her face is flushed from battle, her greatsword still covered in gore. A fresh cut slices across her temple, dripping blood down her cheek. She turns around mid-stride to continue talking to the stern-faced woman behind her, but stops in her tracks when she spots the Chantry man. “Chancellor Roderick, are you…?”

The Chancellor wobbles and keels over. Dorian is the closest, so he hooks an arm around him and drags the man to the side. “He bravely stood against a Venatori. For me.”

Irene blinks.

“Briefly,” Roderick gasps. “I am no… templar…”

Irene gapes.

“Herald!” Cullen turns from where he’s been holding a whispered conference with a woman in purple — a stylish outfit, Dorian thinks absently — and shakes his head with finality. “We can’t hold out much longer. That thing more than makes up for those you managed to kill with the avalanches.”

“No demands, no communication at all,” the woman says, soft Orlesian lilt ringing out in the suddenly-silent Chantry. “Whatever they want, they aren’t telling us.”

Dorian settles a panting Roderick into a chair. “It was the same with the mages. This Elder One just swept in and took them. It’s marched all this way for your Herald, too.” That was what he had gathered in Redcliffe, anyway, before he and Tacere had to flee.

Tacere. Where is he, anyway?

“I don’t care if it wants me, I’m not letting it destroy Haven,” Irene snaps.

“If I knew how to prevent that, I would not keep such information to myself,” Dorian says. Whether or not they believe him, he has to get that out. But Irene seems inclined to trust him, which is decidedly strange. “And the landslide went so well, too.”

“The landslide…” Irene repeats. Dorian enjoys watching the gears turn in her head — she is so bad at hiding it. “Cullen, there’s one left, right?”

“Yes.” Cullen sighs, looks around the Chantry, at the wounded and wondering. “We could turn the last one to the mountains above us. You saw — we’re overrun. The only choice left is whether to be spiteful in how we go down.” His voice is low, but Dorian doubts the onlookers are oblivious to the decision being made for them.

Dorian can see his point — he also saw the archdemon — but Cullen is making last stands too quickly for his liking. He’s seen this behavior before, in the cornered. “That’s unacceptable,” he says mildly, leaving Roderick’s side to confront them. “I did not ride double with that elf just for you to drop rocks on my head. You have no idea how clingy he is.”

Irene startles at the mention of Tacere, but Cullen speaks before she can. “Are you suggesting we let them kill us?”

“Suicide — dying at all — shouldn’t be the first resort! Kaffas, man, you’re thinking like a blood mage!”

Cullen doesn’t just flinch at the jab, he recoils. The triumph he feels at a particularly clever jibe is quickly overtaken by guilt at the stricken look on the other man’s face.

“There is a way.” A pained voice cuts through the tension, and Dorian turns around to find Roderick struggling to sit up in the chair he’s slumped over in. He goes to help automatically, easing the Chancellor upright. “The summer path, behind the Chantry. I made the pilgrimage… she… Andraste must have shown me just for this moment. So I could tell… you. Herald…” With a sudden burst of energy, he stands up, sways on the spot, and doubles over. Blood leaks from his lips. He wraps the Chancellor’s arm around his shoulders and whispers, “Hold on, dear man. You need to show us the path, remember?”

Roderick nods.

“Go,” Irene orders. “Everyone, go.”

Cullen pales. “But Herald, how will you—”

She half-grins, half-snarls. While not many things frighten Dorian anymore, this does. This woman is a force to be reckoned with. “Don’t worry. I’ll make him work for it.”

Then she is gone, bursting out the doors with a roar. Alone. A few of the gathered people step forward as if to follow, but the woman in purple waves them down. Roderick shuffles towards the back of the Chantry, Dorian supporting him but letting him lead. Cullen remains, staring at the doors, and as they pass Dorian hears him whisper, as if in prayer, “Let that thing hear you, Irene.”

***

It has been hours since Solas sent up the signal flare as they left the treeline and looked back at Haven. Hours since the trebuchet launched and the village was buried with the Herald in it. Hours of trudging through the wind-whipped snow in no discernible direction, though the sun has risen on a new day.

Hours since Dorian realized that Tacere had been right behind him for some time, face flushed not from the wind but from excitement. He had one hand on the side of a bronto, one of three some intrepid person managed to get out of Haven, and strapped into the beast’s saddle — along with supplies — was a man swaddled in so many blankets he was probably suffocating at that very moment. “Dori, love, meet Jule,” Tacere had said with a laugh, patting the fellow’s thigh. He was unconscious, and Dorian wondered how Tac had managed to get him up there. “He’s Irene’s brother.”

“Brother from another mother. He was always kind to her, even when he joined the templars and she didn’t. Funny that he would live longer.”

“Hush, Cole darling.”

Hmm. Dorian remembers this Cole’s words but not their voice. He can still recall Tacere’s. Strange. The more he thinks about it the worse his head feels, and Dorian quickly decides it’s not important. They’ve made camp now: a haphazard collection of tents and a central firepit. The storm has stopped, for now. Cullen and the purple woman — Leliana — have set up guard rotations and scouting operations for the area, but they, like everyone else, are going through the motions.

The Herald is dead.

Worse, the Elder One is alive. Dorian saw it for himself: the archdemon flying away as the avalanche swept into Haven. Everyone saw.

He sits and watches Roderick cling to life in the makeshift infirmary. The Chancellor is stubborn as well as brave. The Inquisition’s days are numbered, too, but they seem content to lie down and let death come early. Roderick is only lucid a fraction of the time, but when he is, he whispers his faith into the air, and it reaches Dorian’s ears. It’s not the Chant, though that comes too. It is when the dying man says that he must stay alive to witness the Herald’s return, that he has to look away.

A whistle sounds from back the way they came. Dorian looks up in time to see a streak of blue light shoot up into the sky and burst, lightning shooting out in all directions. It dissipates before it gets anywhere, but the thunderous bang echoes through the mountains.

Instantly the camp is on alert. Dorian leaps up too, dashing for the firepit. The advisors are there, barking orders, and he skids to a stop in front of Leliana. She seems the most sympathetic. “I know that magic! It’s Tevinter in origin, but used to signal rescues.”

“Rescues?” Leliana repeats, sharp eyes flicking towards where the flare disappeared.

“Yes. Purely cosmetic, designed to draw attention without setting anything on fire.”

“It’s Irene,” Tacere says, appearing behind him. “And a friend.” The rogue is grinning, hands tucked into his armor. “We should probably go find ‘em. Takes a lot to get him to admit he needs help.”

“How do you—” Cullen starts, but Tacere is already zipping off with a giggle. Cullen and Cassandra exchange looks; Cassandra makes a disgusted noise and runs after Tacere. A hopeful smile — that he’s probably not even aware he’s making — spreads across Cullen’s face, and then he is following too. Dorian throws up his hands and rounds out the search party; someone has to keep an eye on these idiots.

***

No more flares come, but after a few minutes dashing through the snow, Dorian spies a faint green light ahead. It can’t be a rift, there weren’t any on the way up. Cullen and Cassandra slow down when they see it, but Tacere speeds up, laughing with abandon. They lose sight of him around a sharp bend in the slot-like mountain pass.

Dorian draws level with the Commander and the Seeker, and unhooks his staff. Anything that makes Tac happy is probably a day-ruiner at the least.

They turn the corner and nearly run straight into the most powerful ward unaided by blood magic that Dorian has ever seen, a bubble that looks more like green-tinted glass than a magical barrier.

And surrounding the ward is a pack of over a dozen wolves. Thin and mangy, drooling from their desperation, they circle their prey.

Cullen and Cassandra have their swords drawn in a blink, while Dorian throws a hasty barrier over them. Tacere — where is that blasted rogue? — Tacere has disappeared, but Dorian wouldn’t be surprised if he’s still around somewhere. A figure is barely visible in the center of the ward, and Dorian only sees him when he shifts slightly and calls out, voice muffled, “Who’s there?”

Cassandra opens her mouth to answer, but then the first wolf spots them and lets out a growl. The others turn as one, eyes glinting in the pale light of the ward.

Dorian lobs a fireball straight at the closest wolf. It leaps back, but not fast enough to avoid the fire catching on its legs, and the rest of the pack spreads out as it howls in agony. They don’t run, however, and he curses. Normally, any amount of fire is enough to scare wolves away, even when they have the advantage of numbers. Something is wrong.

The pack splits, circling, and Cullen and Cassandra move to put Dorian between them. For a few seconds all is still, then something ripples through the pack. A signal.

A whip-thin wolf leaps straight for Dorian, and he steps back only to feel another behind him, snapping at his robes. He turns to keep his back to Cullen’s, lightning arcing from his hands to either side. Smoke from burning fur chokes the air.

Cullen bellows a war cry, bashing one in the snout with his shield. Cassandra’s sword flashes, face set in a snarl of her own. Wolves crowd their legs, biting anything they can. Dorian kicks one latched onto Cullen’s forearm, and it drops with a yelp, only to be caught by the Commander’s sword. Cullen nods at him and spares a glance at his dented bracer before launching himself back into the fray.

“Mon chéri!” Tac trills, and Dorian glances up. One wolf has hung back, lingering by the ward. The leader. This one is huge, larger than the others by far, and even across the battlefield Doian can see that its eyes are no normal color, but red as fresh blood. A crimson sheen shimmers over its fur.

It’s possessed.

And then it’s not, as Tac reappears from stealth above it, mid-leap, and drives his dagger into the back of its skull.

It crumples, and as the red dims in its eyes the remaining wolves each shudder and cry out, coming back to their senses. They flee down the mountain, toward Haven’s smoking ruins, like the wrath of the Maker is upon them.

“Was that thing… possessed by a demon?” Cassandra asks. “How?”

The mystery man inside the ward, who Dorian had quite forgotten about, answers. “Lots of weird things have been happening of late, haven’t you noticed?” He pauses. “Now, who are you?” Dorian squints through the barrier, but can’t make out anything beyond a fuzzy outline of someone who is either very short or kneeling.

Cassandra scowls and opens her mouth to reply.

“Ah, mon trésor! I’ve brought help!” Tacere calls, tugging his dagger out of the alpha wolf’s head.

