#still a mage! playing with the idea of her having escaped the circle or never having been there in the first place

[thatwinglessthing]

Hii @dungeons-and-dragon-age hii

I couldn't resist the picrew :3

Alas..they're not perfect, Nayra isn't brunette but the orange was too...orange. And I didn't wanna do 'em all, so it's just the ones that tiest came to mind. :]

[quenthel]

ok since I started thinking back on my dragon age characters fondly lately I will talk about them at least just this once...

I didnt much develop my Hawke bc what the game gave me felt enough... just went ok yeah shes a bit more masc and tall... thatse it...

I made two wardens but the only one that matters is named Briell Surana. I originally made her an Amell bc I wanted her to be related to Hawke but then i scratched that idea but by then I got married to the blue eyes black hair look I specifically gave her so she kind of looks like default Hawke.

Her whole deal is that she thinks she is the best mage to ever live and she would never succumb to any temptation bc its all a skill issue. Gets mad at Jowan not bc he became a blood mage but bc he was a loser about it. I wanted her to escape the circle bc the Cullen thing creeped me out so badly i couldnt stop thinking abt it and all the implications of how templars treat mages... Tbh I didnt roleplay a lot back then w my choices so she was just making the cookie cutter "best" choices bc I didnt think too much abt the rp element of this game. But then Inqusition came out and I got obsessed w thinking abt what she would be up to and gave her this epic villain arc. Like she would become cruel after being a warden for so long and saving the world without much recognition... she is an elf and a mage and a warden so that probably weighed heavily on her esp since most of her friends either fucked off or forgot about her too... So I had this idea of ok maybe she shows up during that warden questline and she is like a bit out of it. Clearly she is an incredibly powerful mage and she uses blood magic to fight demons with demons but she has no regard for life and she is incredibly reckless. Only cares about Leliana (with whom she has a horrible strained relationship with... like think about what Louis and Lestat have in iwtv lol that type of shit but less intense). She hates Cullen tho and while he is still into her and remembers her fondly that image of her was never truly real and she never was as agreeable as he remembers etc... Her closest friend is like... Sten... and maybe some of the ppl from awakenings lol... ALSO bc I was mad that Morrigan was straight I imagined that she spend a lot of time helping to raise her son... and maybe something happens between them... And honestly I'm more invested in the Inquisiton era of her bc that was one of the first times while playing when i was really like okay... what would SHE do...

[lookbluesoup]

What was your inspiration for Lyhra's quirky personality? Which of your oc does she get along with the least? What about the most?

This is very convoluted and probably not as interesting to read about as it was to experience but here we go!

Lyrha wass…. tricky. I originally conceptualized her as a character to ship with X'rhun for spicy reasons (can you blame me???). But remained stumped for MONTHS on how to actually develop her, what she should be like in personality and how they would ultimately connect. She was just in the back of my mind slow cooking.

I briefly merged her with another very loose character idea I'd never developed from my wolf rp days. Named Illaria. Illaria did not have a design, but she had some (very) basic backstory bullet points - taken as a young child, manipulated by a powerful male figure who claimed to be showing her "the truth", bitter when she realized she'd been used. I wasn't confident I would keep any of those story beats, I still didn't relate them to her FFXIV self, but at least had something penciled in.

I decided to draw wolf Illaria. Because wolves are still easier for me to draw on account of having so many more years of practice with them. So she needed a design.

Now for those unfamiliar with cartoon animal story land, a lot of people on websites like deviantart will sell a whole bunch of designs lined up in rows on one big image. And sometimes they get silly names to tell them apart so you can avoid any confusion about which one you are trying to buy. That probably happens in other circles too, but I know it from animal rp land. Several years ago I'd bought a design from one of these sheets and thought, well, I haven't used this one before. It will do! It came from a set named after food. It was named "Popcorn Shrimp." Behold Lyrha as "Popcorn Shrimp:"

I shared the art with my FC and lamented my lack of any definitive progress. One of them was amused by the Popcorn Shrimp label. And then suggested I take inspiration from the name and make her a fisherman from Limsa Lominsa.

And me, liking my angst, went, why don't we take that a step further and say she was a pirate. A slaver, even. She can have a "shit, i have a conscience now" moment over the course of her Red Mage arc! Now we've got some drama!

That FC mate has an oc that was kidnapped from the Steppe as a child and sold into slavery. She escaped with the help of the Rogue's Guild in Limsa Lominsa. My character could be one of the ones that had captured her!

And me, liking my whump, thought - well, the Rogue's Guild could nearly manage to kill her in the raid. She could escape, be found wounded by X'rhun, and grabbed by fate against her will onto a better path. And Bam. There she was. I'lyrha developed pretty steadily from there, it all just kinda fell into place. Popcorn Shrimp.

A lot of her quirks then come from her background as a pirate/sailor, leaning into tropes like the superstitions, arrogance & greed, stubbornness, fiery spirit, flexible morals, a uh, high libido, in some form or another. While she's a serious character... I still want her to be entertaining, so I enjoy playing up the more extreme traits of hers.

The conflict between who she starts out as and who she eventually becomes also just provides a lot of opportunities for her to do things that don't quite make sense from a well-adjusted standpoint. She is incredibly smart, but she's a survivor of horrors. She comes from an upbringing that doesn't align with conventional thought (among Eorzeans). Her worldview is unique. She doesn't blend in, and for the most part she's ok with that. Lyrha definitely walks to the beat of her own drum.

And in that respect a lot of her starting traits are also meant to contrast or compliment X'rhun's personality. She's young and stormy, he's older and has self-control. She's jaded and self-centered, he's idealistic and charitable. They are both incredibly passionate.

In game X'rhun is... exuberant. He's pretty quirky, lets be honest. So it made sense that they should be kindred spirits, and that Lyrha should be equally capable of... exuberance. It's a way for her to connect with the Red Mage way of life. She's not a pirate anymore, but being a spunky little gremlin backflipping over an enemy and then setting them on fire suits her just as well.

As far as who she gets along with... most of them, actually! She's not BFFs with Nahte, but they meet through X'rhun and Alisaie. Lyrha never joins the Scions, but alongside X'rhun and Arya she does help them several times, especially at junctures in MSQ where, in game, you have to party up to clear a dungeon, trial, etc.

There are definitely other characters she doesn't vibe with, like the pirate captain who kidnapped her as a child, raised her for a few years as part of his crew, and then tried to sell her off when he got a high enough offer - though these belong to other people and aren't my ocs! As another bit of trivia, her and @seasaltandcopper s A'mahl had a one-night stand, years ago before they ever met their respective partners. He'd never been with a woman before. She hasn't let him live that down.

[edda-grenade]

Nature.

Adaar and her parents have a very serious debate about why Solas is… like that.

#feral verse, 1100 words. on AO3.

Adaar wasn’t sure what exactly Solas was—only that he definitely wasn’t an elf. Not fully, at least.

He sounded strange. Like an elf raised among the Dalish, but… off. Maybe he was originally from a far-off clan where they spoke with the lilt and affect he had, but she had never encountered it.

But then again: he didn’t have vallaslin, despite being more than old enough to wear them.

It could be that he had refused them for some reason, although she couldn’t imagine why. All the young Dalish she had known before and after they had received their vallaslin had seemed so happy and proud to bear them, even when their faces were still raw and sensitive from the markings.

Or he had never been offered vallaslin in the first place. That at least would explain why he didn’t appear to be on speaking terms with any Dalish. Adaar still cringed when she remembered the fight he’d gotten into with Lavellan’s First. And Keeper, and Hahren. At least they hadn’t decided to cut trade ties with her family’s settlement.

He wasn’t much better with city elves, the few times she’d managed to convince him to accompany her into the villages or, on one occasion, the town to the north. She had promised Iolain to fetch him the next time a Dalish clan made camp near their land again so he might join them, and Solas had watched the entire exchange like a man watching an execution. They can’t give him what he’s looking for, he had told her afterwards. All they do is play at being elves, like shadows of the real thing.

And what are you? she had asked, angry and baffled. Solas had given her a look of such abject sorrow it had stopped her right in her tracks.

A shadow of what I was.

So he acted like no elf on earth could be his people. And yet, sometimes, he said things like: My people used to, this place was sacred to my people, back when my people were—

He always caught himself rather quickly, and either ignored or avoided any follow-up questions she might pose. Which was infuriating, but also, horribly understandable…

Because Adaar had the feeling his people weren’t considered people by anyone else. The way he talked about spirits and demons, with a fond melancholy he usually reserved for tales of the ancient Arlathan…

“I don’t know,” said Reth, expression skeptical. “He definitely looks like an elf. And he’s a mage, who apparently didn’t learn in a Circle, or from a Keeper, or the Qun, or in Tevinter. I’m more curious who taught him magic than anything else.”

“That’s my point!” said Adaar. “What if he never learned magic because he didn’t have to?”

“I think he was a slave,” Ari said quietly. “From Tevinter. Probably manifested magic late, and then that presented an opportunity for escape.”

“He’s haunted enough for it,” agreed Reth. “It’s like looking into a mirror, sometimes. Terrible.” He shook himself and downed an impressive amount of the sweetshine they were sharing in one go.

“Leave some for the rest of us, kadan.” Ari swiped the bottle while Adaar folded her legs up on the bench.

“Fine, be boring and sensible,” she said, with two fingers pointed at Reth and Ari. “So Papa’s bet is he’s really just an elf mage, Tama’s bet is that but also a former slave—”

“I’m not going to bet on it,” Ari interjected. They drank a deep swig of sweetshine, then pushed it into Adaar’s hands. “I don’t actually want to be right on this. But I most likely am. Definitely more than any of you lot.”

“That’s depressing,” Adaar said with a grimace. She drank and passed the bottle to her mother. “I bet he’s an—not an abomination, like possessed, but something like it probably? An elf and some kind of spirit, fused together.”

“An old spirit,” Tehenan threw in.

“Oh yes, absolutely. The way he talks about ‘the old world’, it sounds like he was there for it, y’know? Like he’s seen it. Watched it all get sold up the coast.”

“My money’s on one of the Forgotten Ones,” Tehenan said with a grin. “Do you remember how pissed he was when Keeper Deshanna told the story of the Great Betrayal? That reeks of personal involvement.”

“Oof.” Adaar rested her chin in her hands, gaze unfocusing as she imagined what Solas might’ve looked like in the old days, before he got attached to his current shape. “That would be amazing.”

There was a soft lull as her parents’ gazes met among the table. Reth leaned his crossed arms on the table so he was at eye-level with his daughter.

“That doesn’t scare you?” he asked quietly. “The thought that you’re learning from someone who is—who is that old and strange and powerful? Whose nature is so alien?”

Adaar met his eyes. “Should it?”

“…No. You shouldn’t ever have to be afraid of anything.”

“I’m not.” She grinned. “Also, he has a really cute sneeze. I don’t think some creepy old god up to nefarious shit would sneeze like that. And—” she lunged all the way across the table to grab the sweetshine, “—if Solas was going to hurt me, he wouldn’t be teaching me all this magic, right? I can do so much more already.” She tapped the bottle, and frost bloomed along the glass from her fingertips. She set it down in mid-air and left it floating there, spinning lazily, drifting across the table. Ari’s posture shifted, tensed, and she listed against their shoulder, fumbling blindly for their hand, then squeezed it tight once she caught it.

“Don’t worry, I’ve got it. I’m not gonna make it explode or anything.”

“But you could, huh.” Reth’s eyes flashed from across the table.

“Sure. But that’d be a waste of perfectly good sweetshine, and it’s really not that hard. Not breaking stuff is a lot more complicated than, well, breaking it.”

Ari sighed, and squeezed her hand back. “You have no idea how true that is.” They relaxed, and rested their cheek against Adaar’s temple. “Can you heat it up again, Sunspot? It’s too late for cold sweetshine.”

“Yep, let me just…” Adaar curled her claws and forced warmth back into the bottle at a measured pace. And, because she wanted to show off a bit more, she pushed further than before until the glass was comfortably hot to the touch and the bottle sailed from hand to hand without ever touching the table.

“This is good, kiddo. We should have it like this more often.” Tehenan smacked her lips after the first sip of the now heated drink. “Do you think Forgotten Ones know how to make sweetshine?”

Adaar laughed. “No idea. But if he doesn’t, I’ll teach him how when we make the next batch.”

[yetanotherlesbianonthiswebsite]

The Ridge of Thedas

Did you play through Broken Circle and thought “yes, Bioware, you told me thrice now that I can choose to exterminate the mages, but where is my option to fireball the templars”?

Would you have preferred WEaWH to end with inquisition soldiers storming the Winter Palace, arresting the entire Orlesian nobility and handing Briala the resources to rebuild the Dalish Kingdom?

Do you think that Sera’s transphobic jokes and both the concept and execution of Brialene are, in fact, not the pinnacle of sapphic representation?

Do you wish to see BioWare’s obnoxious obsession with abusive sapphic couples replaced with my obnoxious obsession with softly supportive sapphic triads?

Do you want Briala to experience a non-toxic relationship with a couple of women who actually love and respect her?

Are you just as skeptical as Leliana regarding the question if Cullen has a soul?

Great! Me too! With zero experience in writing, I am trying to create a fanfiction around an anarchist transbian Surana where an alliance of queer rebellious mages, anti-feudalist Wardens and Dalish freedom fighters changes the canon timeline of Thedas from 9:31 onward. I’ve planned out the (hi)story until vaguely 9:50. Given that I’ve never done creative works of any kind by my own volition before, it is entirely too ambitious and chaotic, but it might still be partially enjoyable:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/29630508/chapters/72843495

Yes, all of my revolutionary OCs are very queer (except Matthian) and most are poly, yes, Imerati Surana is a shameless self-insert to a large degree, yes, she kisses both amazing women from canon and OCs. It’s called coping and escapism and I need every bit of it now.

 Ultimately, the hopefully existent good parts of my story are a love letter to @dalishious ‘ writing; Journey’s End is such a beautiful example of how one can (re)claim Thedas as a canvas to tell meaningful stories from a marginalized perspective. Please, if you haven’t, go read it. I had no inkling when I began to write that one day, I’d exchange actual messages of love with them.  I had no idea that my love for their art would spill into love for them, and I love them so much, and it is an indescribably beautiful blessing to be loved by them as well. Light of the sun, you are amazing.

 I’ve added content notes at the beginning of each chapter that aren’t obvious from the topic at hand (like, there’ll be violence, this is DA, but if a chapter is extraordinarily gory, say a military encounter or a murder scene, I’ve marked it as such). Now, I’ve tried my best to put in the research to navigate the canon coding of cultural groups in Thedas, and I’ve tried my best to avoid tropes. Yet, that doesn’t guarantee that I didn’t make major and minor mistakes in that portrayal and please feel free to call me out on them, should you want to invest the energy to do so (of course, it shouldn’t be the task of the marginalized to educate the privileged on the violence they are causing, but any feedback is appreciated!).

[kiivg]

.I decided to just go with my three heroes instead of like all my dragon age romances because I’ve got someone for Blackwall, Gaspard, and I’ve got a mind for someone with Dorian too. Then I’ve got a whole load of OC x OC as well, and trying to draw all of them would be time consuming. However! During drawing this, I realised that, technically, Andrastopher, Anders, Marcus, and Zevran, have all slept with one another. Whether that’s between two people or more just depends on when in the timeline haha…. ,’:)c.