“Tac?” the man asks, voice a mix of revolted and unsurprised. “Of course it is.” The ward contracts, the mana sustaining it petering out, then pops as the energy cuts off entirely. The man — a thin, sharp-boned, and decidedly unfashionable Tevinter mage in brown traveling leathers, carrying a staff that is little more than an oversized stick — is kneeling over Irene, who lies still as death on the snow. His ink-dark hair is long, held in a ponytail at the base of his neck. Icy blue eyes flick towards them, narrowing suspiciously.

Dorian feels he should know him, but he is only barely familiar.

“My darling, my love! These are members of the esteemed Inquisition,” Tacere trills after a beat, clapping his hands and skipping over. The mage rolls his eyes but shifts back, letting Cassandra approach — though she does so carefully, watching his hands — and bend to examine the fallen Herald.

Dorian and Cullen drift closer as well, and that is when the mage looks up and sees the Commander. He tenses, nostrils flaring. At that moment, Dorian is very glad looks can’t kill, or Cullen would be dead on the spot. And that would be a waste. Cullen stops short, brows drawing down when he notices the open hostility on the part of the as-yet-unnamed mage.

“Do you… know each other?” Dorian says at last, when the staring contest — confused memory-searching by one party, simmering rage by the other — has dragged on far too long.

“I don’t—” Cullen starts.

“Of course you don’t,” the mage scoffs. He turns to Cassandra, who is gathering Irene in her arms. “Tac and I are old… acquaintances. Extended family.” Cullen starts forward to help Cassandra, but the mage leaps to his feet and points at him. He stops. “You,” the mage snarls, “are Knight-Captain Cullen Stanton Rutherford of the Gallows, the templar who stood by while Meredith stole the souls of innocent mages and looked the other way while Hawke gave us all a bad name. Now do you remember?”

Cullen opens his mouth and closes it again several times, and a strange wave of outrage washes over Dorian. For his fellow Tevinter mage, yes, but mostly for Cullen — and Dorian has no idea why he feels the need to protect the Commander of the Inquisition like a kicked puppy. “Now now,” he interjects, “we can all gleefully unearth each others’ sordid pasts later. Our dear Herald doesn’t look well.”

That would be an understatement. As Cassandra carries Irene past them, intent on the camp, Dorian realizes the situation is a great deal worse than he thought. Irene’s face is bloodless, her nose has a blue tinge, and there’s a scrape on her right cheek ringed with frost. Purple bruises in the shape of unnaturally long fingers decorate her left wrist, where the mark flickers dully. Something sundered her chestplate, too, and the hole’s edges are blackened, burnt by magefire. But she is alive, or Cassandra would not be so determined. She is alive.

Cullen looks at her and discards whatever he had decided to say, charging ahead toward the camp without a word. Cassandra follows, a great deal slower from her burden, but she still leaves the rest of them in the dust. Or rather, snow.

Some of the tension dissipates. Some.

Dorian glances back just as his fellow mage Fade-steps to his side. The spell is notoriously difficult to master, but his technique is precise, controlled. It jogs his memory, but he has to be sure.

“Ah, hello,” he says, keeping his tone light. “Dorian of House Pavus, most recently of Minrathous. How do you do?”

[brilliantlyyours]

Beautiful now (F!Trevelyan x Cullen x Dorian)

The F!Trevelyan x Dorian is completely platonic.

I had a thought at 2am about the Inquisitor and Cullen and Dorian being one big polyamorous family and here’s what happened.

2k words

It was utterly preposterous. That’s what Dorian kept telling himself, to ignore the fact that he felt so attracted to the idea.

The Inquisitor was a strange woman; he would go so far as to say she was the strangest woman he had ever met. She was also one of the sharpest, most delightful women he had ever met, for a southron mage. The Circle had done nothing to dim her wit or her spirit, he soon found out in his friendship with her. She was quickly becoming one of the few people he trusted, one of the only people he could spend hours with and not find himself bored. Not only was she a wonderful friend, she was an inspiring leader. She was turning the Inquisition into something he was proud to be a part of. Something he knew the Magisterium must despise back home, which only made him more gleeful.

She stood by him when his father….He was touched enough that she pulled no deceit when his father sent a letter to that priest. Not only did she tell him the truth, she listened, she came with him, she stood up to his father for him. When his throat closed, staring at the man he had aspired to be his entire life, the man whose image was poisoned the night he went from ‘father’ to ‘hypocrite’ she was there. She was furious, and she was there.

And she agreed to go drinking with him.

He hadn’t expected her to take him up on the offer. He made it in misery, fully intending to find the bottom of a bottle alone like he usually did, but she smiled a smile that was nearly synthetic and told him she had better liquor in her quarters.

So they closed the balcony doors on the winter winds, stoked the fire, and he raided her own personal wine cellar (he highly doubted she drunk enough to deserve one, but he wasn’t ungrateful enough to point it out) and sat leaning against her bed, passing the bottle between them. Dorian would be disgusted at his own behavior, but he felt a bit raw and couldn’t bring himself to care about swapping spit with the woman he was beginning to love dearly.

(And, Maker, if that wasn’t a terrifying thought).

They had finished a bottle before she got up, retrieved a folded letter from her desk, and handed it to him silently while opening another. It seemed she had received her own letter of disappointment, dated a fortnight ago, meaning it must have just arrived before their trip. Dorian didn’t bother to read the entire thing, as he could ascertain the purpose from the first three lines alone.

“Elena,

Despite the position you have been blessed with by the Maker himself, you continue to exhibit heretical tendencies and shame this family. You being born with the stain of magic…”

And he had to stop, lest he light the paper on fire. Stain, they said, as if her Maker-given gifts were something unseemly.

“Do you want to talk?” He asked instead, carefully setting the paper aside. She laughed, and empty, bitter thing.

“Not about that.” She took another drink of the bottle, an Antivan red, and passed it back to him. “You should have seen Cullen’s face when I showed it to him. He looked as if he wanted to get on the next boat to Ostwick to give them a piece of his mind.”

He chuckled at that, imagining her Commander’s face. The two of them were a surprise, but he supposed they weren’t at the same time. The escaped circle mage-now apostate and the former Templar. Varric will have no shortage of tales to spin after this was all over. He was happy for them if a bit envious of his dear friend. His many chess matches with the Commander had given him a bit of insight into what she must receive every night, and he did have such a delicious blush to his face when he got embarrassed…..

“You fancy him.”

The bottle froze halfway to his lips, as did his heart in his chest. ‘Lie’, his bones told him. ‘Don’t ruin the only good thing you have left.’

“Well, he is quite strapping, but I believe he’s quite smitten with you, darling. I doubt he has eyes for anything but those legs of yours.” A bit tasteless, not up to his usual talent, and the accompanying grin felt wooden.

Elena’s laugh was much warmer. “He loves me, Dorian, I know that. But I would be a fool to not see that he cares for you as well.”

Dorian knew he hadn’t drunk nearly enough for the world to be spinning, and yet it was. He kept his gaze firmly on the crackling fire in front of him, desperate to not see the inevitable look of betrayal on her face. The Commander, fancying him? Preposterous. She was only saying this to trick him into admitting his own attraction, so she could rage and send him back to Tevinter. It would be what he deserved.

And yet…

The Commander was a shy man, that much was obvious from the moment they met. His skill at chess was surprising, and their weekly matches gave Dorian a glimpse into the man behind the mane, as it were. He found someone he could only compare to a hero from a trashy romance novel. Strong, brave, kind, alarmingly clever. And he would be lying if he said he never imagined what he would look like under all that armor, what muscles he must have from wearing it all day long….

Dorian's face was flushed, and he decided that he had too much drink for the evening.

Anyways, his attractions didn’t matter. Elena and Cullen were two chapters from marriage and happily-ever-after. He wouldn’t be cruel enough to ruin that with his own messy emotions.

He was roused from his musings by a hand on his shoulder, and he turned to see Elena, closer than she was before, looking far too sober for his liking. “He cares about you, Dorian. I see how he acts when returning from your chess matches. He’s like a blushing schoolgirl. I would know; he was like that before the two of us got together.”

He chuckled. Everyone in Skyhold knew when the two of them were courting; Cullen was rarely seen without a blush for weeks. But it still didn’t matter. “Why are you telling me this, Elena? You won this particular fight, not that I even knew it was a fight.” He muttered, sounding more vulnerable than he was comfortable with.

“Maker, Dorian,” Elena giggled, “this isn’t a competition. I’m willing to share.”

He felt like every thought in his head came to shuddering stop. Did Elena Trevelyan, Herald of Andraste, Leader of the Inquisition, just offer to share the man she loved with him?

The situation was so ridiculous that he couldn’t stop himself from laughing.

“My dear, I do believe you’re drunk.” He commented, leaning his head back. Elena didn’t laugh, but she smiled brightly at him.

“I might be, but that doesn’t mean I’m not being serious.”

Firelight bounced off of her eyes when she looked at him, shining iridescent green. Dorian wasn’t the best at reading people, but she didn’t look like she was lying. It unsettled him. It excited him. It rather made him feel like he was about to be sick. Before he knew it he had staggered to his feet, whirling to stare down at his friend.

“What are...you mean….you want to share your dear Commander? With me?” He felt like he needed to pace, so he did, as quickly as his drunken brain would allow him on the rug in front of the fire.

Elena only stared at him with an amused, if fond, grin. “Why not? He loves me, he could grow to love you if you gave him a chance, and you’re my best friend. If I was to be in this sort of situation with anybody, I’d rather it be with you.”

Dorian felt like he did the first time he discovered necromancy. Disbelieving it could be real, daring to hope that he could have it. “The three of us...how would that even work? With three people? Would we all?” He trailed off, and Elena sprung up as quickly as she could.

“No, no, it's not like we would all be having sex. I know you don’t like woman and I would never force you to...no. Just,” She grabbed his wrist, forcing him to sit on the front edge of the bed with her.

“Your my dearest friend, and I love you. I mean, we share a bedroll whenever we travel, and we sleep together whenever Cullen isn’t here. We cuddle all the time when we’re around each other. We’re already….platonically intimate, I suppose you could say.” She shrugged.” The only difference is that you would also be doing romantic things with Cullen.” She waved her hand vaguely as if she couldn’t quite figure out how to form the words. Eventually, she stopped struggling, falling onto her back.

Dorian sat in a stunned silence before joining her.

“You would be alright with someone else being with your love? Kissing them, holding them, having sex with them?” He could scarcely imagine it. Three people? Or rather, one person in love with two people? He had no idea how it could work without numerous problems.

Elena shrugged, turning to look at him.

“He wouldn’t love me any less, that I know. He would just love another person, in addition to me. Like I said,” She reached down and twined their fingers together. “I don’t mind if it’s you. I know you won’t try to steal him from me or anything. Would you be alright with...sharing him with me?”

He let out a hard breath. “I...honestly don’t know. I’ve never been in a relationship before, let alone one with two people.”

She laughed. “It is strange to think about, isn’t it? But, listen, just picture it.” She shifted closer, laying her head on his shoulder, gesturing up to the ceiling with her free hand as if he would see what she was thinking of.

“A house, a white picket fence, a mabari, a few kids. I guess it’ll be weird for them to have two dads and a mom but,“ She shrugged. “They’ll get used to it. At night, the three of us will all curl up in the same bed, and he’d kiss us both good night. We’d be there for the nightmares, all three of us.” Her voice seemed to catch. “We’d have a home filled with love.”

Dorian realized all at once that this wasn’t the first time she had thought of it. He couldn’t deny that the idea was attractive. He wanted Cullen (and when had he started calling him Cullen?) more than what was wise, but he also couldn’t picture his life without Elena, now. He knew that, whatever she decided to do after the Inquisition disbanded, he would follow her until she ordered him away. His life would be incomplete without her.

It seemed like an idyllic dream. Fantastical. Impossible.

And yet….

“Have you spoken to Cullen about this?” He asked because he was the vital puzzle piece in this whole design. This foolish design that he was stupid enough to hope for because he was drunk enough to believe it would work.

Elena shook her head, hair scraping against his cheek. “I thought I’d ask you first, and we could approach him together. Though we might overwhelm him.” Dorian chuckled. He couldn’t help but feel sorry for the poor man; no matter how they went about it, they would ambush him.

“I think,” He began slowly, staring at the ceiling as she turned to look at him. “That we are both a bit too drunk to be seriously discussing this.” He felt her deflate next to him, so he hurried on. “But if you still want this when we’re both sober, then….” He turned fully on his side so they were both facing each other. He felt the word catch itself in his throat. A bitter part of him, deep down, that always told him he didn’t deserve nice things tried to hold onto it. It sunk its claws in and Dorian didn’t know if it was the alcohol or the love he had for Elena Trevelyan, but he still managed to say it. “Yes.”

She squealed loudly, throwing her arms around him and planting a loud kiss on his cheek. He couldn’t help but be swept up in her joy, looping his arms around her in return.

If there was anything Elena had taught him in his time knowing her, is that hope wasn’t always a terrible thing.

[mutantenfisch]

1 & 7

1. What is your Inquisitor’s name and race? (and small characterisation/backstory because I won’t shut up about my OCs)

Duuuude, I have like 17 Inquisitors by now… XDBut anyway, here they are, as ordered as possible.

The Dwarves:

Meret, Craeg, Arno and Eguzkia Cadash. Zelma Aeducan.

Related only by name, Eguzkia bears the maiden name of her mother, who originally was a baker in Orzammar and ran away to the surface with a member of House Helmi who loves his wife and daughter deeply, despite them being lower caste. She and her mother were hired to provide their culinary arts to some nobles at the Conclave and it was only due to a chain of coincidence, that the young dwarf ends up being Herald of Andraste.

Meret’s mother, on the other hand, was indeed a branded casteless who worked for the Carta. Her surface-born son followed her path due to having to provide her medicine for her chronic cough. One of his heist targets, a Tevinter mage and scholar in exile, sees the young dwarf’s intellectual potential and hires him and his mother as apprentice/bodyguard and housekeeper. A decade later, the trio’s interest in the Conclave is only marginal; the Tevinter, Lydus Maro, had planned to make the pilgrimage to the Temple of Sacred Ashes for religious reasons only and by chance, all three of them survive the Conclave, mostly thanks to the distance Lydus and Ama have kept to the temple. Of course, the following scandal with a dwarf of all people being the Herald of Andraste, and with him having a Tevinter “magister” advanced in years as a friend and lover does not help the fledgling Inquisition gaining approval or attention in its first days.

Azelma was the second child of King Endrin Aeducan but after being framed for the murder of Trian, she was exiled to the deep roads. Unfortunately, she never managed to reach the Grey Wardens in time and instead joined the Legion of the Dead, to give her exile and death-in-name a meaningful purpose. A darkspawn emissary’s fire bolt nearly killed her and left one half of her face disfigured and the corresponding eye blinded and ear tingling. She follows some suspicious darkspawn activities to Haven and tries to warn the Divine. Her amnesia is worse than with any other Inquisitor in their respective time-line, for she can remember almost nothing about what happened in the two weeks before the Conclave. 

Craeg is a surfacer who’s never been to Orzammar in his entire life, but as the resident bouncer at his favourite tavern, he had to deal with so many Carta dwarves who were, in fact, real casteless dwarves from the streets of Dust-Town which left for a better (if criminal) life, he decides one day to get one of those infamous face tattoos on his cheek as well. He was probably drunk when that happened. His reason to be at the Conclave was, as with most of my characters, purely business-related but since he has a talent for stumbling right into trouble, it was almost no coincidence that he picked up the orb. 

Arno left his family the moment they declared he’d be married to a member of the Smith Caste and used the anonymity of the Surface to embrace his real identity and change his name from Nora to Arno. He picked the last name Cadash for he knew it was a quite common name among Carta-members and he was sure this would sound believable enough. He loves hitting stuff and wearing armour that conceals some parts of his physique. Smuggling Lyrium as a quick, if dangerous, source of income was good enough for him and especially after the downfall of the Circles, Templars were way too eager to keep their line of supply working, so he did’t ask many questions.

The Elves:

Ilargian, Meretari and Udane Ibaiguren.

They were taken in by clan Lavellan when the Ibaiguren were destroyed during events of the “Three-Queens” era in 9:17 Dragon. Only few clan members survived. 

Ilargian is the oldest of the trio. In the worldstate where he becomes Inquisitor, he and his Starkhaven-born wife Maeve Ameslari, n elf-blooded healer and secretly self-taught hedge-mage, are on the run from the Mage-Templar War. They met a few years earlier when she was in temporary, contract-bound slavery for a Tevinter slave hunter company and escaped together. Now, he tries to get first-hand information about the outcome of the Conclave and decides to go there as a spy for his small, growing family. Being separated from his loved ones really tears on his nerves and sanity and sometimes only the companionship of the mysterious spirit boy can ease his pain and calm his fears, so he can sleep soundly at least during some nights.

Meretari and Udane are half-sisters with a ten-year age-gap and while the older, Meretari, has a few childhood memories of her mother, two dads and twin-brother, the younger is named after Meretari’s mother who, in this worldstate, did not survive the flight to clan Lavellan but is kept in dear and loving memory by her husbands. Udane the Elder was also a cousin of Merrill’s mother and for Varric, the resemblance between Meretari and Hawke’s Dalish companion in Kirkwall is almost too uncanny to bear.

Ondras and Oroilora Lavellan

Again, these two are only related by their clan’s name, but are neither siblings nor cousins. Instead, O was sent to Clan Lavellan after her magic manifested, for Clan Sabrae already had Merrill as Marethari’s first.

Ondras could be the epitome of a bratty teenager who is more interested in partying and flirting, if he didn’t also show a deep care towards others and their daily struggles. For most people, he makes the first impression of a very flamboyant youth who neither hides his good looks nor sexuality and some smell a scandal just waiting to happen. Despite his young age - he barely got his vallaslin before he volunteered to spy on the Conclave - he is an excellent marksman and caring and patient companion to those he grows friends with. 

Oroilora is the keeper’s First and takes her elven pride and distrust towards humans a bit too seriously, but then again, she can’t be blamed for this. A few months before she got her vallaslin, the young mage encountered a troupe of noble-born hunters, who decided to declare the elf their “special” prey. She barely survived this encounter and chose Elgar’nan as her vallaslin and swore to hunt down and kill the humans who hurt and humiliated her. This hunt lead her to the Temple of Sacred Ashes.  

Manon Vallon

Manon is one of the few survivors of Celene’s purge of Halamshiral’s Alienage. She was hired as a guard by an Orlesian hedge-knight who bears little love for the Empress’s actions during that night but also needs cheap muscle to protect his estate in the Dales from the brooding civil war. He watched her slaughter some of Celene’s soldiers in the streets outside the Alienage and that settled the deal for him.Manon was his bodyguard at the Conclave, even though she rather wanted to stay behind at her new home to protect her fellow servants, but had little say in the matter, which made her furious at first, but upon her return to the estate, she was glad her fortune turned out like this. She immediately put the whole remaining household under the Inquisition’s protection and retaliated upon the marauders for what they’ve done there.

The Humans:

Maxim, Irene, Roxana, Sebastien, Henry and Jean-Luc Trevelyan.

While Roxana and Jean-Luc both have only little memories of their family and spent most of their lives in the Circle, both have different approaches towards magic and the ongoing war.

Jean-Luc, who was certain he would die of old age in his Senior Enchanter bed, is afraid of the open and of rain and enjoys staying by the fireplace, neck deep in his studies, now wields a green glowing thing on his hand, has to venture through mud and snow and what not and the only light at the end of the day is having conversation with his fellow researcher Minaeve or the heart-warmingly charming Ambassador Montilyet. 

Roxana on the other hand thinks the war has been inevitable and considers it her duty to fight in it, to make mages’ lives safer. She holds no grudge against Templars in general, but then again, not every Circle was like Ostwick’s and not all Templars are nice people. 

Irene served as a Templar for most of her life and while she takes her duties very seriously, and disagreed with Meredith’s leadership when she was stationed in Kirkwall, she can’t bring herself to fully trust mages, after having seen them being possessed or killing her friends with blood magic. She and Cullen know each other since their days in the Kinloch Hold Circle and even though she is a woman beyond her forties and at least for a while was above him in rank, she highly respects him and often speaks back with him when things have to be decided. 