.Anyway there’s some things about my Heroes and their love interests below :), thank you for asking! I’m always excited to talk about my OCs.

...

.Andrastopher and Zevran’s relationship starts out as quite a basic thing. Something that’s not talked about in camp or on any of their journeys, but everyone knows it’s happening. On Andrastopher’s side, it’s something to make him forget for a little while, something to take his mind of everything that’s happening to him. Zevran, after all, offers this to him as more of an incentive to keep him alive knowing that Andrastopher most likely will end up killing him. Something that Andrastopher wasn’t exactly quiet about, he did actually plan on presenting Zevran’s head to Arl Howe at some point.

.Of course, everything changes with the course of time. Fighting beside one another in such dangerous situations, it was bound to leave them closer than before. They save each other’s lives, they tend one another’s wounds, and one night, Andrastopher doesn’t slink back to his own tent with a satisfied hum in his belly and stays curled around the other man. There’s a tenderness that blooms between them both, and what was not talked about before, is shown more and more openly.

.Zevran, I think, falls in love with Andrastopher before Andrastopher falls in love with him. He’s too broken to glue himself back together long enough to even think about such a thing. It probably doesn’t help that Zevran had started off by complimenting him on his looks above anything else, and Andrastopher knows he’s a weird looking man; more of a curiosity than a crush to anyone who looks at him. Anything Zevran had said after that was taken with the knowledge that the man would be lying.

.By the end of the blight, something that Andrastopher had hoped to die in, he’d found a reason to live again. Completing Morrigan’s ritual was a risk to take, but one he did so willingly so he could waken next to Zevran another day. However odd their beginnings were, neither man was willing to see the other one gone.

.After the blight, Andrastopher struggles with everything he knows. There’s no place for him in the world, and he cannot hide in Zevran’s arms as if there is nothing wrong. He takes a year to himself, sacrificing himself to the Qun, accepting that he needed a restriction in being who he was meant to be. It was a hard time apart, but the reunion was a sweet one. Though time and work takes them apart for perhaps months at a time, they remain loyal to one another. They marry at some point, a small thing which really only included the pair themselves, a chantry Mother, and Oghren who was both amused and embarrassed about it all.

.To this day they remain together, and regrets have been spoken about how they had initially started out. Andrastopher knows he should have treated Zevran better, something the man has forgiven him for over and over throughout their years. 

...

.Marcus and Anders’ relationship was in-game the rivalmance because it’s so much more delicious than the basic romance. But, in my mind, it’s different.

.They start off butting heads in Kirkwall, Marcus needs Anders’ help, and Anders’ needs Marcus’ help. The idea of anything between them isn’t really on the table at the time since Marcus has been spending his time between Meeran’s legs more often than not. They both find each other insufferable for a variety of reasons; Marcus is egotistic, narcissistic,  overtly cocky, and spends most of his time either fighting or fucking or playing that ridiculous lute he won in the Hanged Man. Whilst Marcus thinks Anders’ fight has been blown to unrealistic proportions, and he’s championing something that can be overcome easily enough, the man has a hero complex that grates on his nerves. Marcus is a Fereldan apostate who lives freely, and he can’t understand why people don’t just escape from the circle; his father did easily enough.

.After the Deep Roads expedition, coming home after eating nothing but mushrooms and drinking rock water for weeks, just to return to Carver’s newfound templar job really makes him rethink his attitude in Kirkwall. Marcus becomes openly supportive of the Templars, he has no choice; Carver’s relation to a mage has him under valiant watch, and though money helps, Marcus has to be on his best behaviour. Being seen with Anders can only damage his reputation, but they had kissed in that foggy desperation in the Deep Roads, not that they’d spoken of it, but it remains a memory that tasted sweet despite their breath.

.Marcus spends most of his time in the Blooming Rose in the next few years, wealth and desire letting him flaunt his time in rented beds. Anders yet plays on his mind, pulling him back time after time whenever he hears the man needs his help. They fight and disagree, snapping with magic curling in their fingertips. Anders feels like Marcus is betraying the very core of himself; denying that he’s a mage in every positive song he sings of the Templars. He hates the man with an intensity that boils over in the need to return to that time in the Deep Roads; when mages and templars didn’t matter, and the once fat Fereldan apostate gave away his shares of tasteless fungi to the mage who knew how to heal wounds. They fight and kiss, biting at each other with teeth and nails, and it is Marcus who storms away; burning with confusion and singed footsteps, and awaiting a visitor at the end of the night.

.When things get particularly bad, Marcus gives in to Anders’ way of thinking, apologising for what they had been through over the years. He gives him a key to the Hawke estate. It’s a safe place to hide, a safe place to smuggle mages in and out. He warns him on Carver’s inclusion, Marcus can’t be seen helping; it would only come back upon his brother and he’s not willing to risk such a thing.

.Anders stops by the estate more and more, and the animosity between them settles into something of a comfort. The man is there when Leandra is killed, he is there to stop him from killing Merrill just a few nights after, he is there to drag him home from the Blooming Rose when he drinks too much to remember where he lives. Marcus knows he doesn’t deserve any of it, and he is selfish when he kisses Anders for the first time in years, selfish when he tries to drag him into bed, selfish when he asks him to stay the night. Marcus’ rise to Viscount is the only thing that keeps Anders safe, and is the only reason that Anders is able to be smuggled from Kirkwall after the explosion.

.It’s a year and a half before they see each other again. Justice has been calmed over the months, and Marcus’ attempts at keeping Kirkwall sane had slowly been overthrown by a group of zealots. A mage couldn’t hold position for any longer, and he had no choice but to flee. He’d spent six months building a home for himself in the ruins of Lothering, and he welcomes Anders with laughter and disbelief when he sees the man again. Years had passed since they had first met in Darktown, but seeing Marcus with a small herd and a weight settling in his gut, it’s the most real he’s ever been.

.They settle together, never intending for it to be permanent. But there is a loneliness that could only be combatted together, and when mages begin to find them it’s hard not to fall in love with one another when they work to rebuild what was once lost. A small village sprouts around them, mages seeking safety and succour found under the guidance of a heavy stranger named Conchobhar, and that taller fellow named Jarl.

...

.Goddard and Yetta’s relationship isn’t actually an in-game thing, since he’s seventy-one at the beginning of Inquisition, and like what options do I ever have apart from making him a sugar daddy (I missed a thing there for sure AH), so I gave him a wife called Yetta.

.Essentially, it’s an arranged marriage for them. Which begins terribly, because neither want to marry the other; Goddard is still holding out hope that he will find his first love again, and Yetta was betrothed to him since she was a child so she’s never had a choice. Their wedding is awkward, Goddard tries to convince his little brother, Milward, to take his place, and Yetta is caught trying to escape from the actual event. Goddard also turns up in Orlesian finery in an attempt to insult Yetta’s family and to remind them that he spent a good few years in bed with a chevalier. It works, but, the wedding still goes ahead, and they’re both miserably married by the end of the day.

.Despite his tactics, Goddard promises Yetta that he’d stay truthful to her regardless of whether or not they end up in bed together. And, in the beginning, neither of them wanted to. Goddard spends his nights sleeping on the floor, and there’s a more than obvious rumour floating around that they haven’t yet slept together. Despite all the pushes and shoves they receive; Goddard being pushed into Yetta’s room as she dresses for the day, Yetta being forced into the bathing chambers whilst Goddard is alone in there, conversations of sex being brought up at their meal times, and even being locked in their bedchamber for so long that Goddard ends up bum rushing the guards who bring them food at meal time.

.It’s not the best beginning, but there is a camaraderie that begins between them in their joint frustrations. Their attraction to one another begins in the written letters they send over the years. With Goddard working in Ferelden, and Yetta remaining in Ostwick, it’s the only way of communicating they have. And though it takes years, it’s hard to deny the way that their feelings grow each time Goddard gets some weeks away from the military.

.Together they have three children over the years, agreeing to stop trying after that due to Wakefield’s complicated birth. They remain happy together until this day, accepting a few blips over the years, and the rather gargantuan blunder of Goddard having an affair whilst incapacitated and presumed dead in Ferelden. Everything that is thrown at them is tackled head on and together, and it is obvious in almost everything that the do together, that their love grows ever stronger every minute they spent beside one another.

.TL:DR: all my heroes are happy and loved and alive :)c.

[strigital]

Do tell about Nim, I couldn’t find much info about her through your blog and I am dying to know more about this werewolf lady

well grab a pint and sit yo booty down, cause our bard of the evening tonight is Nim and she's drunk as all hell and ready to weave some outrageous stories!! 🍻

in all seriousness, thank you for asking! 😭💗 she came about back in ye oldie days of hype over the 11th of november 2011, and since then refuses to give up the title of my fav oc!!

now, a Paarthurnax would say: lets-a go!

a quick recap of the events in Skyrim:

Naali Saryn was born sometime in 4E 130 on mainland Morrowind as a result of a quick fling between an unknown Dunmer girl and Lucien Lachance and Kassandra Saryn's (The Hero of Kvatch's) son.

Sometime in that year, the baby was found aboard a ship bound for Raven Rock and when no one came forth to claim her a couple of elderly and childless ash yam farmers decided to take her in until her family was found.

The family, of course, was never found, and so they raised her as their own for the next sixteen years. They called the girl Nim - short, sweet, meaningless, and easy to shout out into the fields where the little brat is out adventuring when the house chores are yet to be done.

Nim grew up alongside her best friend Teldryn (don't believe his tales about his past, there's a reason why he wears a helmet in his hometown). For years the kids dreamt of leaving Raven Rock behind and making it big in the big city. And idea which really annoyed Nim's ol' Nana, who believed that everything needed for a simple happy life was right here on Solstheim.

After one particularly nasty fight with Nana about the ordeal, Nim gathered a bag of things and slipped out in the dead of night to catch an early morning ship with Teldryn.

They stuck together for a while then went on their separate merry ways. He - to Blacklight, she - to Leyawiin. Once in the wild, Nim had to quickly figure out her place in the pecking order. The romantic life of crime seemed to be the most attractive for her, but getting on top could never be easy. Especially for a young, inexperienced, and naive girlie. So she ended up running with the wrong kind of crew. Ended up in some truly dark places. Barely got out alive. Learned from her mistakes. Wore the scars of abuse like armor and made sure that since that day no one in this world or any other would play her for a fool, use her or put a finger on her without her permission.

By the time she turned fifty, Nim was well known amongst certain circles as the kind of scoundrel, thief, bard, and wench one should not trifle with. But her luck had to eventually run out, and so it did on the night of the fabled Umbacano Mansion heist, which failed so badly Nim had to either leave Cyrodiil or end up in a Thalmor owned torture chamber.

Skyrim seemed like a perfect place. After all, in a kingdom torn apart by the civil war, no one would even notice yet another greyskin refugee, right? Well, the Thalmor did. And so she ended up on a cart bound for Helgen to have a date with an executioner. But then Alduin showed up to crash the party before he himself got rudely interrupted by another dragon, who swooped in to save the Last Dragonborn.

After the narrow escape, Nim concluded her duty to warn Balgruuf of the dragon threat and went on to start a new career as a merc with the Companions. She and Aela became fast friends and when the prospect of joining the Circle came up she gladly accepted a sip of her new sister's blood. To never again be helpless and weak? To rip apart any fool who'd take her for just another elf wench who can't put up a fight? Well of course it was worth giving up the ability to sleep and having to get used to all smells suddenly becoming ten times worse!

After that Mirmulnir showed up and ended up as another ornament above the throne in the Dragonsreach. And Nim got stuck with a title which she would wear with great discontent for years to come.

Eventually, she ceased trying to run away and hide from her destiny, accepted her role as the Last Dragonborn, and begrudgingly began her quest to save the world. On her journey, she met and became tight friends with Yollokmir and Alasil who taught her how to speak, fight and fly like a dragon. With their help she inherited Konahrik's legacy: his mask embued with his soul, his citadel far up in the mountains - the NebenLok Zeikangaar - and the right to revive and lead the order of dragon riders sworn to defeat Alduin - DovahDein.

As she gained power and the word of her great many deeds spread across Skyrim, she managed to get quite the following of fellow men, mer, and Dov, willing to follow her into Sovngarde and beat the hell out of Alduin. Alas, she failed. Twice.

At that point, Alasil informed her of a special someone who might be of help in their quest against Alduin and who might prove difficult to convince to join her cause. That was the first time in fifty years that Nim got to visit her home. Unfortunately, Solstheim had changed. And upon arrival, she learned that her Pa passed onto the realm of Azura soon after her departure, and her Nana... well, she wasn't young anymore and suffered greatly due to all the ash ruining her lungs... and when the islanders got called to the All-Maker stones night after night by a mysterious spell, she just worked herself to death. That was the only thing Nim wouldn't forgive Miraak for, not until he swallowed his pride and sincerely apologized for being responsible for his potential mother-in-law's death.

And with Miraak's help, they finally sent Alduin back to his Maker, enjoyed a few peaceful years until High King Ulfric became a bit drunk on his power and needed a good ass whooping as well. Then Miraak suddenly found himself as the new king and Nim... she just did her own thing. As always. The end?

Oh and all the while running about, gathering forces, growing her Dragonborn powers, hunting Dragon Priests and Alduin's henchmen, she also meddled with the Thieves Guild, put Karliah in charge and became her right hand, managed to become an advisor on all things dragon at the Mage's College, ended up teaching lute and songwriting at the Bard's College (she's taking a break since Viarmo can't seem to handle her teaching tactics), earned the title of Thane in every hold and became a good friend to the Dawnguard fellas (Isran is more than happy to teach her kids the ropes of monster hunting) after kicking Harkon's ass into Oblivion. In what little free time she has Nim also manages the Lakeview Manor and leases the ash yam farm back in Raven Rock for some extra cash. All in all, a busy woman!

and some tidbits about the dovahmom:

Although Nim is perfectly aware of her real name, she chooses to use the one given to her by Nana. Both as a sign of respect and because, frankly, she dislikes both the Sarynes and the Lachances, who are, in her humble opinion, just a bunch of pricks. Somehow, the ghost of her murdered grandad finds this opinion of hers kinda funny.

Her friends sometimes describe her as "cyrodiilic brandy in a cup of tea": she's this small elf girl with pretty blue eyes and a smile on her face and you think that she'll be very pleasant and cute and shy and then... then you realize she drinks like a sailor, swears like one too, can beat anyone into the dirt (thanks, Hircine) and doesn't take shit from nobody. She openly speaks her mind and doesn't give a shit about what someone might think of her. She does what she considers the right thing to do, never plays nice with those she dislikes, never pretends to be someone she isn't. She's feisty, sassy, brassy, and, quite honestly, just doesn't give a fuck.

Nim is in almost complete control over her inner beast, partly thanks to her draconic blood, partly - to the ring she got when she and Sinding had that little party on a moonlit night in that grotto. She only loses control over herself when both moons are full and thusly will travel deep into the wilds a few days before the magical night. This way the only people that might get hurt are bandits, necromancers, hags, and the like. She and Aela also managed to get a small werewolf pack going, named the Whitemane Pack after the old man himself and dedicated to those who wish to take control over their inner beast, hunt with honor, and cause the Silver Hand as much grief as possible.

Nim is raising Blaise and Sofie as her own since they both were just wee lil' war orphans (the babes are in their teens now). She never quite really knew why... Nim was never a wifey nor a baby momma kind of woman. In fact, she can't even have children in the first place and, honestly, always thought of this as a blessing - never having to worry about contraception like all those other girls and just having fun without a care in the world! Her friends sometimes joke around, saying that she might've finally "ripened" for the motherhood, but she doesn't care. She loves Blaise, Sofie, and Sissel (thanks, Miraak, you're so good at kidnapping children!) and is content with being their famous Dragonborn mom. Post-Alduin Miraak, however, is secretly annoyed for not being able to get her pregnant. Oh well, the man can dream...

Oh yeah! Nim plays the lute and sings too! It's a skill she picked up across taverns all over the continent when she realized that bards get free drinks and a bed, as well as ample opportunity to sniff out and seduce prey. And even though her days of hunting for good-looking rich fools are long behind her, she still performs in inns and taverns across Skyrim. Firstly, it brings in a fair amount of money, and secondly, it's good for her Voice! And also just plain and simple fun.

Also, people get terribly surprised when she, a Dunmer, doesn't act like one at all! Nim might've grown up in Raven Rock, a Dunmer settlement, but she spent the rest of her life traveling the continent and then living in Skyrim. She's more Nord-ish than some Nords! And the Nords actually really love it! It's so so easy to just get plastered with the homegirl, punch some faces and pass out on a heap of hay behind the inn, just happy to be alive on this fine snowy day. The only truly Dunmer thing about her is the occasional "n'wah!" which escapes her potty mouth. I mean, she doesn't even like sujamma all that much and would rather have a pint of mead! Whatever Ancestors she has must be spinning in their graves fast enough to generate electricity.

uuuhhh I think that's all the important stuff? i might've forgotten, in which case, I'll add it later... meanwhile, have some more Nim content:

^^^ the fanfic is slow, but it's moving... at a snail's pace. my advice: don't expect updates, so that when they do come, you'll be pleasantly surprised!

[fairfaxleasee]

Happy Friday ^^ "Now, where were we? Oh yes, in the Pit of Despair." but it's actually a Bone Pit expedition with a party of your choice.

For @dadrunkwriting

Paring: Fenris/f!Hawke

Rated T (cannon-typical violence)

"Now, where were we? Oh yes, in the Pit of Despair." The mage sounded proud of his little joke. Too proud if the self-satisfied chuckle was any indication.

"You're not needed here, mage!" Fenris snarled in the man's direction.

He picked up his pace so he could walk even with Cassia Hawke. She was the only reason he'd come to this Maker-forsaken place (the mages that were tagging along with them weren't helping the ambiance, but even without them Fenris couldn't say he would be too happy to be back at the Bone Pit). He... liked being with Cassia, even when the setting and company left so much to be desired. And he thought that she just might like being with him, too. Cassia could be difficult to read - she wasn't overly expressive and was a bit hesitant in their interactions, but she did seem to be seeking him out more often than she had been. And he didn't think it was just because Aveline was busy preparing to take over as Guard Captain.

And the faintest smile that brightened her features and set her blue-grey eyes with amber rings sparking was why he thought she liked him accompanying her.

"Hi, Fenris." He wasn't sure whether she'd said the words or just mouthed them.

"Hawke." He could feel a smile twisting his own mouth in a gesture he'd almost forgotten how to make.

"Thank you... for coming."

"Yes, well, I can't say it was purely for your benefit. I enjoy following you."

-----------------------------------------------

Anders glared at the elf's back as he sped up to walk with Cassia. He had no idea why the man was so insistent on making him out to be the villain so he could play the hero for her. Or, well, maybe he understood exactly why Fenris kept doing that but that didn't mean he liked it at all.

What does she possibly see in him?

It didn't make any sense. Given what she must have seen of the way mages were treated from her father's and sister's experience, the woman's callous disregard for the elf's attitude (and treatment of mages in general) was totally incomprehensible. She could do so much good if Anders could only help her see it.

"Ugh, I know."

Anders turned to see Bethany, Cassia's younger sister, walking next to him. "I... Sorry?"

"Her and Fenris. Her whole life, she never looks twice at anyone and now she's decided she wants to have a crush on an angry fugitive who hates half her family. I wonder if this is her way of trying to get back at our father somehow."

"Cassia and your father didn't get along?"

"I..." Bethany frowned and looked away quickly. "I... probably shouldn't talk about it. Just forget I said anything, please."

"Okay..." Anders had no idea what to make of any of that, so he decided to try and re-direct the conversation in what could hopefully be a more fruitful direction. "So... any ideas on how to make her come to her senses?"

"Cassia?" Bethany smiled and shook her head. "No, Miss Logic can't be talked into, or out of, anything. Once she makes her mind up about something, or someone," Bethany glared ahead of them again, "It's made."

"'Miss Logic'?"

"Oh! Did I say that out loud? Please don't tell her I called her that. I shouldn't, but she's just so..."

"Cold?" Anders offered. Whenever he tried to talk to the woman it reminded him of that time he'd tried to escape the Circle naked in the middle of winter.

"Yes. It's just... hard, you know? Having a sister like that."

"I... no. I don't. I'm not even sure if I have any sisters - like that or not."

"Ah. Right..."

------------------------------------------------------

Fenris glared behind them at the mages whispering to each other. He turned back to Cassia, "Are you sure it's a good idea having them along?"

"Hm?" She glanced over her shoulder. "No. But I'm sick of Bethany complaining at me about 'leaving her behind' all the time. And there shouldn't be anything that dangerous here seeing as we routed the dragons last week."

"Hmm, those might be some famous last words, Hawke."

"Well what do you think Anders is here for? We won't have to outrun the dragons, just him."

"...I like the way you think, Ca-" He covered up his mistake with a cough.

"Fenris? Are you feeling alright?" She turned to look at him as she walked, but because she was facing him rather than where she was going, she put her foot on a loose stone and stumbled over the ledge they were walking along.

"Hawke!" He leaned over the ledge. Cassia was lying about 30 feet below him. Judging by the glint of metal stuck in the dirt wall, she'd tried to use her daggers to slow her fall. He just hoped she'd been successful enough.

"Don't move! I'm coming!" He attuned his tattoos so he could reach a hand into the dirt to control his fall (if they both ended up down there unable to move they'd need to rely on the mages for a rescue and Fenris did not like that plan at all).

She was just getting to her feet when he reached the bottom.

"Hawke! Are you alright?"

She winced as she moved her right arm - he could see the gash the dirt and stones had cut in it as she slid down the grade. "I mean this stings like a fucking bitch but it's not going to stop us getting out of here."

"Cassia!"

They looked up to see Bethany and Anders looking over the edge.

Her sister continued. "Hang on! I'll be down in a minute and-"

"NO!" Cassia cut Bethany off. "You and Anders stay up there - this was excavated deliberately, I can see the hand-holds. Fenris and I can climb out."

"I... are you sure?"

"Yes. Now if you want to help go find a rope or a ladder or something. It could help things go quicker!"

"I... alright. Anders, do you remember seeing-"

Fenris couldn't hear the end of Bethany's question, or Anders' response, but he was fine with that. He turned back to Cassia. "How can you tell this was excavated?"

"I can't. I just didn't want either of them thinking it would help things if they came down here with us. Two people stuck in a hole while the other two look for a way fucking out of the hole is a better situation than four people stuck in a hole." She ran her hand along the dirt wall. "But this is loosely packed and not sheer, so we could try to climb out if you don't want to wait around for them. But sliding down it isn't fun in case you were wondering."

He shook his head, "I'll take your word for it. I... think we could make the most of waiting."

She bit her lower lip and glanced away, "I-" She took a step away from him and brandished her unbroken dagger. "I think we should take care of them first."

Fenris turned to see a pack of dragonlings running towards them.

I hate this mine...

He unstrapped his broadsword and swung it at the nearest dragonling, cleaving it in two. He wasn't sure where Cassia had gone, that wasn't unusual - in battle she preferred to flit in and out to take advantage of openings and opportunities that most other fighters would miss. He focused on taking out as many of the beasts currently bearing down on them as possible.

Fortunately, dragonlings were a fairly minor threat (at least on their own, if an older dragon showed up he may have to be slightly concerned). Their biggest advantage was numbers, but Cassia was managing to pick them off from the edges while Fenris kept the majority of the pack busy. It wasn't long before they stopped coming. He turned to look for Cassia.

And raised his broadsword again at what he saw. The last of the dragonlings was falling dead before her, its neck sliced almost in half with a cut that traveled up the length, but Cassia wasn't holding a weapon that could have done it. And the thing's blood was dripping between her hands.

"Stay back, blood mage!" He spat at her. Something was constricting his chest. Making it hard to breathe.

She turned to look behind her, then up towards where Bethany and Anders had disappeared. "Fenris, I don't-"

"I said stay back!" He raised his sword to point it at her chest. He felt something stinging at the edges of his eyes.

"I-" she looked down at her hands. She opened her mouth in an 'Oh.' She looked back towards him and slowly shifted her hands out in front of her.

Now that they were level with each other, he could tell that the blood wasn't suspended there through some sort of magic, it was dripping from something that was strung between them.

"Catgut," she whispered.

"I..." he lowered the sword. "What?"

"Catgut. They use it for instruments. Its tensile strength is impressive, so when you have something like a dragonling with a large weak spot like the neck you can use it to cut through. Works better than a blade because you can string it all the way around - the more something resists or tries to break away, the deeper it bites. I keep some with me, you know, in case."

"I... 'm sorry."

She shook her head quickly, "No, it's fine. I didn't-"

"No. I'm sorry."

She looked like she wanted to say something, but they were interrupted by Bethany calling down to them, "Are you still down there? We found a ladder!"

"Um, yeah. Thanks Bethany." Cassia sounded a bit shaken to Fenris. He looked away - he was fairly certain it wasn't the dragonlings that had unnerved her. "There were some dragonlings down here. It's fine now, though."

Fenris wasn't sure he agreed with that last part, but there wasn't much he could do about it as he watched the ladder being lowered. Cassia tilted her head to indicate he should go up first.

He shook his head at her offer. "No, I'll make sure you get up okay." He reached out for her arm. Judging by her expression as he lifted it slightly to examine the gash, she'd forgotten she'd hurt it on her way down. "You should have Anders heal this when you get up there."

"I..." she looked away.

"It's fine, Hawke. I'll be right behind you."

She nodded and started up the ladder.

[officialleehadan]

Sailor Bold

Inspired by THIS SONG!

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“Hard to port!

Tallesen planted his feet and held the ship’s wheel steady as his crew swarmed over the deck of the Frostdane, expert and capable. He looked back over his shoulder and grinned. The wind was with them, the tides, dangerous and high at the whim of two and a half moons, were changing. The royal navy was good, but they weren’t good enough.

That, and the reefs would make wreckage of their ships if they were fool enough to try and keep the chase. He was cutting it close as he was, and the Frostdanewas high on the draught. She could handle shallower waters than the heavy iron-sides of the navy.

“Captain Swift, we’ve got spell-slingers!”

The call came from Orman, Tallesen’s first mate, right hand, and best friend. The slight man could climb anything, and didn’t look half so dangerous as he actually was. Tallesen had been maybe fifteen when he met the short, bald man, and they had been friends ever since. When Tallesen got his ship, Orman had stepped into place as if he had always been there.

“Shut them down! Mages!” Tallesen yelled over the shouts of his crew and heart the order echoed from many throats. His own mages ran for the back of the ship and linked hands. They weren’t as powerful as some, but they were better at their chosen tricks than any. “We’re cutting for high waters. Go silent!”

“Swift, are you sure?” Orman asked, steady as always despite his ever-present fidget. His eyes were on the cliffs that rose up around them as Tallesen guided the ship through the reefs towards waters that were even more dangerous yet. “The last time…”

“I almost got pulled overboard by the sirens, I know, I know,” Tallesen grumbled, but he didn’t change course. The royal ships might or might not clear the reefs, but it took more than clever sailing to get through the sirens who schooled in the island’s windward-side waters. “I’m not drunk this time, and we know the sirens are real. We need to loose the royal ships or they’ll blow us out of the water.”

“This is a bad idea.”

“You have a better one?”

“No. But I’m telling you now, so I can tell you I told you so later.”

“Fair enough. If I die, you can tell me you told me so.”

Orman rolled his eyes, but he fell silent. When their cabin-boy, Squeak, came past with wax, they both plugged their ears. Just in time, as they cleared the first of the reefs, and the wind filled with the sighs and whispers that made promises they didn’t intend to keep. Siren waters were always dangerous, and never more so than when there had been recent death on the deck of a ship. After a short, brutal battle with a royal convoy over a treasure beyond value, they were a tempting target.

They would just have to be fast enough to drag the royal ships into the trap, and escape it themselves.

All in a day’s work for a pirate ship that made a living stealing what no one else ever could.

It was harder to run a ship when the whole crew had their ears plugged, but hard was better than dead. If the sirens took their ship, there would be no survivors.

The edge of siren waters was subtle, but Tallesen felt the air go cold all of a sudden, as if a cloud had passed over the sun. The wind picked up, but the steady northern breeze suddenly seemed to come from everywhere, fickle and flirtatious. He kept one eye on the waters and the high cliffs around them. The sirens could climb, and liked to leap from the cliffs when they got the chance. The crew could fight a few, but not more than that.

Fortunately, the Frostdane had a few tricks of her own, and he trusted his ship more than he trusted any living being.

At his touch, white magic shot along the rails and spread downward until the whole ship was covered in gleaming frost. The ice quickly grew upwards into jagged, razor-sharp spikes that wove themselves together in a dome over the ship’s deck. It wasn’t impervious, but the sharp edges of the ice would buy them a few precious moments in a battle.

Gleaming scales circled them, just far enough down that he couldn’t make out their true shapes. Sirens were tricky like that. They took whatever form was most tempting for their prey, but no one ever got a good look at them unless theyallowed it. The ship shuddered under his hands. Tallesen let out a soundless breath, glad that he sent the ice from the rails down as well as up. The armor below decks would slow them, but it was better than the sirens ripping the hull apart.

All at once, the sirens were gone, and the waters around them were still but for the gentle waves. A few minutes more, and they were through the gap between the islands, and he nodded to Orman. Deadly as they were, the sirens didn’t like deep water. If they hadn’t gotten aboard already, they weren’t going to.

The sound of a scream, high and reedy, carried over the water. Tallesen turned, worried for his crew. Instead, it was the first of the royal ships, a powerful lady with thick steel on her hull, and four towering masts. He didn’t know how such a heavy ship made it through the reefs, but made it through she had.

If the screaming was any indication, she wouldn’t be making it through the sirens.

Orman’s hand landed on his shoulder, and Tallesen held their heading, glad and sickened at the same time. He pulled his spyglass out and turned his sights on the ship, which was beginning to list already. Sirens fell from the cliffs, light as thistledown, and gleaming silver like raindrops, to splash aboard the ship’s deck.

The screams, Tallesen knew, would be the sailors who were captured by song and smile, only to find claws beneath.

He didn’t wait to see what happened next. Once was enough to leave his nightmares cowering. He didn’t need to add to them.

“Full sail,” he commanded through a mouth suddenly gone dry. “Leave the sirens to their play. We got what we came for. The Moon Guide Compass is ours!”

The crew of the Frostdane cheered, and Tallesen tried not to hear the distant screams of the ship behind him as they sailed for the open sea beyond.

+++

More Stories!