Sebastien is the illegitimate child of an Orlesian servant girl and one of the Trevelyans when this branch of the family resided in Ferelden around 9:15-9:20 Dragon. As a child, he was bullied by his peers for his parents, his accent, his protruding ears and his weight. That he searched solace in comfort-food, such as cookies, did not really help. Especially not, when the Hero of Ferelden and their entourage stopped at their village and the intimidating Qunari companion of the Grey Warden took the little boy’s cookies and told him he didn’t need more. What did help, was seeing the Hero and their friends in action and learning about Alistair becoming king of Ferelden. After this, the boy decided to become like his new idol and after a decade of fiercely practising the way of the sword, he has become a buff, towering young lad, who still loves cookies and has a thing for those pagan giants from the north. 

Maxim, Max for short, is the youngest of four children, and while his mother was incredibly happy that at least her youngest was a girl, the following years showed that this was indeed not the case with young Max. While his father tolerates his personality and his interest in learning how to ride and fight and his older brothers accept him, his relationship to his mother is rather cold and strained by this circumstance. 

Henry is the least person he himself would have thought becoming a hero of some sorts. The calm, quiet man might be a noble and might be quite proficient with a bow or his dual blades, but never had any ambition to actually do noble or heroic deeds. And after all, isn’t the Grey Warden or the Champion of Kirkwall what a real hero has to look or act like? No, for this orange haired man, this whole Herald business is just one big misunderstanding.

The Qunari

Zdravkos, Shura, Artemia and Ireth (though I’m not sure whether I will actually play the latter, due to her being already part of an Elder Scrolls crossover, where she is Dragonborn)

Zdravkos is the son of Vashoth mercenaries who serve as regular guards for a quite unimportant Orlesian nobleman and his family. The boy, even though he always knew he was treated a little different than the other servants’ children, grew up to be a kind and gentle, soft-spoken young lad who would, in his teen years, often impress guests of the house with his skill as both a painter and a dancer, despite his height and “savage” origin. When his magic manifested, at the rather high age of nineteen,  his family’s patron arranged for him being taken to the Circle of Montsimmard, where Kos showed quite some talent for both frost and healing magic and successfully completed his Harrowing only a few years after coming to the Circle and months before the Civil War started. While he is no eager player of the Game, he has a talent for it and uses this to his own benefit after becoming Inquisitor.

Shura is again a vashoth and also a true mercenary. She convinces with her intimidating height - and strange beauty - as much as with her broadaxe. Then again, her abilities as a leader, or at least second-in-command, weren’t just valued by her former company, but also by her fellow Inquisition members. 

Artemia, Temi for her friends, grew up near the Antivan border and as a child, always hoped her horns would curve in a way that’d make it possible for her to use them to swing on them.In the end, she grew faster than her horns and the early death of her Tal-Vashoth parents made it necessary for her to take on any kind of work that would make it possible for her and her younger siblings to survive on their own. She joins the Valo-Kas mercenaries when her siblings are old enough to look after themselves and loses both her horns to enemies’ axes. She’s furious on the battlefield and a whirlwind with her long knives. But as soon as children are in danger she turns into something the Qun would have called a Tamassran, like her mother once was, and fights like a dragon to defend them.

2. Who is your Inquisitor’s best friend?This is indeed not easy to ask. In means of approval, most of my Inquisitors get along well with Varric - Eguzkia Cadash and Henry Trevelyan are declared fans of his work as well. Then again, depending on the character and background, my Inquis have different views and values and since some of them have accompanying NPC OCs, those count, too.For Meret, his lover Lydus is also his best friend - much to the delight of his mum, who is happy her boy is happy. He also becomes friends with Minaeve and both Bram Kenric and Frederic of Serault, the latter eventually engaging in a polyamory relationship with Meret and Lydus.Ilargian would probably be lost without Cole’s presence. The boy knows when to say the right things to the elf and he is the first person he can share his burden of worrying about his family with, while not having to give away too much verbal information about them. He also gets along very well with Blackwall and, to his own surprise, with Dorian.Meretari often sticks to herself, but becomes good friends with Scout Harding, while Udane befriends the Chargers, as does Max.Zdravkos, now that he has the chance, bonds with Vivienne over their similar views towards magic and mages, Jean-Luc and Oroilora become friends with Solas.Irene sticks somewhat to her habits and hangs around with the (ex-)Templars a lot but also becomes friends with Blackwall and Cassandra.For Shura, no-one, not even herself can tell whether she was first friends, then lovers with Sera or if it was the other way around. Fact is, when they can, they plunder the kitchen larder together or prank those who understand fun. Eguzkia gets along with Sera very good, too, but without the romance part. And she sometimes slows Sera down, when a prank seems harmful to her.Pfhhhew, that was a lot. Thank you very much for asking!

[gold3nberry]

They Won Together

Corypheus is defeated, the war is over. Inquisitor Demetra Trevelyan and her Commander Cullen are finally free to celebrate a new beginning. Together.

Cullen Rutherford X Demetra Trevelyan  Post final battle against Corypheus NSFW

“You managed to slip away.” Demetra smiled, turning slowly. She knew he would follow her as soon as he would realize she had done with her duties. How could it be any different, after that he didn’t look away from her all the evening?  They had exchanged heated glares from time to time, smiling above the rim of their glasses. He had managed to go closer to her a couple of times, before being abruptly interrupted by the tenth toast or another request of details about her glorious battle. Demetra was happy to celebrate with her companions, her friends through uncountable dangers, the people who watched her back so often and with dedication. However, when the midnight was well past, the trays of food were empty and the bottles of wine had found new owners, she realized there was something else she was burning to have. Or, better, someone else. Cullen smirked, walking confidently towards her ”I thought I might claim more of your attention, after all.” There wasn’t anything she wanted more in all Thedas, right now. They hadn’t had a big amount of time together, after her return from the final, victorious battle. Just the time for some ardent kisses all teeth and crashing lips -  and reassurances that she was fine and he was fine and everything was fine. The Inquisitor had to bath quickly and attend the party Josie had organized magically for that very evening. After Demetra had managed to talk to him, to let him know that the victory was also his, that she was so proud of her Commander, she needed to talk with her friends too. Plans had to be sorted out and she wanted to share the joy of these moments with them too. But, oh Maker, how much she had carved to kiss him long and slow, running her fingers through his hair and on his bare skin. He had let her go, but his eyes betrayed the same hunger that was devouring her. Later, they had nodded to each other. Now they could take the luxury of saying later.

Finally, it seemed that later had arrived.