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[thedinanshiral]

My personal DA4 wishlist + thoughts

I’ve been teasing this post for a couple of weeks over at Twitter, i’m the worst! But anyway, since game journalism has decided to confirm, once again, that the next Dragon Age game will be set in Tevinter like that’s breaking news, now’s as good a time as ever to write all this down.

Locations: Tevinter, clearly. It’s been pretty much a given since the end of Trespasser in 2015, with that scene where the Inquisitor stabs a map on a table directly on Tevinter as they promise to go after Solas to stop him. But also concept art and several stories from Tevinter Nights heavily imply Antiva, Nevarra, the Anderfells, and maybe Rivain. For those of you who don’t know your Thedosian Geography 101, that’s basically Northern Thedas. And it makes sense, since so far for three games straight we’ve been first stuck in Ferelden, then the coast of the Free Marches, and later the rest of Southern Thedas. We’ve never been North, only heard of it. So in DA4 i’m sure we will finally be able to visit.

Characters: If we’re going to Tevinter, we must meet Dorian again, maybe meet Maevaris Tilani as well (previously only seen in comics), judging from the latest comics series, i’m hoping for Fenris too. And going by the latest teaser trailer, we might see Varric again. As for characters that so far we have no news of, i’d like to see Cole, the Iron Bull, and if by any chance BioWare feels like blessing us with a Hawke/Fenris reunion i might just die happy.  I’d also very much like to see the Inquisitor, but more on that later.

Companions: considering concept art and the latest teaser trailer, plus Tevinter Nights stories and new characters, we have an interesting repertoire of new potential companions. A Tevinter mage, an ancient elf (like a temple guardian) or a dalish elf (like Strife), a Nevarran mortalitasi or spirit, Antivan Crows, Lords of Fortune (new faction, kind of like treasure hunters), Qunari lady, maybe an alchemist or shapeshifter, Grey Wardens (possibly a dwarf), a liberated or escaped slave, a Siccari (Tevinter spies/assassins)..even past agents of the Inquisition could return. 

Plot: We know Solas wants to take down the Veil. We know there’s two archdemons left, and Grey Wardens are regaining some spotlight in concept art lately. We might have to fight on multiple fronts simultaneously and be strategic about it. Solas might even unleash a double Blight just to keep us distracted while he focus on his own goal, who knows. But many other things are happenig in the margins and all over the place. The Qunari Antaam is having a crisis with some of its members supposedly going rogue, the order they’re so proud of is breaking up, and the whole of Northern Thedas is facing an imminent threat of invasion. Tevinter is still dealing with remnants of the Venatori and might soon be dealing with a slaves rebellion and/or a political and social reform (Magisters Dorian and Maeveris have been working wirh the Lucerni, a group aiming to restore and redeem Tevinter). The Antivan Crows -the de facto rulers of Antiva - may be dealing with a succession crisis, as their First Talon, a powerful feared and respected but old lady, might not be around for much longer and seems her chosen heir has died before his time. Meanwhile in the Anderfells nobody’s heard anything from the Grey Wardens’ HQ at Weisshaupt since the end of Inquisition, and as told in the novel Last Flight, the sudden reappearance of griffons may have had something to do with that radio silence. So you see, get ready for another +100 hours long game because BW has plenty of stuff to keep us busy with. But in short, DA4 seems will be about primarily searching, finding, and dealing with Solas. Regardless of what you decided at the Exalted Council in Trespasser, the Inquisition or what’s left of it is most likely the group orchestrating that mission. As it was so clearly stated then, they need new people Solas doesn’t know so he can’t foresee their actions, so it’s possible the DA4 protagonist is a new agent or a third party hired to do what the Inner circle can’t due to their familiarity with Solas in the past. But at the same time -and this is assuming we get to find Solas in this game - i definitely think the Inquisitor could easily show up again. No, losing an arm doens’t mean they’ve retired forever, prosthetics do exist in Thedas, a world where you can combine dwarven craftmanship with enchantments, seriously, i don’t ever want to hear “but they lost an arm” ever again as an excuse to write them out. And no, marrying Cullen or joining the Red Jennys is no impediment to join the “Stop Solas” Squad; the end of Trespasser means something, mainly that this is personal. Be it they loved them as lovers, as friends or ended up hating his guts for using and betraying them, the Inquisitor’s relationship with Solas makes this very personal, and so having any other character do that face off would cheapen all of it, all that bittersweet angsty development and expectations of either revenge or closure. That moment should happen between those two. It adds a ton of motivation due to their past historyas well, something a new protagonist would lack entirely.  My personal best hope is for a sort of dual protagonist thing, say we play new protagonist for most of the game but a selected missions or scenes where we play as the Inquisitor once again and take over for key and heart-wrenching dialogue options. My second best hope is for the Inquisitor to show up as playable for the moment we catch up with Solas. My third and final best hope is for the inquisitor to be a sort of advisor but more like new protagonist’s boss/employer to whom they report back to and get new missions from. The Inquisitor can be stuck in meetings for the most part of it, i just want to know they’re there, behind a door, super busy but there. A cameo like Hawke’s in Inquisition is the bare miminum i can take, anyhting less than that like a mention in a sidequest description or a footnote in a codex entry would be a total  injustice. 

Romances: I’m open for pretty much anything, as any good BW fan would be. But i’d like romances to feel more alive in the sense that they don’t abruptly get stuck once you exhaust all related quests and dialogue options. As much as my Adaar liked that spank from the Iron Bull, that it was the only thing they could share after their romance was locked was a bit..meh. I liked Dorian’s tho, because his gave one the option to talk a bit, go for a walk, gossip, and sure, it all happened off-screen, and there were limited possibilities, but it was nice and made their relationship feel a bit more real, like they had more to it than kissing and stuff. It happens in most games, once you secure a romanceable companion suddenly you run out of things to do and share with them, and you get stuck with the same 3 lines of dialogue over and over again. There should be a way of solving that.

Side quests: i’m ok with fetch quests initially as it is a good way of forcing the player to go out and explore huge maps, but i’d also like the fetching to have some meaning other than checking things off a list. I want to explore many ruins, and -can’t believe i’m actually saying this- i want a Fade quest. Wait! I know what you’re thinking but don’t kill me just yet, here’s my idea: what if we could visit the Fade at certain locations to witness memories or meet with spirits and recollect information on Solas, his past, his present? Both to understand him better (keep in mind we’ll most likely get a new protagonist who isn’t familiar with him like we are as players) and try to locate him or predict his next move. It would be i think i great way of having visions of Arlathan in its golden age, maybe seeing some of the other Evanuris, how they interacted with each other and with the elves in their service, what really happened ...i just want that sweet, sweet lore, i need it.

Technical stuff: ok, graphics will be amazing for sure, but i also would really really like: better, more varied and longer hairstyles, PLEASE. Body sliders, it’s damn time we get them. Mounts that actually make a difference! Let staves blades make damage in combat, I’M BEGGING HERE. Combined classes, MAGICAL ROGUES! A homebase we can fix up/build on/redecorate as fully as possible (Skyhold was great and i love it to pieces but why were those walls NEVER repaired????) . More casual outfit options, idk i love to dress up my characters, maybe some transmog? A day/night cycle and please i would love to see Thedas’ second moon, also weather variations depending on the region. Yes, i’m ambitious.

Gameplay: i’d like more AI options for companions, but not quite like in DAO, that was too much and i rarely used it. I’m curious how they’ll do combat this time but i know for sure i don’t want the kind of combat that has me going almost frame by frame pausing at every second, it’s annoying for me. I want large areas like in DAI but with a bit more stuff to see and do although one of my favourite maps is the Hissing Wastes so i won’t complain if we get a literal desert but i’d also like it to have secrets hidden around, make me work to find and solve them, i love exploring, i jump and click on EVERYTHING like i’m still a kid playing Monkey Island. A companion in concept art seems to be holding what looks like some form of rifle, so i’m curious how they’d incorporate that in the game. I know Tevinter has the magics and dwarves have the skill, a firearm is totally within the possibilities in-game without breaking any lore; also super curious what sort of skill trees Crows or Lords of Fortune could have, are they rogues, or warriors, or both??

So far, that’s what i got in my head.Well, most of it anyways, i may have missed something but this post has to end somewhere lol

What’s in your head? Feel free to share! Have you been thinking on how you’ll create your next protagonist? All i can think of is magical rogues and that  glowing bow was all the hype i needed.

[littlemisslol-fic]

Summary: Two years after the events of Barviel Keep, Varian has tried to adapt to the expectations brought by being a King’s Ward, with mixed results. Haunted by ghosts, Varian is forced to face the demons he tried to leave behind in Bayangor when his abdication is forcibly stopped by a third party, out for revenge against the Bayan Royal bloodline. On the run, with few allies left to turn to, Varian finds himself chasing a ghost through a series of tests that only a true heir of Demanitus could ever hope to pass.But the shadows are ever present, looming and dark, and not everything is as simple as it might seem.

Notes: Big finale time! Part one of a two-part ending!

They’d taken the Der Sonne. Rapunzel scowled at the warship, the thing looming over the horizon. It made her sick to think of her father’s flagship, the crowning jewel of the Coronian navy, stolen and used by their enemies. She couldn’t keep the scowl off her face as she sailed the Oracle closer to the massive stern side of the ship; their little boat was dwarfed by the Der Sonne in a way that was almost comical.

The early hour ended up being their biggest advantage. Eugene had doused all the lights on board the second they’d taken sail, the Oracle becoming a smudge of ink against navy sky. It would be difficult to see them coming from the deck of the massive warship, made even worse by the storm beginning to brew above.

Rapunzel shuddered in the harsh wind, her short hair flying in the cold breeze. Eugene stood to her left, his face set in a grim mask as they got closer. Ruddiger was curled around his shoulders, the raccoon looking glum; without his human, the animal had quickly lost his spark.

The Der Sonne looked like a looming beast, ready to devour them if they got too close; Rapunzel scowled and turned the wheel gently, bringing them as close to the warship as they dared. The waves were rough. If they moored too close the Oracle would get slammed against the Der Sonne and surely torn to shreds.

“He’ll probably be in the brig,” Eugene murmured. “I can’t see them keeping him anywhere else, not if they want him to actually stay there.”

Rapunzel sighed, remembering Corona’s inability to keep Varian in a cell in their own dungeons, or the boy’s stories of escape attempts from Barviel Keep. As much as she didn’t like to think about it, Varian had proven hard to keep a hold of, no matter who was the one trying to keep him in.

“He’s got a knack for it,” she admitted. “But we’ll be there if he needs backup.”

Eugene looked troubled, looking up at the massive ship. They were in her shadow, covered by darkness. It made Rapunzel nervous, to be so out in the open with enemies so close. If she strained, she could hear Merrick and his men hooting and hollering on the deck high above.

“Do you think he’s okay?” she asked. She wasn’t sure if she was looking for an honest answer or pleasant placations; she wasn’t sure which would be better. Eugene didn’t seem to be in the mood to lie.

“When we find him,” he said, “We’ll have to be ready for the worst.”

“What do you mean?” Rapunzel asked. She felt a tendril of dread curl around her heart. What did he mean? That wasn’t what she needed to hear right now--

“I mean, we don’t know what state he’ll be in,” Eugene admitted. “Merrick needs him alive, sure, but we’ve seen what the guy can do. Just… be ready. It might not be pretty.”

“He’s going to be fine,” Rapunzel said firmly. “He just needs m— us. Needs us. We need to get him out of here.”

Eugene seemed to have caught her slip, his face souring slightly. “What he needs, is for us to trust him.”

“I do!”

“Do you?”

Rapunzel paused. Did she?

“Of course I do.” The fib tasted bitter. “I just want what’s best for him.”

“And if that’s what’s not what you think it is?”

Rapunzel blinked, confused. “Where is this coming from? Of course I know—”

“He still wants to leave, after this.” It felt like a punch to the gut, but Eugene didn’t seem to care. “And I think we should let him.”

“What? We can’t… he’ll get hurt, out there!”

“But it’s what he wants.”

“He doesn’t know what he wants.” Rapunzel’s grip on the steering wheel got tighter. “He’s emotional, right now, and he needs to be somewhere we can keep him safe.”

“Isn’t that what Gothel always told you?” Eugene’s face wasn’t angry, but for how much his words cut Rapunzel, he might as well have been. How could he say that? It was different; she wasn’t sure how, but it was. Eugene seemed to have seen something play across her face. He started to backtrack.

“Sunshine, you need to—”

“I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”

Eugene blinked, taken aback. The guilty feeling nagging at Rapunzel’s thoughts only got worse when she saw his reaction, but she couldn’t help it. She needed Varian to be somewhere safe, somewhere she could keep an eye on him. It was rude of her to shut down Eugene like that, and she knew it, but she couldn’t deal with this right now. Not with the mounting danger.

“Rapunzel.” She turned to look at Eugene, who wouldn’t meet her eye. “Do you want him safe for him, or do you want him safe for you?”

The princess reeled, shaking her head. She opened her mouth to argue more, only for her husband to cut her off with a gentle movement.

“You need to trust him,” the man said. “Or at least give him more credit. Varian’s a smart kid, and he’s stronger than you think. We have to let him spread his wings eventually.”

With that, hopped down from the steering platform of the Oracle, not giving her time to reply. Rapunzel stewed as Eugene crept close to the gap between the ships, poking at a closed window on the side of the Der Sonne. He was talking nonsense; Eugene must have been chatting with Varian and swayed onto the teenager’s side. Varian could be very convincing, when he wanted to be, and obviously Eugene had been tricked into following the boy’s terrible idea. She sighed, pinching at her nose.

Eugene didn’t seem to pick up on his wife’s mood, working at the lock. Within seconds he had the porthole open, the small circle big enough for them to shimmy through. Eugene gently plucked Ruddiger from his shoulders, putting the critter down on a nearby crate.

“Best you stay here, bud,” he told the sleepy animal. “This is one adventure you might want to sit out.”

Ruddiger didn’t seem to want to argue, instead opting to roll over and curling up in a miserable ball of fur. Eugene frowned, giving the raccoon one more scratch behind the ears.

Rapunzel hopped down as well, not meeting her husband’s eye. Something in her felt defensive; she was right to want her brother safe, she didn’t understand why Eugene was suddenly against her on this. Varian was a given, he’d never been one to be ordered around, but she’d expected her husband to side with her. He wanted to protect Varian just as much as she did, she knew it, so why—

“We should get in there,” Eugene said, jabbing a thumb at the open window. “We don’t have much time before the sun comes up; they’ll see the Oracle.”

“Right.” Rapunzel smoothed out the folds of her dress. Priorities. “Right, of course.”

She braced herself on the porthole, stepping up and carefully maneuvering herself aboard the Der Sonne. The princess took a deep breath. They had to find Varian. She turned, helping Eugene through with a steady hand. Rapunzel tucked away the feelings of guilt, the creeping wrongness that had begun to take over her thoughts, and elected to ignore them.

They could deal with the rest later.

>>><<<

Varian found himself pacing. He felt like a caged animal, the iron bars of the brig taunting him. It was claustrophobic, the walls pressing in on him from all directions. He had to get out of the brig— had to track down that staff, had to get back to his friends, had to see if they were…

Well.

He had a hell of a to-do list, to say the least. Varian grit his teeth. One thing at a time. The Staff still had to be on board, there was no way that Merrick would let it out of his sight. Varian still wasn’t entirely sure what it did— but that didn’t really matter. If Merrick wanted it, was willing to go to such extremes to get it, then it stood to reason that the best thing to do would be to steal it back before the mage could do too much damage with it.

Varian couldn’t help but feel responsible. He was the idiot who’d been tricked, he was the one who’d been forced into opening the coffin with almost hilarious ease. It wasn’t entirely his fault— but he knew he was smarter than this. He’d been so caught up in the possibility of finding Aisha, of seeing her… he’d left any sense of logic behind. Eugene had seen it, so had Rapunzel. Varian hadn’t, and obviously that had gone fantastic for him.

Varian cast a wry glance over to the cell door, a bitter taste thick in his mouth at the sight of it. Step one was to get loose again; he’d blown his first shot, but Varian knew he was nothing if not a crafty little shit. He’d find a way out if he had to. Then the Staff. Then his family. Then, hopefully, a nap. He’d been awake since early yesterday morning, and it was certainly starting to wear at him. His everything was hurting by this point, from the top of his head down to his aching, bruised feet. The alchemist sighed, kicking idly at the floorboards under him.

“What to do,” he mumbled to himself. “C’mon genius, think.”

The darkness was starting to leak away, he could see through a window on the far side of the brig. He hadn’t noticed it before, it being so late that the porthole might as well have been another part of the wall— but in the early hour, he could see the beginnings of a dull grey sky. The sun would be up soon. Hopefully with more light to work with, he could figure something out.

Varian let himself pace again, the three-meter square cell not offering much else. He needed a plan. The Staff would be near wherever Merrick was; it would be tricky to grab it without getting spotted. He might have to make a detour, see if he can’t knock out one of the Bayans and steal their uniform to be able to move around the ship without drawing attention.

The boy looked down at himself, sighing. Quirin’s cloak was nearly in tatters, covered in cobwebs and dirt and dust. His formal clothes, long since rumpled and ruined in a way that would make Nigel pop a blood vessel, were almost grey instead of the blue they’d started as. Frederic and Arianna had only packed them one change of clothes each; Varian regretted swapping back to the formal wear on the Oracle the day before. He hadn’t expected to be grave robbing and getting kidnapped (again) or he would have worn something easier to run in.

Varian knew he stuck out like a sore thumb. If— when— he got out, he’d need to change. Which meant incapacitating a soldier or finding a spare uniform. He grimaced. That could be dealt with after he got out. He was thinking too far ahead.

The door at the end of the cell block started to rattle.

Varian nearly jumped out of his skin, the boy backing up and pressing his back against the wall. Gods did he wish for anything to defend himself with. A sword, a knife, hell, he’d even take a fire poker at this point. The wooden planks of the wall dug into his spine, pressing into his skin like a thousand descending hands. He shuddered, focusing as the door cracked open.

Lamplight streamed into the brig. Varian winced at the sudden change, pain spiking through his aching head; he threw a hand up to cover his eyes from the bright light. He slammed his eyes shut, trying to block it out and calm the pounding headache. Thus, the voice that rang through the brig took him by total surprise.

“Varian?”

“Rapunzel?!”

Blue eyes snapped open in shock, blinking away the spots and catching sight of a blur of purple standing at the end of the hall.

“Varian!” Rapunzel sprinted toward his cell, her hands wrapping around the iron bars in an almost manic frenzy. “Thank the Sun, are you okay?”

“Been better,” he said, truthfully. The bruise on his cheek stung something horrible, now that he was talking. Varian blinked as Eugene appeared behind the princess, lock pick already at the ready.

“Hey kid,” he greeted, “Good to see you.”

Varian huffed his way through a laugh, stepping back as Eugene cracked the door open. “I think that’s a new record,” the boy said, nodding toward the lock. “You’re getting too good at breaking out of jail cells.”

“Eh, I’m a man of many talents,” Eugene shrugged. When Varian stepped out of the cell, the man tilted his head and pointed to his cheek. “Ouch, goggles,” he said. “That’s a hell of a shiner.”

“A shin— Varian!” Rapunzel gasped as she saw what was probably a developing bruise. Varian winced when she grabbed at his face, forcing him to look to the side as she inspected the injury. It stung, her fingers poking and prodding. “What happened?” Her voice was hoarse, like she’d been yelling. It plucked at Varian's already frayed nerves, especially considering the situation they’d been separated in.

“I’m fine,” he said, firmly pushing at her hands until she let him go. He took a step back, nearly back into the cell in an attempt for space. “I’m fine,” he repeated when her face soured. “I’ve had worse. I pushed too far and Merrick—”

“He’s dead,” she spat, not waiting for him to even finish. The phrasing shocked Varian; he hadn’t thought she had it in her. He noticed how the grip on her frying pan was snow white. “He’s done enough damage for today. We need to get out of here, get you somewhere safe—”

Varian blinked, taken by surprise when she reached over and grabbed his wrist, starting to tug him behind her.

“Wait—” he started to say, only to lose his voice with a harder pull. “Wa—”

“Uh, sunshine,” Eugene’s voice was nearly lost behind them. “I think Varian’s trying to say something.”

“We’ll get back to the ship,” Rapunzel muttered, probably not even noticing she was speaking out loud. “We’ll sail back home if we have to, back to where it’s safe, we just have to get to the boat.”

“Rapunzel!” Varian snapped, yanking his hand from her grip. She whirled around, stunned. Her green eyes were blown wide, her mouth slightly open. Varian huffed, nervously smoothing out non-existent creases in his cloak. “I can’t go yet,” he admitted. He almost backed off when her face darkened. Almost.

“The Staff,” is all he said in explanation. “We can’t leave it here, not with Merrick. Whatever he wants it for, it can’t be good.”

Rapunzel looked like she was going to be sick. “Okay,” she nodded, a surprise. “But you go back to the Oracle, Eugene and I will get it.” There it was.

“Splitting up isn’t exactly a good idea,” Eugene cut in, bless his heart. “If all three of us are looking, we can find it faster.”

Rapunzel’s face seemed to twitch, but it was obvious she knew she wasn’t winning this. Her face flittered through multiple expressions—anger, sadness, frustration, until finally, resignation—but when neither Varian nor Eugene backed down she bit the inside of her cheek. She nodded, rough and jerky.

“We’ll be quick,” Varian tried to placate her, “Just a little detour.”

She sucked in a long breath through her nose. Varian winced, instinctively rubbing at his wrists. Gods his arm smarted, too, the stitches Eugene had made only days before had definitely torn a bit. Something in him demanded he keep his distance, trying for space even if she refused to give it. He wanted to wilt, to shrink away, and it took a very conscious effort to keep himself from fully retreating. Rapunzel shook her head at long last, letting the breath out as a long sigh.

“Just promise me you’ll stay close,” she finally sighed. Rapunzel turned to Eugene, overlooking Varian. “Where do we start?”

Eugene blinked, obviously befuddled. It was obvious that he had no idea, though it wasn’t like any of them really did.

“It’s got to be around here somewhere,” Varian said, his hands idly twisting together as he thought. “Wherever Merrick is, that’s where it would be.”

“We heard him,” Eugene cut in, “Outside. I think he was on the deck. I’m not sure if he’s still out there, not with the storm.”

“It’s still a good spot to check.” Varian nodded, gently worming past his sister and starting for the door. They had to be running out of time before Merrick sent someone to check on him. Varian’s cheek stung at the reminder. He heard gentle footfalls behind him. His friends, following closely. It was a balm to his anxious heart, having his family together again. Varian felt something almost like confidence at the sound. His friends were here, they could do this, together.

Hopefully.

>>><<<

The storm was getting worse.

The Der Sonne rocked back and forth in the pounding surf; if Varian didn’t have a stomach of steel from a lifetime of being his own crash test dummy, he’d certainly be sick. It was rhythmic, like a countdown. A stopwatch.

Tick, tick.

There was a thrumming energy in the ship. Eugene and Rapunzel hadn’t seemed to pick up on it, as they moved through the underbelly of the warship, but Varian could feel it. Like a fishhook in his stomach, it pulled at him impatiently, luring him toward whatever was on the other side. It was the same feeling he’d had when he’d held the Novis Staff, that connection. Varian had never been one for magic… but he was willing to bet that this was something more arcane in nature.

A crack of lightning lit up from outside; the row of portholes on the side of the hall they were sneaking through cast bright circles of white light across the corridor in front of them for only a second, before it was snuffed out. Almost immediately after, a crack of thunder rattled through the air. Varian felt it deep in his chest, the gunshot rumble echoing in his ear long after the noise had ended. The Der Sonne gave another sickening lurch— rougher now.

The storm was growing more violent.

Varian paused when they reached a final staircase. They needed to get up there, the tugging in his chest was only getting stronger the closer to the deck they got— but something in him hesitated. They hadn’t seen any of the Bayans, not a one since they left the brig. It felt too easy. Much too easy for one of their adventures, at least. The last time things had gone this well, Varian had ended up with a snake growing out of his head. Nah, this was suspicious.

And he wasn’t about to get caught in another blindside.

“Is this the only way to the deck?” he asked, looking at Eugene. If anyone was going to hopefully know the layout of a navy ship, it would be the captain of the guard. Eugene blinked, thinking, before nodding his head.

“It is,” he answered, “Unless you want to climb over the side.”

Bad idea. They’d probably get tossed into the sea. Varian winced at the thought, the sound of roaring waves unmissable outside, pounding surf and shrieking winds spelling certain death for anyone who was in the water.

“Alright,” he sighed. “I don’t suppose you guys managed to grab any alchemy supplies on the way in?”

Rapunzel shook her head. “We’ll just have to be sneaky,” she said, as if it were that simple.

Even Eugene winced, tapping his foot. “There can’t be too many left,” he mused. “I only counted ten on the deck when we were getting close, plus the twenty that—” he looked down, as if suddenly remembering that Varian was right in front of him. “That were in the tomb and didn’t do so well.”

Varian couldn’t help but feel a little shocked, extrapolating why Eugene had cut himself off. “So… only ten?” he asked, trying to smooth over the sudden awkward silence that had taken hold of Eugene’s tongue. The man nodded.

“Only ten. Plus metal-arm.”

Not great odds.

But they’d faced worse. Ten versus one wasn’t impossible, but it would definitely be a difficult morning to say the least. Their numbers were low—at least they had a shot.

Another crack of lightning illuminated the ship. The rolling thunder was louder still, enough that the glass inserts on the portholes began to rattle. Varian sucked in air through his teeth— they weren’t getting any younger, here, and they had to make a move. He moved up the first step, ready to just get this over with, when he was stopped by a hand that nearly dwarfed his own.

Eugene looked nervous, and rightly so. Varian tilted his head in silent question, arching a brow when the man tugged his knife and scabbard from his belt.

“Here,” he said, “Just in case.”

It was the same blade Varian had used to cut his hand to get into Geldam’s tomb. “Are you sure?” he asked, holding it gently. It was one of Edmund’s, he knew. It wasn’t something Eugene would just give away, let alone in a scenario where he might not get it back. Was he sure?

“Sure,” Eugene shrugged, like it didn’t mean anything. “Better safe than sorry.”

“Are you sure that’s—” Rapunzel started.

“Yep,” Eugene said, flatly. The princess pouted a little bit, obviously unhappy at being outvoted. Eugene didn’t seem to want to budge. At least someone was willing to let Varian take care of himself.

Varian decided to bite his tongue, opting instead to clip the knife’s cover to his own belt, letting it rest. It wouldn’t do much in a fight but having it still did wonders for soothing Varian’s frayed nerves. At least he could maybe stab someone before they all got murdered. The alchemist turned from his friends, continuing up the stairs and up to a massive door that stood at the very top.

With a deep breath he cracked it open, peering out onto the deck. He was immediately greeted with a face full of rain and seawater, forcing him to close his eyes with a splutter. Varian nearly let the door slam but caught it at the last second with frantic hands. He rubbed the water from his face, holding tight to the doorknob to keep the oak door from flying open in the harsh winds.

He took another, more cautious, look outside, grimacing at what he saw.

The Bayans had indeed congregated on the deck of the Der Sonne. Varian counted nine, though he knew number ten could be running around elsewhere. On the very end of the ship, near the bow, stood Merrick, his coat flaring out in the wind, an ink stain on grey canvas. Varian grimaced at the flash of silver in his hand.

Bingo.

“How’s it looking, goggles?” Eugene whispered, inching up behind Varian and peeking over his head. The teenager grimaced, looking back to his friends.

“Good news or bad news?” he asked them.

“Good news,” Rapunzel said, at the exact same time Eugene said, “Bad news.”

Varian snorted. “Good news is I found the Staff. Bad news is I also found Merrick.”

Both of them winced; Rapunzel looked like she’d eaten a lemon. Varian looked back to their enemy, watching as Merrick fiddled with the Staff. The mage seemed confused, a fact that was only highlighted when Merrick began to gently smack the Staff off the railing of the ship. Varian could hear the angry ting of silver on copper from their vantage point and winced.

“I don’t think he knows how to use it,” the boy mused. They might have a chance, after all.

“That’s good,” Eugene said, nodding.

“But it’s also only a matter of time before he figures it out.” Varian said, pointedly. Eugene paused.

“That’s bad.”

The boy nodded, wincing when Merrick threw the Staff in the air, flipping it and catching it with a flourish. The Bayans clapped, laughing. Varian rolled his eyes with a scoff. Drama queens, all of them. Almost bad as everyone back home.

Eugene was still looking over his shoulder, Rapunzel behind him. “Alright, what’s the plan?” he asked.

Varian bit the inside of his cheek. “Get the staff, and go home,” he said flatly. When both adults shot him a look, he pouted. “I’m making this up as I go along!”

Eugene sighed. “If the two of you can hold off the grunts, I can make a break for our friend over there. I’ll grab the stick, we jump off the back, and swim for the Oracle. Then, we get the hell out of dodge.”

Rapunzel and Varian both nodded in tandem. “Leave it to us,” she said. Varian could see she already had her pan out and ready. He tapped his fingers on the doorknob, looking around one final time. He didn’t see much in the way of weapons, but that didn’t make them any less of a threat.

The Der Sonne gave another sickening roll. None of the Bayans seemed to notice, too caught up in their leader’s little show to care. If there was a time to strike, it was—

“Now!” he yelled, throwing the door open and making a run for it. He heard Rapunzel and Eugene moving behind him, but his focus was entirely on the crew in front. Ten total, five for him and five for Rapunzel. All of them had jumped when he yelled, which was exactly the point; if they were surprised, they’d react slower.

Rapunzel let out a fierce cry, her pan swinging in a wide arc and slamming into the stomach of one of the soldiers. They went down with a grunt, wheezing as they clung to their abused torso. They didn’t move again, curling up on the deck. Varian winced, remembering a time he’d gotten the wrong end of that pan, but quickly added to his mental tally.

Nine to go.

Varian managed to weave around grasping hands, content to play bait. He was easily faster than them, his lack of armor and smaller size making it easy to avoid them as he danced away. The boy caught sight of Eugene trying to get to Merrick, but his way was blocked by two more soldiers. His sword flashed as the man parried their attacks, a streak of silver against the dark wood of the Der Sonne.

Rapunzel had taken care of three more, while they’d been busy, meaning—

Six left. They could do this.

Varian swerved away from another solider, a woman with dark red hair, and ducked down, sliding under her grabbing hands, and popping up behind her. With a cracking cry he turned, bringing up a foot and managing to kick her in the back, right in the center of the spine. She yelped, thrown off balance and toppling forward. She fell over a set of crates that had been on deck, her yelling cut short when her head slammed against one of the corners.