She licked her lips, warm waves of desire pooling slowly in her belly “There’s something on your mind?” “Everything.” His voice was deliciously suggestive, a sinful promise under the surface of a single word. Knowing that probably her friends were watching them and yet not caring the slightest, she leaned against the door which led to her quarters, beckoning him with a look she hoped it was seductive enough. He smiled, following her without hesitation. When the door closed quietly behind him, a cheerful shout raised from the crowd in the Main Hall. Demetra chuckled and blushed, and Cullen groaned, grabbing her hips and heading her to the wall. “You know we won’t hear the end of this,” he warned, jokingly exasperated. She sighed, as he traced her cheeks with feathered kisses, before pressing his mouth on the corner of hers “I don’t care.” “Actually,” he murmured, his lips just a breath away from hers “ me neither. I want you. This is all that I care about.” Demetra threw her arms around his neck, yanking him down. She was tired of waiting and she had no patience left anymore. Her need for him made her gestures almost clumsy, as she pressed hard her lips against his and pushed her tongue inside his mouth as soon as he growled his approval. He crushed against her, mouth and arms and lust. He had clearly done waiting. Her body was shaken by shivers of arousal, and she moaned loudly when he pinned her against the wall forcefully, slipping his thigh between her legs. One finger under her chin, he forced her to lift it and allow him to deepen their kiss. His tongue stroked and curled around hers vigorously. She could taste the wine he had drunk during the banquet and a hint of raspberries. She smiled at him, knowing that he had appreciated the little Orlesians pastries. She sighed savoring also a hint of Cullen's very specific taste, the one that was better than of any other thing she had ever tried. Before she could enjoy it fully, though, he was gone. Demetra blinked, but her protest died in her throat when he kissed the crook on her neck. His teeth scraped against her skin, his tongue soothed the red mark, and his lips sucked fervently the tender flesh. He pressed his leg a bit stronger against her womanhood and she sighed delighted, not resisting rubbing herself on his muscular thigh. A violent spark of pleasure made her pulse and cry out her increasing pleasure. “Yes,” he growled, grabbing better her voluptuous hips “Maker, you are... I… the things that I want to do to you!” His voice was strangled, the urge carved all over his face in hard lines and gritted teeth. He touched her then, little caresses which never lingered too long on the same spot. She knew he was confirming to himself that she was truly safe and alive, over and over. Entangled with lust, there were still fragments of fears and drips of relief. He pushed a lock of her hair behind her ear and kissed the patch of skin under it. He bit gently her jawbone as his hands framed her face. He played with the hem of her dress, caressing her leg, then squeezing her breast. She treasured all of his touches, kissing whatever part of his face she could manage to reach. There were many things she wanted to tell him. However, those were for later. Her body was burning and all that she could think about was ripping their clothes off and finally having him inside her. “I want you too,” she whispered, running her nails along his nape and making him shiver. He was already hard against her belly, and she cupped him gently, squeezing him with her free hand. “You are so…” “Yes,” he groaned, pressing his forehead on her shoulder, grunting and thrusting in her hand. He put his gloved hands on either side of her head, using his bulk to pin her there. Cullen was towering over her, but fear was the last thing she was feeling. “Is it safe to assume you did think about this part for a while?” he whispered, tracing circles around his clothed tip. His chuckle was low and dark, his hips pushing towards her “Since when you returned. But…ah, Maker, yes… but we were so fucking busy.” One of his hands grabbed again her breast. It wasn’t enough, not even remotely, for neither of them. Surprising them both, Demetra yanked open her top’s laces with her impatient fingers. Cullen’s hand slipped inside her loosen neckline almost instantly, growling in founding her breastband half down thanks to her sharp movements. He grabbed the supple flesh and kissed the top of her cleavage with wet, open-mouthed kisses. Cullen pressed his face on her skin, traced her breastbone with his tongue, made her tremble in his arms and plead for more. “Not… not here.” he managed to say “I want to see you properly. I want to touch you and make you come hard.” “Yes.” she agreed, breathless. They disentangled themselves just the tiny bit necessary to be able to walk. They didn’t stop to touch each other, fingers laced together, quick steps towards her quarters. She cackled when Cullen stayed behind for a moment, double-checking the door’s lock. He winked at her, grabbing the back of her neck and kissing her until Demetra couldn’t breathe. She groaned when the iron of his cuirass touched her bare skin - the upper half of her dress had pooled around her hips, as they rushed toward the bed. They frantically fought with the buckles and Cullen discarded the heavy breastplate on the floor. Demetra worked fast, freeing him from his vambraces, and he gently made her turn when she left her breastband falling on the floor. With clever fingers which revealed how often he had done that for her, he untied the last laces on the lower back of her blue and gold dress. Cullen pulled it and moaned lowly as the shining cloth fell on the floor with a gentle rustle. He moved her hair out of his way and pressed a kiss on the base of her neck. And then another on the expanse of her skin, following a path between her freckles and biting the curves of pale flesh he found there. And then another where her shoulder met her neck, and she knew he was aware of how much she liked being kissed there. Then, he stopped. Around her hip, running on her ribcage, freshly healed there were a couple of new scars. Before he could speak, she smiled over her shoulder “I'm fine, don't worry. The healers took great care of me.” Demetra knew he had noticed the bruise on the back of her right calf, but he just held her. “Corypheus?” Cullen asked quietly, tracing gently the border of the thinner scar. She nodded, leaning against his frame and turning her head to kiss gently his temple. He hugged her like that for a moment, lips pressed on her skin. He whispered a prayer against her skin – a thankful prayer to the Maker for her return. When he finished, he bit her skin “Maybe I should let you rest?” “Don't you dare,” she scolded. Hearing his laughter again made her heart flutter and sing. Cullen lips kissed and nipped her flesh, sending bolts of pleasure between her legs. She knew he would leave marks and she was far too pleased to complain. Rolling against his clothed erection, Demetra was even more pleased to hear his loud groan. It didn’t matter how many times they had been together in this way, she still was in awe that her kisses and little touches could make him tremble and beg for more. Cullen’s hand playing with one of her nipples brought her attention back to the present. As thrilling it was feeling his rough palm caressing her breast, Demetra was desperate for more. She grabbed his hand, leading it where her pulse was throbbing and waiting for his touch. “So wet.” he panted, cupping her through her frilly panties. She wanted to reply something witty about a girl’s right to be excited when her lover was playing with her senses so marvelously, but she could just moan her appreciation. His voice spoke in her ear in a sensual whisper “Do you have any idea of how much I adore hearing you make these noises?” She nodded, and he rubbed against her clit in a slow, circular motion. Her thighs clamped around his fingers, and he spoke again before biting her lobe “But I want to hear more from that lovely mouth of yours. More and louder.” He freed his hand and with her help made her underwear slip on the carpet. She turned slowly, as he hurried to yank away the remnants of his clothes. Cullen stole her breath away. He stood in front of her, warrior’s muscles wrapped in golden skin and eyes full of lust and devotion. She put a hand on the blonde hair on his chest and kissed the spot where his heart - the heart of a man in love and a warrior who had survived -  was beating fast. For her. “I love you.” she exhaled, pressing her lips along the badly healed scar which ran angrily on his sternum and down to his navel. She repeated the words every time she touched one piece of offended skin. The urgency was still lingering between them, but its sharp edges had molten in something softer. She let him lead her to the bed. The cotton sheets were cold against the reddened skin of her back, but Cullen’s body was warm upon her. Her hands ran along his shoulders, testing them and marveling once again at how strong he was. Around her, he was shy grins, strong hugs, soft touches and passionate gestures. He was a Commander, but when the two of them were together, he was nothing but a man in love. When he was naked in her arms, she almost forgot he was also a soldier who had crawled his way through countless dangers and horrors. Almost. He was a survivor and a good man who was trying not to repeat his past mistakes. His strength laid far beyond is powerful, trained body. She kissed him, as he gently spread her legs and settled in between. He looked down at her and pressed his forehead against hers “Stay with me.” “Always.” she promised. “Demetra, tell me... tell me that you want me.” “Yes,” she said “yes, I want you. Please.” And then, he was inside her. Demetra arched her back, a breathless moan stuck in the electric air between them. He barely gave her a moment to adjust, before retreating and slamming back again. He set a fast rhythm. She moaned, grabbing him, her knees weak and her skin tingling. Later, they would make love slowly and gently. Now, they both wanted to sing their hymn to life. His thumb rubbed against her pearl, made her whining. The pleasure he was giving her was almost intolerable and yet it wasn’t enough. He thrust harder, moving both of them and crying out his declaration “I love you.” She gasped, her fingers digging into his back, savoring the sensation of his muscles darting under her fingers. Her healed warrior, her caring beloved. He thrust again, his hands holding her generous hips “I love you so much.” “Me… me too! I…” she stuttered, breathless, fighting to keep her eyes open. His dark pupils were devouring her, his muscles rippling with every movement, a bead of sweat running down his temple. Andraste, he was shining in the mid-light of her quarters and she wasn’t sure if she had ever seen him more beautiful and powerful and yet so human and delicate in her hands. She pushed his torso down and arched her own. She wanted to feel him closer and let him know they were safe and together, and Maker helped whoever would try to change this. “I was so worried…” he panted, his hips speeding up between her legs “so, so worried…I…” “It’s over,” she said, her hands buried in his curls. “Yes.” he agreed, passing one hand under her knee and pushing her leg up “But I need to feel it…you. Come for me.” The new angle made her feel full in all a new way and she gave up any form of control, letting her head fall back, her eyes shut. Her breasts bounced with every movement and he took one nipple in his mouth, his teeth rolling it, his lips sucking. Demetra cried out loudly at the sensation and he repeated the motion to the other breast, his tongue tracing eagerly the areola. She sensed her climax growing fast and shattered pieces of his name were all she could say, all she could pray for. He kissed her breastbone - spending a moment to nuzzle his face there - and then her mouth, making her mewl and gasp. He pressed his face on her neck, licking a drop of sweat and grunting against her skin “Come, love, come and let me hear you.” “Don’t stop!” she pleaded weakly, clinging to him with all she had. He didn’t. He grabbed her hand with his, the other still busy to push her leg up, and he changed the angle slightly. Just that little bit necessary to rub his cock against her clit. He panted and looked at her when her body tensed suddenly. “Cullen!” His name bounced against the walls of the bedroom as Demetra came, spasming around him, inarticulate sounds of pleasure swallowed by his roar. His cock twitched, answering the enchanting call of the ripples inside her wetness. Cullen’s climax exploded violently, making his shaft plunge inside her as deep as it was possible. They called their names. They rubbed against each other trying to prolong their shared pleasure. They fall together into the pure bliss, heavy, sweaty limbs entangled and breathing raggedly. Cullen let himself fall upon her, spent and heavy. Demetra nuzzled his neck, beaming. She loved having him in that way. They were both panting, she realized as he gently lowered her leg. Demetra didn’t waste time and framed his waist her plush thighs, the movement making him moan for the change of pressure. She didn’t have the strength to do anything more, but she still wanted to feel him as close as possible. “Maker!” he gasped, his forehead pressed against hers. She barely nodded, closing her eyes. He was still inside her. She could smell their scents mixed together and feel their hearts starting to slow down a bit. She slowly passed her fingers through his messy curls, tracing patterns on his skin. He shivered and moaned a broken sound. Demetra chuckled, forcing her eyes to open. He was still looking at her. She swallowed at the sight. When they were together like this, he was vulnerable, open, his heart bare for her to see. At the beginning of their relationship, she had been almost scared. Then, she had realized she was strong enough to support and love and cherished him as much he did with her. She could take care of him. They were a miracle. “I love you.” “You could repeat it as many times as you like.” she smiled, embracing him safely in her arms “I don’t think it’ll be never enough.” He laughed quietly “Good to know, my dear.” She sighed softly, her body heavy and relaxed “And I love you too, Cullen.” They lay quiet and sated between the embroidered sheets. From downstairs, the sounds from the party didn’t seem to stop anytime soon even if the dawn was quite close. “Am I crushing you?” he asked, his fingers playing with a long lock of her hair. She shook her head “Do not dare to move, Commander.” “As my Inquisitor commands.” he replies, kissing her briefly and letting his head resting on her shoulder. Knowing that he was feeling safe and happy wrapped in her arms and legs, hearing his quiet breath, knowing that they had survived the war, made her eyes fill with tears of happiness. He sensed something and looked up at her. She smiled between her quiet tears, as he framed her face with his hands. Hands which were calloused and big, a warrior's hands that had fought and killed, but that were still capable to be tender and caring. She smiled, and he kissed the salty drops away one by one. He was a good man and she loved him. When his lips captured hers, they were salty and wet. “I’m so, so happy that my heart can’t contain it,” she whispered, fingers exploring his face. He simply nodded, their hearts singing the same song. Now and then, he kissed whatever part of her he could reach, and she rubbed her cheek against his hair. They didn't fell asleep, but they floated through the night speaking soft words and whispering promises. She told him every detail about the battle against Corypheus. He tensed and listened, cradling her against him. She spoke about everything she couldn't write in the official reports. The future generations probably wouldn't care to know that she was terrified when the false Archdemon defeated Morrigan. Or that she hated Corypheus when he spat on the lives he had taken, she hated him more than she had before. More than she felt discovering he had corrupted the Templars and the Wardens. More than when she saw the death and the desolation he had cast upon innocents. More than when she visited the Dark Future in Redcliff. Demetra admitted to Cullen that she had felt a great joy in destroying the ancient Magister, and now she was worried she was the monster for that. She could tell Cullen she hoped Solas was fine, but for some reason, she hoped they would never hear about him again. He listened and caressed her back, washing away the tension and the worries. “Love?” he called at a certain point during the night, moving to look at her. She protested slightly, but he shushed her with a soft smile and a long kiss. Then, she saw him swallowing whatever fear he was feeling. “Now that things are going to slow down a bit” he started, his feet tracing paths on her calf “I'm quite sure Mia would kill me if I don't take advantage of this and pay them a visit.” “Are you formally asking for a vacation, Commander?” she teased. He smiled, hesitant. “Would you come with me?” he asked quietly. Demetra looked surprised at him. Cullen cleared his throat, his hand stilling on her arm “If you want, of course! I would perfectly understand if you think this is too rushed or… well, I can’t even promise you a pleasant trip. I… it has been a long time since I saw my siblings and I’m not sure… I mean, I know Mia wants for me to go there, but it has been a long time since we were all together. I acted in a questionable way towards them.” he sighed, rubbing his forehead “I suppose what I’m trying to say it’s that I’d be more than happy to introduce you to my family, but I can't guarantee you a relaxing trip.” “Cullen,” she smiled, pulling herself up and sitting between his legs “I’d be honored to come with you.” “Thank you,” he said simply, cupping her neck and pressing their foreheads together. But his gratitude lay beyond the simple words.She ran her fingers on his cheeks, smiling back at him. He wanted her to meet his family. She mumbled, kissing the tip of his nose “I hope they’ll like me.” He chuckled, grabbing her to pull her closer “They’ll adore you. This is the only thing I'm sure about. Maker, I fear they’ll like you even too much! I apologize in advance for their behavior.” She laughed and he watched her affectionately “You, without any doubt, make me the happiest and luckiest man in Thedas.” Before she could scoff and maybe deny his words, he leaned forward, kissing her slowly, holding up her chin. She hummed, climbing on his lap. His fingers cupped abundant flesh and caressed ample hips, barely stopping at the apex of her generous thighs. She mumbled an encouragement, spreading a bit more her legs, resting them on either side of his legs. He looked at her intently, his hands caressing her inner thigh. Goosebumps erupted on her creamy skin and she bit her lip closing her eyes. Demetra had silver marks along her upper thighs, silvery lines which lit her creamy skin up. Cullen remembered one of the first times they had been intimate. She was embarrassed and he had kissed them one by one to convince her she didn’t have to. The memory of her coming around his tongue and hands made him harden quicker. He dropped lower his hand, cupping her womanhood. “Do you want this again?” he asked lazily, drawing a path through her curls. Her toes curled in the sheets “I think you know the answer.” Cullen chuckled, pleased. With him or with her, she didn’t know. “Ready for me again,” he cooed, spreading her legs with his strapping ones and a little help of his hands. She pushed herself up, grabbing his cock and align it to her entrance. He backed her against the headboard, enjoying the view. Demetra dragged his tip along her clit, in slow movements. She couldn't believe that once she had been shy and a bit intimidated to be watched with such hunger. Now, she couldn't imagine being looked at in any other way. He groaned loudly, fists grabbing her sides “Such a minx.” She laughed lowly, coaxing his shaft in her essence “Patience is a virtue, my love.” She bit her lip, her back arching, as she let herself slowly go down. He filled her magnificently, his thick cock hard and pulsing inside her. He held her on his thighs, helping her to find a rhythm grabbing her hips and moving her body up and down. “Ride me,” he commanded, “Let me see you like this.” She pushed using her legs, sliding herself up to his length and then down. She did it again. And again. And again, basking in his growls of pleasure and the way he pressed his head against her shoulder, teeth gritted and muscles tense. He was her warrior who helped her to keep the Thedas safe and the lover who loved her through dark nights and complicated days. He was a vision of lust and sweat skin, but Demetra knew Cullen was more than his handsome face and sculpted body. He was scars and nervous glances, stubbornness, and integrity. He was the man who worked himself almost to death to be a better one and the Templar who broke old chains to be free and truly serve. And he was hers. Demetra wanted to make him come first. To look at his gorgeous face contorting in pleasure, mouth open and eyes shut. To hear him shouting her name to the skies. She ran her nails across his torso, playing with the soft golden hair on his chest, leaning down to nip at his skin. She marked him with teeth and lips. The first light of the sunrise guided her, painting rosy and orange spots upon his body. She followed the guidance, and she touched him stocking his lust and his affection. He was thrusting slowly, almost lazily, in time with her pushes, pupils almost black in their hunger. She bit his lower lip, pulling it. He shut his eyes and she made him lift his chin. He murmured something and then groaned when she clenched purposely around his cock. “Again.” he pleaded, laying down and grabbing the headboard with one hand. She obeyed and commanded at the same time “Come, Cullen.” He shouted that could have been her name or a prayer for mercy. She sped up a bit more, clenching around him again and there he was. Cullen came with a long, stutter version of her name for everybody to hear. He filled her and her body followed his lead. She came with a quiet sigh, eyes locked on him. His fingers dug into her rolling flesh so hard she earned bruises for sure, but she couldn’t care less as she rode him for one last time before stopping. She slumped forward, panting heavily, her hands on either side of his head. She was sweaty and trembling and exhausted. They stayed side by side, their hands clutched together. Demetra wasn’t sure of when she fell asleep exactly, but she woke up slowly and well rested. She blinked, her lips spread in a radiant smile. The sun was up in the sky and boldly shining outside her windows. Cullen had rolled on her side of the bed in his sleep, his legs were entangled with hers, the hair tickling her skin. He rested on her pillow, and even in his deep sleep, he was holding her safely. She gently blew away some of his curls from her nose. Demetra had woken up other times near him, but that morning was special. She fought the need to touch him. Let him rest, she scolded herself. He needed it as much as she did. She looked at him, however. He was sleeping with his mouth slightly open and he mumbled something in his dreams. She held back a chuckle. He seemed so much younger, his face calm, his cheeks not so thin anymore. He would probably never be totally free of bad memories, but she wanted to help him to build new, happier ones. She laid there a bit longer, until the needed to relieve herself and drink something was stronger than her romantic thoughts. Demetra disentangled herself as gently as she could, tiptoeing in the little chamber she used as her bathroom. She took the occasion to quickly brush her hair and washed away the last remnants of her make - up. Looking at herself in the mirror, she grinned pleased noting the dark marks on her body. One on her neck. Three or four on her breasts. And also without looking at her thighs, she was sure she would find a couple of love bites down there. Her sore throat reminded her she was thirsty and in a desperate need for something fresh. She saw her discarded dress on the floor, but she wasn’t in the mood for a fight with its laces. It would be silly, anyway, she realized stifling a laughter. She had the half hope she could convince Cullen to spend more time in there, before facing whatever it would come next, once she was again the Inquisitor.  So she opted to simply wear one of her nightgowns since walking naked wasn’t something she was entirely used to. It was an irrational thing to do and she knew it. She was well aware that Cullen had already seen – and appreciated – every roll, freckle, and dimple on her body. And it wasn't exactly shame for herself that made her so hesitant about walking naked. It was more a mixed of a hint of old insecurity, a good portion of Andrastian modesty and a real peril that a messenger in a hurry would come running in her quarters. The omnipresent crystal pitcher on her desk was full and she poured herself a generous sip of fresh water, letting some mint leaves falling inside. She rotated the precious glass to capture the rays of the sun, smiling seeing thousands of rainbows exploding between her fingers. It was a childish game, but in her private space, she was allowed to play it. As Inquisitor Trevelyan, she wasn’t allowed to be anything less than regal and wise. As Herald, she wasn’t allowed to feel fear or uncertainty. As Demetra, in the safety of her new home, protected by her friends and with the man who she loved near her, she was allowed to be whatever made her happy. Demetra felt dizzy, still unsure if she was living a marvelous reality or if it was all a cruel dream in the Fade. It was too beautiful: the war over, the Thedas safe, all her friends and her beloved safe and sound. But her body was pleasantly sore, and on her skin, she wore the signs of Cullen’s passion, she firmly reminded herself. It was real. The mint-scented water tasted fresh and perfectly cool and Demetra put down the glass only when a croaked voice grumbled “May I have some, please?” Sat on the edge of her bed, scraping his neck and stretching, Cullen sent her a lazy grin. He was gloriously naked and she wasn’t totally surprised to feel a familiar heat pull in her lower belly despite all what they already did. No doubt knowing to be watched and proving once again that he hadn’t any issue with that, he walked where she was standing. She had already poured some water for him. “I’m sorry,” Demetra sighed “I didn’t mean to wake you up.” “Do not apologize.” he shooshed gently, “I think I slept enough. Midday is well past!” “We deserved to rest.” He nodded, putting down his cup and pulling Demetra into his embrace. Cullen kissed her slowly, savoring the feeling of her in his arms, gently backing her against the desk. She regretted having the silk cloth between them, but he didn’t seem to mind. His hands traveled up and down her back, exploring it in slow, circular motions. Not that she needed to release any type of tension - not after a huge party and a passionate session of lovemaking - but she wasn’t going to object to having his hands on her. Cullen, from his side, seemed to enjoy her leaning into his touch and he kept going. “Do you think we should eat something?” he asked, his thumbs rubbing her lower back affectionately. “I’m hungry,” she admitted “but I think we should just call for a servant. I fear that if we will set foot out from here we will be captured and send back to our duties.” “That sounds really terrible,” he grinned, peppering her face with little kisses. She gave him a shy smirk “I'm glad my Commander share my worries.” His lips slipped on her neck and he sucked her pale skin, tracing a path between her freckles with his tongue. She moaned quietly, letting her hands falling down. He whispered her name against her throat, when she wrapped her hand around his cock, teasing the tip with her thumb. She took a great proud in making him shiver and groan aloud all at once. Demetra chuckled lowly when she heard Cullen holding his breath seeing her gently falling on her knees, her hands traveling through his chest and the muscles of his torso. She kissed and scraped with her teeth his navel, making sure to leave her own mark there. She breathed just an inch away from the base of his cock and his hand slid between her hair. She planted a wet kiss on the base of his shaft, and then another and another, tracing all his length. He grunted and couldn’t avoid thrusting past her lips. She sucked eagerly, impatient to hear him made all the tiny wicked noises which made her so aroused.He threw his head back, leaning more heavily against her desk. Demetra gently traced the soft sack under his cock with her marked hand. He panted something, a wordless request for more. She accomplished, rubbing her legs together in a desperate try to alleviate her own need. That was for later, however. Now, it was his turn. Mouth and hands worked together, teasing out of him moans and growls of approval. She kissed, sucked and licked, and he was writhing under her touch searching for his climax. His ragged breaths told her he was close, so close, just a bit more...