“Sorry!” Varian winced, “Sorry, sorry, sorry—”

Five.

He was startled by another shout, this one from Rapunzel. She was fighting against a larger man, the brute holding a massive hammer. She cried out as he swung at her. Varian saw red, his feet moving before he could even think; with a screech he ran clean across the deck, jumping onto the unaware man’s back and wrapping spindly arms around his neck.

“Varian!” Rapunzel shouted. He couldn’t really hear her, however, as the large man began to swing around, lifting tree trunk sized arms back to try and grab the boy latched onto him. Varian held tight, but gods he was going to be sick from the spinning— he dug his grip in harder, trying to choke the man unsuccessfully.

“Get off you little shit!” the man screamed, trying and failing to get a hold of Varian.

They flipped around once more before Rapunzel finally managed to get an in. With a great crack she brought her pan down on the man’s skull. Varian felt the way he shook on the impact, the man dropping to the deck. The alchemist only just managed to let go, letting the man fall. The boy huffed for breath, shaking out his aching arms. That had been… unorthodox, but effective. Interesting. He looked across the deck again, taking a head count.

Four left. He nearly laughed, relieved, but suddenly was confronted with a face full of angry princess.

“Varian, what are you doing?” Rapunzel demanded, “You could have been hurt— that was reckless!”

He felt a drop of anger at her tone. “I was saving you!” he snapped, “You could say thanks, you know?!”

She threw her hands up, frustrated, but before she could inevitably start to tear into him again there was a massive cracking noise of broken air. A shock wave pulsed across the deck of the ship, sending them all falling over. Varian landed roughly on the wooden slats, instinctively covering his head. He heard Rapunzel scream, and peeked over his arms to see her flip ass over teakettle across the polished surface. Anything not nailed down, people included, were tossed around like children’s toys, some of them nearly taking the plunge into the inky depths of the ocean below.

Varian winced, looking frantically toward the bow of the Der Sonne. Merrick stood there, openly laughing as he held the Novis Staff above his head. The crystal shone a bright orange, sending out rhythmic pulses of light into the sky above. The storm, violent before, picked up in intensity, rattling the very bones in Varian’s chest. He gripped onto the slick deck, trying to keep himself still as another pulse of energy flew from the staff. The wind tousled his hair, sending it into Varian’s face and slapping him with the rain. Varian winced, peering through the storm with watery eyes to catch sight of his enemy.

Merrick looked plenty pleased with himself, waving the Staff in triumph. “Uh oh,” he shouted over the wind, a fake whine in his voice. “Guess I was able to figure it out without you, huh?!”

Varian scowled. Enough was enough— he was putting a stop to this. He pushed himself to his feet, aching arms shaking under the effort; his left hand felt slick in his glove…. Ah. The stitches on his arm had given up the ghost at last. His sleeve was stained a bright red, the fresh blood mixing with rain and seawater. Quirin’s cloak was a mess, the red staining the fabric and turning ashy blue a deep maroon.

Varian tried to steady himself, only to be thrown to the side by a particularly rough wave hitting the Der Sonne at the side. He heard the others, Bayan and Coronian alike, scream as they were tossed. He hit the deck once more, pain from the jagged cut in his arm lacing up his nerves. Varian grunted, blinking away salt and sea; he focused on Merrick, who stood tall and proud at the bow of the ship as if he didn’t even notice the rolling waves.

There was a bright flash of light, flickering for just a second. Varian screamed as his eyes slammed shut, the intensity of the glow making his eyes burn. Immediately after was a massive boom of thunder, along with a cracking sound of snapping wood, like breaking bone. He blinked away the spots, catching the last vestiges of the mast bursting into a thousand pieces.

He yelped, rolling out of the way of a massive chunk of wood that fell to the deck. The others did the same, various screams filling the air as the mast of the Der Sonne exploded into flaming, pointy shrapnel. The lightning had been quick, like a burst of bright sunlight, but the thunder had nearly popped his ears. The rolling noise of it rang in Varian’s skull and made all other sound muffled.

The ship below them began to rumble. Varian could feel it with how his spine was pressed to the deck. His teeth chattered in his mouth, rattling in his skull; the mast of the Der Sonne had crumbled, spewing flaming shrapnel across the entire deck. The alchemist could see a massive, charred hole left in its wake, punching down to the very heart of the ship. The rumbling was getting worse, coming from where the mast had once stood. If Varian listened closely, he swore he could hear…

Water.

Lots of water, rushing into the belly of the ship.

Wonderful.

Varian pushed himself up again. It seemed he’d been forgotten, in the chaos. Eugene somehow still standing, was caught up in fighting the last of the Bayan forces. Rapunzel was getting to her feet behind Varian. The Der Sonne was properly on fire now, and from the sounds of it, flooding. The ship was certainly going down.

But Varian himself had a clear shot to Merrick.

And to the Staff.

He was moving before he could think, rolling to his feet and stumbling with the creaking of the floorboards. Varian grit his teeth. He could end this, he had to end this; he may have hated his family history, but that didn’t make burying his head in the sand an option. He’d unburied all of those festering emotions at long last, the ones he’d buried and left to rot at the behest of everyone around him— but enough was enough.

He was done running.

A thin hand caught his wrist before he could make a break for it, holding him back, like a shackle. He turned, blue eyes meeting devastated green. The world around them seemed to slow, everything pausing.

“Don’t,” Rapunzel pleaded with him. Her face was tear soaked and pale. “Please, let me protect you.”

Varian’s world narrowed down to where her hand was on his skin. He stared at her, silent. Unresisting.

Stagnant.

She was looking at him like he was a priceless vase about to topple. The widening eyes, the drawn face, the dawning horror of the incoming loss of something precious; all of it pointed to her inability to let him fall. Varian felt the world begin to spin again, the rain and wind fading into the forefront in the light of his sister’s desperation.

But something in him, the trauma, the fear, the anger, something… it refused to be shoved back down. Not for her. Not for anyone. The bandage had been ripped off. The wound was open, the cancer exposed. Whether she liked it or not, he was stepping toward somewhere she might not be able to follow. He caught her eye, twisted his hand… and finally, he was free.

Her eyes widened with dismay, her grip getting stronger for just a second more before he tore himself from it. Varian heard her scream for him, his wrist slipping from her grip with the aid of his own dripping blood. Rapunzel yelled for him again, her wailing voice lost to the wind as Varian turned and sprinted toward the bow, leaving her firmly behind.

Something in him hurt, hearing the pain in her voice… but he had to do this. Had to fix his mistakes, back in the tomb, had to fix the problems his bloodline had brought to those around him. This was a step, a crucial one, to finally moving on. At least, he hoped.

Merrick was still at the bow, swinging the Staff like one would a baseball bat. The mage was cackling, looking up to the brewing storm with glee. His back was turned— good.

Varian’s feet thudded against the slick surface of the deck, nearly slipping once or twice against the rain. His boots weren’t the greatest for this, curse every fancy tailor under the sun; but he quickly ran through the gaps between Eugene and the Bayans, leaving them all behind. The boy deftly vaulted over flaming wreckage, weaving through the destruction of the Der Sonne as if it were a walk in the fields of Old Corona.

“Kid?!” He heard Eugene shout, horror obvious in the man’s voice, but Varian didn’t dare stop. Not now, not while he was so close. Merrick loomed a mere few meters away, back still turned; the mage was confident in his victory. Idiot.

Varian prided himself on being a problem solver, a smart guy, if science could fix an issue, he would figure out how. He was a man of knowledge, of academics. Typically, all his problems could be solved with wit and enough creativity.

But sometimes all you needed was to tackle someone to the ground.

With a scream Varian threw himself at Merrick’s undefended back, launching himself with brutal precision at the other teenager. Merrick’s voice went shrill with shock as Varian slammed into him, sending both of them toppling to the ground. Varian landed with a grunt, catching himself with his hands and wincing at a fiery ache that ran up his arms from his wrist at the impact.

The Staff clattered to the deck, swirling away from both teenagers. Varian was on his feet first, scrambling for the Staff with all the grace of a fish on dry land. Merrick was up a second later, managing to shove Varian back down as he passed. Varian yelped when he fell, rolling with the shove and stumbling after Merrick with a scowl.

The mage shifted; Varian could see the start of a spacial jump happening—but when Merrick tried it, he only managed a few feet before popping back into reality with a crack.

“Godsdamned rain!” Merrick snarled, stumbling from the failed teleport, and running for the Staff on foot.

Rain. Water. A fitting weakness for a fire based mage.

Merrick reached the Staff first, scooping it up with a snarl. Varian was right behind him, grabbing at it as well. They pulled at it, neither willing to give ground, yanking it back and forth like toddlers over a toy.

“Let it go!” Merrick snapped, “It’s mine!”

“You stole it!” Varian’s voice was nearly carried away by the wind. “It’s too dangerous, we have to put it back!”

Merrick’s expression darkened, pulling the Staff toward himself roughly. “It’s mine!” he repeated, “My destiny, my revenge, mine!”

“Will you cut it out with the revenge shit!” Varian pulled the Staff back, ignoring how the silver seemed to buzz under his hands. “This is stupid! It’s all stupid! Can’t you see we have bigger problems right now?”

Merrick looked ready to kill, letting go with one hand to swipe at Varian. The boy ducked out the way, catching an opening. With the same movement he thrust out one of his feet, catching Merrick right in the knee with the heel of his foot. Even above the rain he could hear the crunch of an unhappy joint, a bloodthirsty grin appearing when Merrick yowled in pain.

The hands holding the Staff fell away, Varian nearly falling on his ass without the force to pull against. He rolled, a good few feet away from his downed enemy. The alchemist forced himself to breathe, clutching the Staff tightly to his chest. He felt like a child holding a toy, gasping for air and flat on his back. He’d had the wind firmly knocked out of him— the boy was stunned, lying on the deck like a freshly caught fish.

The silver hummed in Varian’s hands, that tugging feeling in his bones finally stopping now that he had it once again. The cold was even worse now, like holding ice against bare skin. A burning cold that turned his fingers numb; Varian winced as his grip tightened on it. He managed to roll onto his knees, coughing roughly from the harsh landing. “Bullshit,” he whined, “Absolute bullshit.” Merrick, nearby, was doing much of the same, the older teenager wheezing in the rain.

Varian stumbled to his feet once again, already sick of being knocked to the deck. The Novis Staff continued to send out energy, a rhythm of pure magic that shot through the air. It was like holding something alive, conscious. Like holding a beating heart in the palm of his hand.

Varian looked for his friends, catching sight of them through the smoking wreckage of the mast. The Der Sonne was listing now, slightly, but still listing. She had truly begun to sink; they had to get off the warship and onto the Oracle if they wanted any chance of getting to safety. He was cut off from them, the fire spreading across the deck and consuming the upper levels. Varian swallowed thickly, catching sight of his friends’ terrified faces.

“Varian!” Rapunzel called. Her voice was reedy, nearly swallowed by the sounds of crackling fire and rushing water below. Eugene was by her side, the man scanning for any way to get around the flames. There wasn’t one. Varian knew this. He’d looked. He saw the exact second Eugene realized this, the man’s face dawning in abject horror.

Something in Varian clicked.

“You’ve gotta go!” Varian called, shooing them away like it would do anything. “I’ll meet you there!”

“Not happening!” Eugene was the one to shake his head. “We’ll get you— shit, kid watch out!”

Varian twisted, ducking down and narrowly missing the slice of a sword over his head. He yelped, scrambling away as Merrick loomed over him. The man looked nearly demonic, hair astray with a wild look in his eye. A river of blood was falling from a cut on his cheek, ruby against the grey sky. He didn’t speak, swinging his sword down to try and slice at Varian again.

The boy twisted away, Quirin’s cloak flaring out behind him. He caught sight of his panicking friends through the wreckage, the two of them trying to find a weak point in the fire that didn’t exist. The Der Sonne was listing more now, nearly enough for Varian to start slipping. She was going to split in two at this rate, her weakened center surely pushed to the very limit. She was going down and would take them all with her.

Unless someone forced their hand.

“Go!” He shouted at them again, turning his back on his friends. He rushed at Merrick, reeling the staff back like one would a bat, but at the last second before impact he instead let himself jump down into a slide, the listing angle of the ship and the slick wood of the deck helping him to skid under his enemy’s sweeping sword. Merrick let out an indignant noise at being swerved again, but Varian wasn’t paying attention to that, instead opting to sprint for the weakened center of the ship.

The Staff hummed in his hands, a buzzing power that he could feel from the tips of his fingers to the soles of his feet. It wanted to detonate, like a chemical reaction in a stopped bottle. The pressure of magic was building, pushing at the edges of the corporeal world with the vigor of a caged animal. Aldred’s machine had felt the same.

He skid to a stop, a flurry of water kicking up under his boots. Rapunzel and Eugene were yelling for him, their voices loud in the background, but Varian paid them no notice. He had a plan. Not a good plan, mind you, but a plan. He held the Staff high above his head, waiting for a split second. His breath heaved, choking, cloying smoke filling his lungs.

He had a choice, here. Either his friends would wait for him to try and get across the flames, something they obviously didn’t have the time to do, or…

Varian could force their hand.

The Der Sonne was weakened already by the lightning strike, all it would take was one final push and she would crack in half like a Fabergé egg. And Varian had always been one to push things to their limits, hadn’t he?

Merrick stood across from him. The mage’s eyes widened at the sight of Varian holding the Staff high, obviously seeing what Varian intended to do. He was slowly inching forward, trying not to spook Varian into acting, but it was a lie and they both knew it. Merrick was very much a predator on the prowl, stalking someone he thought was weaker than him until he thought he could get the upper hand. It wouldn’t work.

Not this time.

“You won’t let this die?” Varian asked, something in him smug at the way Merrick’s toxic green eyes flicked between Varian and the staff, like he was holding a grenade with the pin out. The taste of Merrick’s fear was delicious, seeing how cautious his enemy was being. Good. That’ll teach him.

“You know that this goes beyond us,” Merrick tried to argue, still inching forward. Varian scoffed, raising the Staff above his head by another inch and grinning when the man in front of him flinched. “It’s bigger than us. The feud started ages ago; you think you can just stop it? After all the blood?”

“It might be,” Varian admitted. It was-- bigger than them, that is. Countless years of history, of pain and blood and suffering, all boiled down to the two last members of the families facing off on a sinking ship in the middle of the ocean. How poetic, that they would both go down, together. Varian was done living in denial. When he next spoke, it was with a strength he thought he’d lost, those days in Barviel Keep. Things may have started a millennia ago…

“But it ends with me.”

He brought the staff down onto the shattered remains of the Der Sonne. The crack it made of silver against wood echoed much louder than it should have, accompanied by yet another massive pulse of energy, stronger than any before. Varian’s ears rang with it, all noise fading out into a high-pitched squeal. The deck below him gave one more violent shake, a bright light flaring out from where the base of the Staff was embedded in the wood.

It was almost too bright, pure white lines reaching out like spider’s webs from where Varian stood. The alchemist shouted, the metal in his hands so cold it felt like the very air around him would freeze—

Then, with the groaning of an ancient beast, the Der Sonne shuddered one last time.

The light faded out, leaving a perfect slice straight through the deck of the ship. Varian watched in awe as the Der Sonne began to shift, cleanly sliced in half from top to bottom. The teenager stumbled back as the two sides began to separate, grinding against each other in a scream of shattering wood and cracked glass. The listing became extreme, so much so that Varian was forced to grab onto what was left of the mast— he caught sight of a few of the Bayans falling over the railing and plummeting into the raging waters below.

Eugene and Rapunzel were clinging to the railing on the higher side of their half, Eugene holding tight while shielding Rapunzel in his arms. They looked no worse for wear, but as the stern half of the ship fully separated from the bow he could see how they were being forced into moving. Good. Exactly as planned.

He ripped the Staff from where it had stabbed into the deck, lifting it up once more and turning to where Merrick was holding tightly to a rope. The bow half of the Der Sonne was nearly at a eighty-degree angle list, their half almost perfectly on her side. The railing… well, it was below them now, already long since sunken under the rough waves.

Their flaming piece of wreckage, for the Der Sonne had long since stopped being worthy of being called a ship, was going down, quicker than the stern half. Varian winced as his fingers began to ache, a swooping feeling developing in his stomach as the floor finally fell out from under him and the wreck turned completely on its side. Water rushed over the railing, the wreckage under him bobbing in the waves like a cork.

He… may not have thought this through.

But as he caught sight of Rapunzel and Eugene being forced to leave the deck, rushing for where they’d moored the Oracle, he felt a surge of relief. Surely they had some crackpot scheme at the ready, but they were safe; he’d finally made sure his family wouldn’t go down with him. His heart was beating fast, so loud in his ears he didn’t hear what they were shouting… but as they vanished around a corner, Varian breathed easy for the first time since he’d been brought aboard.

He clung to the last of the mast, managing to get his feet under him as he awkwardly climbed on top. It was parallel to the sea, one foothold now that the deck was nothing more than a slippery slope into the ocean beyond. Merrick, nearby, had dug his metal hand into the wood, holding himself high by one arm and holding tight. Varian was forced to back up as much as he could as the mage swiped at him, trying to snatch the Novis Staff.

Varian nearly dropped the stupid thing. Ironic, considering the hell it had caused. Merrick swiped again, this time managing to maneuver himself onto the little piece of mast. It was only two meters long, offering no distance for Varian to scuttle away or hide; but as he faced his enemy, someone who had once terrified him… he didn’t feel that fear. Instead, he could only feel… regret, maybe? That things had gotten so out of hand, that he’d been drawn back to the sordid family history he’d tried so hard to leave behind.

He was so tired.

There was another burst of lighting. Both teenagers yelped as it hit near the top of the bow, an explosion of light and sound that violently tore the worlds to shreds in mere milliseconds. Varian felt himself stumble, his feet unable to get purchase—

He toppled, dropping off the mast and falling the nearly twenty feet into the water.

Varian saw a flash of ink fall past him— Merrick, also dropping from the wreckage— and heard a splash. A split second later he felt a ruthless slam on his own back, the ice-cold water below feeling more like concrete with how hard he hit it. He instinctively opened his mouth to scream, coughing as saltwater rushed in instead of air. He was choking, drowning— he couldn’t tell what way was up, he was sinking— he tried to blink away the water, fruitlessly trying to force his hands into a paddle. The salt burned, his eyes, the cuts on his hands and arm, a burn that had somehow happened in the scramble. His skin felt like it was on fire, the sting worming in and sinking deep.

The Novis Staff was still in his locked in grip, his hands tensing in primal fear and unable to let go as he sluggishly kicked and flailed. There was debris everywhere, shadows that played across his blurry vision and made everything that much more disorienting. He felt something solid smack into his back— a board? A barrel? He couldn’t even tell— and screamed again, water rushing in to fill his aching lungs.

Varian’s vision began to go spotty. He began to feel a stabbing pain in his eyes and ears, pressure from his aching lungs demanding he do something, swim—

His limbs were almost lethargic. Like he was trying to swim through molasses. His chest convulsed, trying to force a breath; he inhaled more water, the salt of it clear on his tongue. He turned the direction he hoped was up, blearily reaching his hand toward the red orange of flames above. If… if he could just get to the surface…

Another convulsion had him breathing in more water. Spots filled his vision, the panic fully settled in. He was going to die here. He’d never get home. He was going to sink to the bottom of the ocean, just like his mother had. How poetic.

He tried one last kick, weak and ineffectual. He was sinking, limp hand still reaching for the sky. The light from the flames got dimmer as he got further away, unwillingly descending into the depths. His eyes burned, from the saltwater or from tears, he’d never truly know.

He’d never fix things with his sister.

Varian’s vision began to dim, then darken. He was paralyzed, unable to twitch so much as a finger. Maybe… maybe this was the end. He’d been looking for it, after all. And it was quiet, here. Dark. Almost peaceful. There were worse places to sleep. He blinked one last time, slow. His eyelids felt so heavy… He was so tired… Varian closed his eyes for a final time, and let the ocean claim him.

Maybe now, he would have his ending.

>>><<<

The first surprise was that Varian wasn’t dead.

Or, at least, he didn’t think he was dead. Not yet anyways. He could feel solid stone under his back, cold and unyielding. It leeched the warmth from his skin, but the chill was blissful on Varian’s pounding skull. He winced, trying to ignore the bright light coming from beyond his eyelids. Had he slept in again? Why hadn’t Rapunzel woken him up…?

He cracked an eye open. The room beyond was familiar. Not one he’d seen in nearly two years, but one he knew well from his nightmares. From the lofty, arching ceilings, to the solid marble floors, it was exactly as he’d last seen it, the day he’d help burn it to the ground.

The Hall of Portraits was as immaculate as ever, every golden frame polished to perfection and shining in the dim sunlight coming in from the domed skylight. Varian opened his eyes fully, wincing as he sat up. The headache disappeared as quickly as it had started, and the ache that had followed him for the past week was long gone. He felt like he’d slept a hundred years, groggy but rejuvenated all the same.

“Maybe I am dead,” he whispered to himself. The vague impressions of the last week filtered through his head, Pincosta, Ori, Geldam’s tomb. The sinking of the Der Sonne. His family, escaping at the last second. Varian, sinking. Oh, gods maybe he was actually dead. Just his luck to wind up back here for his eternal hell.

He stood, scanning the room. It had been years, but he still remembered the Hall like it was yesterday. Like he was still in that tower, hidden away like a precious artifact. Varian shuddered, looking for one of the exits, only to find that the walls had somehow extended to cover where the exits had been.

Oh, so he was definitely dead.

Varian scowled. Quick feet took him to one of the “new” walls, the alchemist rapping on it with a knuckle. It sounded solid, as did the rest of the paneling. The oak blended seamlessly. He sucked in a small breath through his nose, trying to keep himself from freaking out; the nerves were beginning to fray, the idea of being stuck in the Hall for longer than necessary striking him with dread.

The portraits were as unappealing as always, masterfully painted but with sneering, judgmental subjects who all leered at Varian from their place on canvas. He wandered, skimming over Geldam’s painting, then Kamron and Abelia’s, coming to a stop in front of Aisha’s.

She still looked every bit a warrior queen. She still held that stupid blue bundle, the representation of Varian that Aldred had committed to paint and canvas when the man had assumed him dead. He glared at it, this little piece of Aldred’s horrible obsession with bringing his son back to the Keep. It made him sick. Varian reached out, intending on ripping the stupid thing off the wall, when a voice stopped him.

“I wouldn’t do that, if I were you.”

Varian grit his teeth, tensing up at the familiar voice.

“Father.” His voice was flat. Varian refused to turn around, a hand still outstretched toward Aisha’s painting.

“Oh, come now,” Aldred sounded like he was pouting. It made something angry boil in Varian’s stomach. “It’s only been a few years, right? Don’t tell me you’ve already forgotten our lime together, my boy. I thought we had such fun.”

“I had fun tossing you off the tower, does that count?” Varian snarled, twisting and meeting his tormentor head on. Aldred seemed nonplussed, amused, even.

“I see that you’ve still got your mother’s fire,” he cooed. “Lovely. You’ll need it.”

Varian cringed as the man stepped closer, his body moving without thought. He backed as far away from father as he could, his heart beginning to pound in his chest. Too close, he thought frantically, too close, too close—

“I will not have my son be weak,” father declared. “You are the last of our line-- and you’re going to wake up.”

“W-wake up?” Varian cursed himself for tripping over the words. His whole body was shaking, small spasms that had his knees knocking and his chest shuddering. It was almost embarrassing, if he had the space to be embarrassed between the waves of terror. “What—”

“You’re drowning,” father said flatly. “Just like my wife did. Just like I thought you had. I refuse to let one of those freaks win against us— so you’re going to wake up, and you’re going to kill it.” Father’s face sunk into a scowl, leaning closer to the terrified boy in front of him. “You’re good at that, aren’t you? Certainly seem to be, from my perspective. I will admit I didn’t think you had the balls… but you proved me wrong in the end, didn’t you? I forgot something crucial.”

“Wh—”

“As much as you are Aisha’s child… you’re my son too.”

Varian was going to vomit. He cowered back, bringing his clenched fists up to his chest in an attempt to self-guard, shrinking back into the wooden paneling next to Aisha’s portrait. Father seemed to grow tired of Varian’s panic, shaking his head.

“You’ve got the fight in you, like it or not,” he ground out. “And I’m telling you to grow up, stop being a coward, and finish the job.”

“I—” Varian’s voice was choked; he could barely speak through the lump in his throat. “I won’t, it’s not—”

“Not what?” Father’s voice was dangerously low. “Not right? What wasn’t right was you letting them into the tomb and handing them our family’s prized possession.”

Tears bit at the corner of Varian’s eyes. He couldn’t break down, he couldn’t, but seeing the man in front of him, the subject of his nightmares for over two years— it was a cloying, terrifying thing. His chest hurt, from how much his breaths stuttered. The alchemist was truly worried he might faint.

“I-I’m sorry, father.” His voice was weak, almost a whisper. “I’m sorry.”

Varian hated this; he hated that he could just be reverted back to the scared little waif that had been plucked from the ashes of Barviel Keep by father’s mere presence. It was like a switch had been flipped— Varian’s mind had immediately swapped back to the tactics that had kept the man’s bad temper at bay. The apologizing, the meekness, the way father spilled out from his tongue without thought. It was all things he’d had to work to break, after being brought home; it had been months before Varian was able to speak at a normal volume again, and even then he caught himself slipping if someone were cross with him.

He couldn’t go back. Not to that, not again. But here he was, trying to disappear into the wall once more. Varian hated himself for it. Hated father for reducing him to this again. Hated the cold tile under his bare feet, hated the wood paneled walls, hated the stupid domed windows.

He hated all of it.

“Sorry doesn’t cut it.” Father stepped back, giving Varian a little space to breathe. “You’re being a disappointment, letting those aberrations get to you like that. You are the last of our line, yet you’re still clinging to a princess’ skirts like a child.”

Varian bristled, but kept quiet. He the words were trying to push out of his chest, clawing at his tight throat and demanding to be said, but he just couldn’t, not in the face of father’s ire, not while he was angry. His self-preservation wouldn’t allow for it.

“I expected better, after what happened,” father’s face was sour. Blue eyes, mirrors of Varian’s own, flicked up and above the boy’s head, focusing on Aisha’s portrait. “I expected better,” he repeated, more wistfully.

Varian inched to the side, trying to worm out from between father and the wall. He felt constricted, claustrophobic; he felt like he was being boxed in with the walls slowly crushing inward. Father noticed the movement, leaning forward and grabbing the terrified boy’s chin, forcing eye contact between them.

“You’re going to wake up,” he ordered, “And you’re going to finish the job. Are we clear?”

Varian breathed deeply, closing his eyes. He clenched his fists, grit hit teeth.

And then, he spoke.

“I won’t.” His voice was strong, but there was no mistaking the shaking of his bottom lip. “I won’t do what you tell me, not anymore. I-I’m older now, and—”

“And what?” Father seemed amused, “Does being older suddenly make you unable to understand an order? You’re trying my patience.”

Varian almost shrank back when the grip on his chin got tighter. Almost. “It means I don’t have to listen to you,” he managed to get the words out through grit teeth. “It means you don’t have any more power over me; you’re dead.”

“And you’re dying,” Aldred shot back, “Or did we forget that little fact?”

Varian brought a hand up, wrenching father’s hand from his face and moving away. The man seemed almost shocked by the sudden outburst, eyes following as Varian stepped into the middle of the Hall. He ignored the feeling of hundreds of pairs of eyes on the back of his neck. He wasn’t backing down, not again. He’d stood up to Merrick, he’d stood up to Rapunzel.

He could stand up to a ghost, too.

“I hate you,” he said bluntly, and oh did it feel good to say. Father snorted, but Varian wasn’t stopping— now that the words had been let go, it was like unstopping a cork; his voice was flowing from him without much conscious thought.

“I hate you so much. I’ve hated you for two years, and I don’t think I’ll ever be finished. Y-you hurt my sister, you hurt Meave, you hurt me; and you…” he had to pause, to push back the salty tears in his eyes. “You killed my dad. You killed him, just because you wanted to.”

“I killed him because I was bringing you home.” Aldred’s voice was condescending. “Really, my son, only a few years away and you forget everything I tried to teach you.”

“Teach me?” Varian scoffed. “Teach me what? How to be the most hated king in the Seven Kingdoms? How to traumatize children—?”

“How to be strong.” Varian shrank back at the coolness in father’s tone. “I taught you how to take what was owed to you. Would you have rather grown up as a princess’ little pet?” The man scoffed. “Obviously you wanted to, seeing as that’s what you did as soon as there was no one to push you to be better.”

“Don’t talk about her like that.” Even if Varian had feared that very outcome, with Rapunzel’s protectiveness, it wasn’t the same when Aldred brought it up. “You don’t ever get to talk about her like that.”

Aldred’s face was stormy. Varian didn’t back down this time, even when the man loomed above him. It was like he was fifteen again, stuck under the thumb of a man who’d caused him nothing but misery— but unlike before, Varian met Aldred eye to eye. He didn’t cower. Not this time.

“You were destined for greatness,” Aldred said. “You were meant for so much more than this.”

Varian’s hackles raised at the reminder of what was supposed to be his name. His face twisted into something ugly, something angry. “I was born into love,” he shot back, unable to resist pointing out where his mother had truly denied Aldred any sort of connection to Varian as a child. The man hadn’t even known his name, until he’d stumbled upon the boy in Corona. It was salt in the wound, to be sure.

The insult hit, as it was supposed to. The man snarled, stalking forward and making a grab for the boy. Varian backed up, putting an arm up to try and push the man away. Aldred snatched his wrist, as he had so long ago— Varian pushed down the memory, the panic, the heart pounding surge of fear that sent his nerves screaming; the touch made his skin crawl, remembering how father had shaken him for speaking out of turn, had made him cry— and pulled the boy, his mirror, closer.

“Wake up,” Aldred pressed again. He tried to shake Varian, just like all that time ago. Varian squared his shoulders in retaliation, keeping himself exactly where he was. The man in front of him, the source of two years of night terrors, went oddly flat faced.

Varian was ready for the slap before it could hit.

He shifted, backing away. Aldred’s hand hung in the air, pausing when it missed the mark. Varian felt something smug rear up in the way the man’s tells had become obvious to him— the first point to defeating an enemy was to know it.