“Inquisitor!”

It was a miracle she didn't bite him, jerking abruptly away. “Inquisitor, I have some food here and the lady Ambassador asked me to...” While the messenger continued her speech, Demetra and Cullen stared at each other, utterly in shock. He was still hard and she still kneeled between his spread legs. After a moment in which they silently debated if laughing or crying, she stood up and grabbed again her nightdress, flying down the stairs. “Demetra, wait!” She ignored him, slamming the door open. The messenger was still babbling, and she wasn't alone. Another one, younger and clearly so much wiser, was trying to stop her colleague, unsuccessfully. “Oh, good morning Your...” Demetra grabbed the tray “Thank you. Have a nice day.” “My lady, a moment please!” the woman stopped her, ignoring the horrified look on the scout’s face “As I was saying, lady Josephine and Madame Vivienne asked you to...” “I fear I don't have time for this today.” “My lady?” a hint of disapproval tinged the older woman's voice. Demetra discovered she didn't care. For once, for just one single time, she felt allowed to be a bit selfish. She had saved the world, Andraste’s flaming sword, she was allowed to take one day off! “I think the Inquisitor asked you to let everybody know we don't want to be disturbed until we will decide it's time to resume our duties.” a calm and firm voice intervened. Demetra glanced at Cullen, equally surprised and delighted, as he smiled calmly at the two women, painfully beautiful and regal even in a simple pair of trousers, a shirt and barefoot. ”The Inquisitor needs to rest. I’m sure the lady Ambassador will be understanding as always. Good day.” Before anyone could add anything, he closed the door with a firm click, locking it again. They ate the meal on the carpet, feeding each other with little bites of bread and butter, fruit, and biscuits. “So, were you serious?” she asked for the tenth time “Two days just for ourselves? Are you agreeing with the very idea of a little vacation? You do know what a vacation is, right?” He scoffed, amused “Of course I do and I’m perfectly capable of taking one. If you like my plan, that's it.” “Oh, Cullen, of course, I agree,” she joked“I just fear you don’t fully get the concept. A vacation is when you pick a nice place, possibly with a good company, and you relax, without fearing the arrival of ambassadors, nobles, reports, crazy magisters…” He pecked her on her smiling lips “I can provide the company. And I'm quite sure I spoke clearly enough.” Demetra looked at him for a long moment “Andraste and Her mabari, you’re serious, aren’t you?” Cullen pressed his forehead against hers, running his fingers through her hair “I’m very serious.” She laughed and kissed him. He yanked her up and she wrapped her limbs around him. She laughed even louder and he swallowed the sound with his mouth.

It was supposed to be a just one chapter fan fiction, but I got carried away. The second part will hopefully arrive soon! 

[zolanhras]

Worst Nightmare

Prompt: "I can’t believe this is happening, please wake up"Cullen/Mage!Trevelyan 

Requested by: @gowombat83 Hey, thanks for the prompt!

For @dadrunkwriting, ~789 words

This one was interesting. I liked playing around with the roles a bit, and I usually write Cullavellan non-mage, so it was a nice change. (Not that I’ll ever stop writing my Lavellan quizzy are you kidding)

Cullen awoke with a start.

His hands were fisted in the covers around him, having sat straight up as he awoke. He blinked his eyes a few times and slowly lay back down, heart hammering in his chest. He didn’t remember his dreams this time, thankfully, but he had obviously had seen something.

He turned his head to the left, cheek brushing against the pillow, and took in the face beside his.

Only half her face was visible, and he traced the lines with his eyes, calming himself in her familiar shape. He wanted to reach out and touch her, to brush her cheek, to trace the bridge of her nose to the tip, to rub her eyebrows, to hold her face in his hands.

His hand moved, but it stopped. If he touched her, would she fade away? Would she shatter, and would he wake up, like many dreams he had had before?

But no, he knew this wasn’t a dream. His heart was beating normally now.

He drew his hand up carefully from the covers, careful not to rustle the sheets too much. Aurelia was a light enough sleeper as it was. She woke nearly every time he did.

“I love you,” he murmured, gently using the back of his hand to rub her arm. Any more would wake her.

A shock rolled through him, and he retracted his touch like he’d been burned.

Magic.

Alarms ran through his head, years of templar training warning him of countless dangers. In reality, it was probably just a random surge. That happened sometimes while mages slept. Touching the Fade in their dreams wasn’t always clean.

Either way, it would be best to wake her. He remembered older mages doing the same in the Circle.

“Aurie,” he said, grasping her arm and shaking. “Aurie.”

“No,” she muttered, turning her head back and forth on the pillow. “No.”

He chucked for a moment, but he would feel better once she was fully awake.

“Aurelia.”

“NO!”

A blast of energy sent him shooting off the bed, slamming against the opposite wall. He crashed hard, knocking the wind out of him, before he slid to the floor, wrapped up in the bed sheets.

He held his head in his hands, getting his bearings.

Aurelia.

He looked up towards the bed, but from the angle and the distance, he could only see so much, but he saw enough.

A dark green glow encapsulated her, levitating her slightly off the bed. The light crashed against her violently, it’s swirls mounting one attack over another.

She was being possessed.

Maker, no.

He tore the sheets off, and hurried around the other side of the bed. Her face was contorted in concentration and pain. He fell to his knees.

This can’t be happening. No, no, no, no, no.

He had stopped taking lyrium. There wasn’t anything he could do. It would only be a matter of moments now. It would win, or she would.

He knew he hadn’t deserved this happiness. She was too good, too pure for him. Now, this was his punishment for thinking that maybe, just maybe he could keep it.

“Please wake up,” he said. “Please, please, please.”

He recited a silent prayer to the Maker, but all the while, his hand itched to hold hers, to offer some sort of support, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t do anything, but watch.

“Aurelia, please,” he whispered. “Come back to me.”

Seconds ticked by like hours.

The swirls got more aggressive, beating against her skin, making no marks, but always trying again.

Again.

Again.

Again.

She then fell promptly back onto the bed, hair dropping onto her face and around her head.

“Aurelia!” he said, getting to his feet and scanning for sign of a demon. He wouldn’t know until—

She heaved in a breath, and then sputtered at the hair that got in her mouth, moving it out of her face. Her eyes flicked around the room, panicked, getting her bearings, until she rested on him and her gaze softened.

“Cullen,” she said.

She had won. She was alright.

She had been sitting up to talk, but he sat down on the side of the bed and buried her in a hug before she could say anything more. She was okay.

She was okay.

He breathed in her scent, bunching up her hair in his hands like it was precious silk.

“I love you,” she said, muffled through the hug.

“I love you, too.”

He held her like that for a while, through the subsequent sobs, until light peeked through the hole in the roof.

“I love you.” he said, separating and looking at her.

She smiled, tears still fresh.

“I love you, too.”

[january-warlock]

Here’s the second commission I’ve done for oblivianrose, and it’s entirely Alistair X Warden.

Pairing: Alistair/Warden

Summary: Neria and Alistair’s Calling is approaching, the Wardens are in turmoil, and trouble brews in the Imperium. A cure for the Blight will give them the leeway they need, but only if it works.

Here it was. The moment she’d been waiting for since Alistair first informed her of the Calling, and her thirty years to live. All of her research, her time with the Inquisition, slaying high dragons for their blood-it all led up to this one moment.

She was certain it would work-her tests on blighted soil sent straight from Lothering, on those cysts she found in dragons, and when her cure worked, she knew she had to test it. If she did this, perhaps the Grey Wardens could come back together and seal the rift, and, just as importantly to her, she’d cure Alistair and herself and prevent them from having to go on the Calling.

And Alistair wasn’t all. Thedas was ripping itself apart once more-they couldn’t go a decade without some catastrophe breaking out. First, the Blight and the civil war in Fereldan. Then the Mage-Templar War and the War of the Lions in Orlais. And Kirkwall still hadn’t fully recovered from either the Qunari Invasion, the Mage-Templar War, or the damage done to the veil by the Breach.

And now this Solas, and the Grey Wardens were tearing themselves apart, and they feared a war among them.

Inquisitor Trevelyan had sent word to her and Hawke, and while she, Hawke, Anders, and Alistair would eventually make their way to the Imperium to fight this Solas and whatever he was planning, right now, the Wardens needed them, Neria especially.

She turned to her lover of ten years-Alistair. The years had caught up to him. Lines around his eyes and mouth,

Her cure was primarily made of high dragon blood; she’d long ago been convinced that that was the key, but it took reading some forbidden texts from the First Blight that had to be translated; the notes of Arch-Mages from long ago that were doing research into the same matter. That had taken a few months, and then, she’d gone as far as the Forbidden Oasis for dragonthorn. Then it was back to Orzammar for lyrium.

The process hadn’t been easy; after months of failure (she’d tried just straight dragon blood at first, only to find that it quickly overwhelmed and killed the plants, so she’d not try that on Alistair). She needed something that would dilute the blood just enough, and tried dragonthorn. Then just a touch of lyrium so the two would not overpower each other. Then there were weeks of testing; and when the results were consistent and what she wanted, and with Alistair and several other Wardens getting worse and worse, she knew it was time.

“Love, it’ll be fine.” Alistair must’ve seen the worry lines on her face. “You’re the smartest woman in Thedas, it will work.”

“It had better.” Neria’s own time was running short; thirty years. That is what Alistair had told her all that time ago at camp during the Blight. They’d have thirty years to live, and back then, that was preferable to dying in the Circle because at least as a Warden she would’ve lived at all. But now, she had Alistair, friends, a real life, something to live for, and she wanted her time back.

Her alchemical setup was impressive; plants hung from the air and climbed up the walls. The air smelled like itchweed, felandris, a mix of poisons and potions, with the slight burning sugar smell of lyrium. Her notes were sprawled all over the tables, and her book piles were taller than she was.

“It’s ready?”

Neria nodded, biting on her lip. She lit the burner, saw the flask heat up, and the mixture went from blue to a dark red. “It is.”

Alistair smiled, and she knew he was trying to put her at ease. “It’ll work.” He said, a comforting hand on her shoulder.

Neria took a deep breath, trying to slow her heart down. With a chill of ice magic to cool down the bottle, she tried to hand it to Alistair. When he reached for it, she flinched and pulled it away.  

“What is it?” He asked. “Neria, you’ve done the work. This will cure me.”

“I should be doing it too.”

“And what, risk us both?”

“So, you’re saying it won’t work?” Neria’s voice cracked and her eyes were starting to sting. “If this kills you, then I’ll go too.”

“No, you won’t.” He took her hands, setting the concoction to the side. “Neria, you’re the Hero of Ferelden. You’re brilliant, and the world needs you. If this doesn’t work, it can’t take you too. Somebody has to deal with the mess with the other Wardens, and they’ll listen to you more than me.”

Neria sighed. “Okay.”

She handed him her cure, and tried to turn her to nerves to steel and prepare herself for what happened next. Alistair smiled at her, and she hoped that that wouldn’t be the last time.

But she couldn’t prepare herself for what happened next.

Once Alistair had thrown back what was in the bottle, it was like her Joining all over again.

He fell to the ground, writhing and convulsing. His eyes went all white, and she shrieked, and she could’ve sworn she had seen Davith for a split second. He thrashed on the ground for a few minutes more, until he finally stopped moving.

When she was sure he was done, she put two fingers to his throat, and nearly jumped when she felt a pulse. The relief didn’t stop the sweat on her forehead, but she picked him up, threw him onto her shoulders, and carried him to the infirmary.  

The medic wasn’t much help, but there wasn’t much she could do except put him on the bed with his head propped up. No one had ever done this before, and there was nothing to be done except wait, and hoped he woke up. But after the Joining, the amount of time a new Warden spent unconscious varied; the longest case was two days. But hopefully, he would wake up.

She grabbed a chair, and put herself next to him. She didn’t care how little she would sleep tonight; it wasn’t going to be anymore than usual anyway.

She drummed her fingers on the windowsill, trying to not cry in front of the medics or other patients. All she could think about was all the time they had together. The Blight, while not a perfect meeting and a rather shit time to be alive, pushed them together. She remembered his rose that she kept preserved, all his jokes...and now, the Calling was coming to take him away, if she hadn’t just succeeded in killing him first.

She could feel her heart breaking. Alistair wasn’t just her lover, he was her first love, her best friend, one of the reasons she kept going, and she might have killed him. But he was breathing-had a pulse, a decent color. All she had to do was wait and hope that he would eventually wake up.

She shifted herself, and prepared to wait for quite a while if the need arose.

It was a full night and half a day before Alistair woke up.

Neria was half-asleep against the window, the sun heating the glass to the point where it was threatening to cook her skin.

Alistair, groggy and with a head that felt like it was full of rocks and metal, managed to say, “Neria?”

And she was awake, just like that. Another thing about the Blight; having to sleep in an unfortified camp with just a tent to protect you from brigands, slyvans, wolves, and darkspawn made you a very light sleeper, especially after shrieks attacked your camp. “Alistair!”

He pulled himself up, and she threw her arms around him. He winced when the light shone in his eyes, but managed a weak laugh and hugged her back. “Hey, I’m alright, I’m alright.”

“You’re alive.” Neria didn’t even try to hide the tears; she didn’t care who was watching. “I thought I’d killed you.”

“Well, you didn’t. Morrigan is sure to be disappointed.”

“When we see her in the Imperium, I’ll tell her.” She took him by the jawline, trying to be as gentle as possible as she examined him. “How do you feel?”

“I feel like that time the that genlock cracked me over the head.” Alistair said, rubbing his temples.

He looked just as old, but less pale, and more like himself. His voice was sounding stronger and stronger by the minute. He didn’t seem to have any problems breathing that she could see. She handed him a glass of water, and his grip was strong, just like pulse.

“Did it work?” He asked.

“You’re not dead, but I’m not sure it took the Blight out of you.” Neria bit her lip. “I guess there’s one way to go see.”

“Fight some darkspawn?”

“Not now. As you can walk.”

It was a few days of Neria constantly checking his temperature, his demeanor, paranoid as ever and waiting obsessively for some sign that he wasn’t well which never came. When Alistair could walk, then run, then raise his sword and shield, they packed their bags with food and other supplies and headed down to the closest Deep Roads entrance that they could find.

Neria’s magic had grown stronger after being freed of the Circle, but it was her ability to sense the darkspawn that gave her an edge against them. And while if Alistair’s loss of that ability meant that her cure had worked, it almost meant...he lost that edge, and maybe crawling down into a darkspawn-filled tunnel with just the two of them might not have been the best idea.

They slipped inside the cave, finding themselves in a long stone corridor that reminded Neria of Orzammar, except it lacked political machinations and people trying to kill them for supporting the “wrong king.” No, down here, it was just...darkspawn.

And it was a few more minutes of silence before Neria could feel darkspawn shifting positions and coming near them.

“Can you feel that?” She asked.

“Feel what?”

Before she could exclaim that he couldn’t sense the darkspawn, she realized that no, he couldn’t sense darkspawn and she put up their barriers, and not a moment too soon. Soon, hemlocks and genlocks ambushed them, arrows flying past them and fireballs scorching the ground a few feet away from them.

Fortunately, Alistair, while ten years did make him older, they didn’t make him slower. Neria shielded them with her magic, and Alistair cut down a few with his sword, and raised his shield to block incoming blows.

“Cover me!” Neria shouted, running to get distance.

She could feel her hair start sticking up when static filled the air; clouds formed overhead, with ominous flashes of lighting, before bolts struck. Some hit the ground, leaving black marks, others hit the darkspawn, taking out a fraction of them.

Alistair cut down a few more, with either decapitations or his sword through the heart.

With enough darkspawn dead and the roads and walls stained black with their blood, Neria, hair mussed and splattered with innards, yelled, “Let’s go! We got what we needed!”

Alistair nodded, slipping his sword back into its sheath, and they made tracks in the dirt, and with enough distance between them and the survivors, Neria pressed her staff to the wall, and with some force magic, it caved, sending boulders down, and sealing the entrance.

Standing outside and trying to catch their breath, Neria’s smile hurt her own face. Alistair had barely gotten his footing when she threw her arms around him, kissing him with the same fervor as the first time.

“We did it! We did it!” She shrieked.

Alistair smiled, and laughed back, swinging her around well above his head. “You did it. I just helped.” and she would swear to any and all higher powers, for a moment there, she could see the years melt right off him, the lines fade from his face, and some of the sadness he carried fade. She felt like a great weight that had been crushing her was finally gone, and that hole in her soul was filled. It was like they were ten years younger, and in a world that hadn’t been determined to break them the moment they were born.

Alistair set her down, but her face was still flushed. Neria cleared her throat, trying to speak without screaming. “We have it. Our cure. Maybe this bring the Wardens back together.”

Alistair frowned. She knew how much he had idolized the Wardens, and seeing them being divided was tearing him upside. “Or at least call for a truce.”

“Solas is on the move in the Imperium, and he will destroy Thedas if he gets the chance.” And at this point, she’d put too much into this godsforaken world to let some wannabe deity come and end it because it didn’t suite him. “We need to make sure we don’t get thrown into a civil war, and then, we’re going down there to help the Inquisitor and whatever rag-tag group they’ve assembled now.”

“That bright, it is?” Alistair grimaced. “Nothing’s changed. It’s always just yesterday’s problems in new forms. So, we get some leeway into our own problems, and then march down to the Imperium to face more before some bald lunatic destroys us all?”

“That’s the sum of it.” She sighed, already feeling the aches in her back that would come from whatever occurred later. “Let’s get back. I need to put into writing what I want to say, but first, help anyone who’s close to their Calling.”

The walk back was hopeful, but heavy. They silently held each others hands, Alistair’s grip as tight as ever. She wondered what the others were doing; she’d have to get a hold of Zevran. They would need his skills in the upcoming battle. Wynne...Wynne was gone, but she left Neria her talents as a spirit healer. Sten was Arishok, and the Qunari had renewed their attacks on Tevinter, but if that kept Tevinter soldiers distracted while they focused on Solas…

Oghren was a fellow Warden, and she knew his time was coming. Leliana was Divine now, but the Chantry had its supporters, and Orlais had recovered, and they were owed favors in Ferelden.

She had to start thinking about a retirement. If cured of the Calling left one unable to serve as a Warden, and with no templars or Circles to worry about, perhaps the time to find some quaint place in the wilderness, far away from people, had come. After whatever was going down in Tevinter with Solas was solved. Because once again, failure was not an option, because failure meant the world being destroyed, and once again, she was going to fight to see the next day.

And now, that was retirement with Alistair. Sleeping in well into the mornings, a rushing river, catching their own food. Sitting in front of a warm, lit fireplace with the dogs at their feet every night…

But that would have to wait.

Once they had gotten back to Weisshaupt, Neria immediately went to her study. She got her ink and quill, and drafted a speech.

My fellow Wardens,

Since our conception as an order, we’ve been succumbing to the Calling, the fate every Grey Warden has suffered when the Blight takes us fully, and we must go to the Deep Roads to die with honor. But no more. My long-time companion Alistair and I have finally found a cure.

Made of high dragon blood, lyrium, and other components, we cured Alistair of the Blight. While this leaves him without his Warden capabilities, it also means that he will not die young, and neither must any Warden, ever again.

She stopped, putting her quill next to the paper. Maybe it was too soon to announce the cure; experiments meant having to watch for side effects, but it wasn’t just the lives she was saving that she was concerned about; it was also the oncoming conflict within their own order that had stirred since Adamant.

She sighed, and went to the next sheet of paper.

My fellow Wardens,

Ever since the events at Adamant, we’ve been splintering. What should our direction be? What place do we have in the world? Do we even have one anymore?

As the last one to slay the Archdemon, I can tell you that the world still needs us. Another Blight will arise eventually. Not in our lifetimes, but some day, and should the world forget again what we do for the people in it, next time, it will be far more devastating.

Alistair came over and slipped his hand over hers. “Neria, you have to rest. Any problems we have won’t get solved tonight.”  She knew he was right. The problems with the Wardens wouldn’t be solved in a few weeks, let alone a day or night. He kissed the side of her head. “Come get some sleep. Real sleep, not those two-hours-at-your-desk that you’ve been doing for the past how many months.”

Suddenly, she felt the lack of sleep catching up with her. She couldn’t lift her head, and then even her eyelids. Alistair picked her up in his arms, and carried her over to the bed that they had been sharing. Neria was asleep first, and she didn’t stir when he laid her across him, and pulled the blanket over them, finally getting a real night’s sleep.