“No,” he said, voice flat. “I’m not done yet.”

Something caught his eye, in the back corner. A section of the wall, directly behind Aldred, had gone nearly black. Almost like… soot. Varian blinked, focusing on it for just a second, seeing how it got bigger. The ghost was unwinding.

Aldred himself looked… off. Now that Varian had gotten his proverbial feet underneath him, he could see the little details were different. The man’s face, though it was always thin and pointed, looked much more skeletal than before. One blue eye was darker than the other… the one Varian had carved out, himself. The edges of his salt and pepper hair were dark— almost singed. Hm.

“Do you want to go back upstairs?” Aldred asked him. The smell of smoke started to drift through the air. Varian’s fists curled at the threat— because it was very much at threat, just one he refused to let work on him again.

“I’d like to see you try,” the alchemist challenged. He wasn’t a scared little boy anymore— he wouldn’t be intimidated, or pushed down, not by anyone else. The black stain on the wall got bigger, smoking embers starting to pop up in the very center. The wallpaper began to curl from the heat, a few of the portraits getting singed on the side. Aldred’s eye was looking red and bloodshot. Things were beginning to crumble.

Good.

“I’ll drag you back to that room, if I have to,” the man threatened, the sudden spring of anger long since expected. Varian began to move, constantly evading the grabbing hands following him and keeping an eye on the wall. The flames had stirred to life, smoke and ash climbing through the air and spreading into the room. Varian winced at the sight of blood, ruby red against pale skin, began to leak from Aldred’s eye, looking almost like tears.

Despite the flames, Varian’s hands were… cold. Like ice.

The Novis Staff, it seemed, was still in play. Varian’s mind clicked— surely it had conjured this odd dream space. None of this was real. Father’s ghost may be here, may be lashing out as blood flooded from his now hollow eye socket, but—

“You don’t have any power, here,” Varian’s declaration was loud over the noise of flames. Aldred tried to interject, to wrest control back, but the boy wouldn’t have it. “You don’t.”

The fire had spread, encompassing them. Aldred whirled around, something like fear in his eye. Varian stood still, winding up in front of his mother’s portrait. The man was crumbling, his skin turning black and singed at the edges, the blood coming in rivulets. It was something to see, how quickly his abuser fell apart without the fear, the illusion of power, to prop him up.

“You’re still my son,” Aldred tried one last ditch attempt, stumbling forward as his body turned to ash. “You’re still my legacy.”

Varian was stoic when Aldred collapsed to the debris covered tiles. The man was nearly disintegrating, his ghostly form burning up just as his actual body had, in the fire that claimed Barviel Keep. The boy couldn’t find it within himself to feel anything other than a cold resignation— to watch as his nightmare finally crumbled away.

“I’m not your anything,” Varian said firmly. “Not your son, not your heir, not yours.”

He stepped back, uncaring when Aldred’s reaching hand fell to the ground and burst into a plume of dust and fire. The crackling heat around him, what should have felt like molten fire, was nothing more than a summer’s breeze on his skin. He looked down to the remains of his torment, and, at last, began to smile.

“Not anymore.”

Aldred let out one final, gasping snarl. It was pathetic, a wheezing noise from a dying memory; Varian watched as the man finally crumbled into ash. The room around him continued to burn, paintings crumbling into nothing but flaming wreckage, timbers falling from the ceiling, and yet… he didn’t feel scared. Not of the fire, not of the corpse in front of him, not of the memory of it.

Instead, he closed his eyes, took a deep breath.

Varian refused to open his eyes, listening as the noise of fire began to drain away. Soon there was nothing but silence left behind, echoing after the chaos of the banishing of Aldred’s ghost. He sucked in a deep, grounding breath through his nose, keeping his eyes closed for just a moment more. All he could hear was the beating of his heart, a steady, pulsing thing.

You’re alive, you’re okay. You faced him again, and you won.

It was a mantra, as the cold spread over his skin and a brief feeling of saltwater pressing on his chest faded in and out within seconds. The chill spread from his hand, stronger now, more stable. Varian kept his eyes closed until the sensations left. Instead, he stood as still as he could. Breathing. Listening. Grounded, and staring into the darkness behind his eyelids. The noises faded, as did the chill.

The smell of apples drifted across his nose; if he were more foolish, Varian would blame his dad’s cloak, still wrapped around his shoulders. Instead, he pinched his eyes a little more closed for a beat, preparing himself.

When he opened them again, he was somewhere new.

Somewhere he recognized.

The house in Old Corona, his childhood home, had been destroyed in the final battle against Zhan Tiri. Countless waves of black rocks had pockmarked the land, leaving countless villages in ruins. It had been part of the reason Varian had accepted the engineering position— and why Quirin had followed him in the new role.

Yet here he was, standing in the kitchen like he was three years old and waiting for his dad to return from the orchard, apples in hand so they could bake together. Varian turned, gently putting a hand on the weathered, old table. It was exactly as he remembered, the stains and burns from countless alchemy experiments gone wrong littered the surface. He could see a groove on the edge where Quirin had slipped with a knife while cutting vegetables when Varian had been around eight, even a few little nicks where Ruddiger had jumped up without fully retracting his claws first. It… it was home.

Varian blinked a few times, trying to shake himself from his stupor. The house was the same, just as the Hall of Portraits had been. Like a manifestation of his memories, brought to life. Father had infested one memory… but this one…

There was the familiar sound of the front door, opening and closing softly. Varian heard footsteps, heavy ones. He nearly burst into tears at the sound of them, as familiar to him as breathing. Someone, a man, was whistling, his deep voice echoing through the front hall as the person got closer to the kitchen. Varian couldn’t hold the tears back, suddenly feeling them flood from his eyes.

When Quirin turned the corner from the hall, standing in the doorway, Varian let out a loud sob. The man looked stunned, dropping the basket of apples he’d been holding. They rolled across the wooden floor, scattering around the kitchen without anyone to stop them. Varian and Quirin stared at one another, both of them at a loss for words for a fair half minute. Varian sniffled, biting at the inside of his cheek, and finally forcing his aching chest to say something.

“Hi daddy,” he said. His voice cracked, but he pressed onward. “I missed you.”

That seemed to break Quirin from his paralyzed state. The man rushed forward, reaching out to wrap his arms around Varian in a tight hug. Varian clung back, snorting when Quirin lifted him up and off the ground. His legs dangled, swaying as the man hugged him tightly. They stood like that for a long while, both of them unwilling to be the first to let go. Varian buried his face into the fur of his dad’s vest, inhaling the smell of apples and soaking his tears into the fabric.

After what felt like only seconds, Quirin finally put his son down. Varian stumbled a bit, wiping at his eyes. Quirin stopped him, cupping Varian’s cheek and wiping away the last of the tears with a large thumb. Varian sniffled pathetically, grabbing at the man’s hand like he would vanish again; his fingers were nearly white with how hard his grip was. Quirin didn’t notice, his eyes locked onto Varian’s face. The man looked shocked, nearly paralyzed.

There was a beat of silence, save for gentle birdsong outside the window. Neither of them seemed to know what to say—Varian’s thoughts were stumbling over each other in an attempt to be the first said, but it only made his silence stretch. Quirin’s shocked face sank into a warm smile, the man moving his thumb gently across his son’s face.

“You got taller,” Quirin said quietly, staring at Varian like the boy was about to vanish from sight the second he looked away.

Varian laughed wetly, trying to keep his hitching breaths from bubbling to the surface. “Yeah,” the boy choked out, “I, uh, I guess I did.”

He noticed how Quirin’s own eyes were shiny with tears. He didn’t comment on them. Instead he sank into his dad’s touch, the callouses in his hands familiar and comforting. Varian had never thought he’d get to see his father again, not even in a cosmic sense—but here he was, as strong and tangible as he’d been the last time Varian had seen him. All the quiet aches in Varian’s heart sprung to the surface, the misery and loneliness and loss that he’d suffered in the loss of his only parent, all of it rose up in one large wave, threatening to pull him under.

“You’re here so soon,” Quirin murmured. Oh, he probably thought…

“There was a— it’s like a magic, thing.” Varian’s words stumbled over themselves. “I’m okay. Or I think I am? I’m not really sure, there was a boat, I might be drowning. I don’t really know.”

Quirin let out a huffing laugh, reaching forward to hug Varian to him again. The boy went ecstatically, borderline throwing himself into his dad’s embrace. He’d missed this, so much; he hadn’t even known how much until he’d finally gotten his dad’s hugs again.

“I’m assuming the princess had something to do with it,” Varian could feel the way Quirin sighed, the crown of Varian’s head tucked under the man’s chin. It was strange; the last time they’d been together, he hadn’t been tall enough for that. Varian snorted, shaking his head.

“No, this one’s on me,” he admitted. “The Bayan royals had a… thing for weird magical stuff.”

Quirin’s body stiffened, hugging Varian to him a little tighter. “Aldred,” he whispered. Varian flinched, fingers curling tighter in his dad’s shirt. Quirin didn’t seem to register, muttering to himself. “He was going to take you away,” the man continued, “And— I tried, son. I’m so sorry I couldn’t protect you.”

Varian sniffed, allowing himself to back off from the hug so he could look his dad in the eye. Quirin looked haunted, like he’d aged a hundred years. The joy of seeing him slowly settled into something more bittersweet; knowing that their time had been cut so brutally short.

“You did your best,” Varian said. “He— he was a monster.”

“Did he hurt you?”

Varian couldn’t find it within himself to lie. “Yeah.”

Quirin’s face crumpled, the man closing his eyes and looking away. “I’m sorry, son,” he said again. Varian’s chest hurt, seeing his dad so devastated. “I should have been stronger.”

“It’s… in the past,” Varian said. It felt like more of a sweeping statement, after everything that had happened the last few weeks. Aldred, Barviel, all of it. In the light of newfound strength and determination— it all felt farther away. Put to rest, at long last. Like Varian could let it lie and be content. In the past, indeed.

Quirin cupped his cheek again. Varian leaned into it, blinking away tears again. “I missed you,” the boy murmured again.

“Are you… okay, now?” Quirin’s voice was as stoic as Varian remembered, but the teenager could hear the underlying concern. “I’ve been here for a while, I know that. Time’s passed. You grew up, and I wasn’t there for you. Someone’s taking care of you, right?”

“Arianna,” he started. “And Frederick. Rapunzel and Eugene. It was a month before they, uh, they found me. They brought me home.”

“A month,” Quirin’s voice cracked. “A month with that man—”

“He’s gone, now.” Varian cut him off, gently. “I, uh, I made sure of it. He’s gone.”

Quirin blinked, leaning back and looking Varian in the eye. “You…?”

“Yeah.”

“On purpose?”

“….Mostly?

Quirin surprised Varian by laughing, shaking his head. “I think you get that from your mother,” he said, still chuckling. “I certainly didn’t teach you that.”

Varian snorted through the quiet tears. “No,” he admitted, “No, you didn’t.”

Quirin tilted his head, putting both hands on his son’s shoulders. “You’ve grown up,” he said, wistfully. “How long has it been?”

“Two years,” Varian’s voice was quiet. “We buried you in the palace cemetery. I didn’t know where— or if Old Corona, would have been better, or even back in the Dark Kingdom—”

“Wherever you are,” Quirin said, “That’s where I’d want to be.”

Varian sniffled. He wiped at his eyes, trying to keep himself together. “I don’t know if I want to leave, again,” he admitted. “I… I should want to wake up, right? But… you’re here, and I’m so tired, dad.”

Quirin’s face pulled down into a frown, the man patting Varian’s shoulder. “I know,” he admitted. “It’s exhausting, out there. When your mother left, I wasn’t sure what I was going to do. You were only a year old, you know, and she’d vanished in the middle of the night, just telling me to keep you safe.” He laughed, something a little more self-deprecating. “I couldn’t even do that, in the end.”

He met Varian’s wide-eyed gaze, the gravity of the situation obvious. “I know you’re tired,” he consoled. “I know. But that doesn’t mean giving up is the right answer. Even if it means saying goodbye again.”

Varian’s heart shattered at the last part. He knew his dad was making sense. “I don’t want to lose you,” he whispered, the tears carving lines down the soot on his cheeks. “Not again.”

“You won’t,” Quirin said, his voice comforting. “You’ll go back, and the rest of our family will be there. You’ll grow old, and maybe find someone like I found your mother. But Varian,” he tipped the boy’s face up to look at him, smiling sadly. “You’ll live. And that’s what’s important. We’ll see each other again, once you’re done with living a long, happy life. Not a second sooner, you hear me?”

Varian bit his lip, sniffling. “I promise,” he tried to joke. It fell a little flat, but it helped to break a bit of the tension.

His hands started to feel cold. The Staff was calling him, back to the land of the living. It had done its job and done it well. Varian was running out of time. He felt a spark of panic—it’s so soon, not enough time, he had so much to tell his dad before--

“Dad,” he tried to start, only for Quirin to calmly stop him.

“I love you, son.” The man said, wrapping Varian up in one last hug. Around them, the kitchen slowly started to disappear, their time together slowly fading away. Varian threw his arms around his dad’s neck, clinging with all his might. Quirin squeezed him once more, making Varian’s aching ribcage creak. “I’m so proud of you,”

Varian could feel his dad’s grip fading, the pressure of those arms slipping away.

“I love you, too,” he sobbed, closing his eyes against the brightness. It was gentle, but too bright. Their surroundings quickly disappearing into the bright void beyond. “I love you, dad.”

The light pulsed once, then twice. Even behind his closed eyelids, Varian was nearly blinded by the brilliance of it. His body was cold again, not uncomfortably so, but the chill in his skin was noticeable. The feeling of Quirin around him vanished, the spell breaking. The boy could feel a solid weight in his hand; pressure all around him began to wash in. Water, surrounding him. Any second now he’d be kicked back into the land of the living.

Varian laid back into the feeling and allowed the light to wash over him. He had a promise to keep, and a family to find. The light consumed him, and Varian let himself be pulled into it, ready for the next step.

It was time to move on.

>>><<<

Varian woke up to nearly being impaled by debris. He nearly screamed in terror, only just keeping his wits about him. He put a hand over his mouth, keeping the air in. The Novis Staff was still in his hand, probably the only reason he was alive at all, but the wreck of the Der Sonne was sinking around him. Chunks of the ship littered the water, as did cargo, rigging, and other wreckage that threatened to ensnare anyone who got too close.

Varian started to kick his way to the surface, awkwardly moving around the sinking wreckage and trying to keep his distance. The grey sky above was light enough that Varian could tell which way was up— a small blessing, but one he wouldn’t take for granted.

As he kicked, however, he caught sight of a dark smudge in the water, something that wasn’t debris. This one was moving. A person, Varian’s thoughts screamed. He began to make his way toward them, pausing as he got close enough to see who it was.

Merrick, it seemed, had gotten tangled in the rigging of the Der Sonne somewhere on the way down. The older boy was struggling, kicking at the rope and sails in a futile attempt to escape. He was yanking at the ropes almost desperately, tugging on them without actual thought or reason. Varian slowed a bit, unsure— but inwardly groaned at his bleeding heart. He shouldn’t have to help; he wasn’t obligated to try. No one would blame Varian if he turned around and swam for the surface and left his enemy to his fate. No one, that is, except himself.

Varian rolled his eyes, reaching for his belt and pulling out Eugene’s knife with his free hand. He swam close, keeping his distance when Merrick caught sight of him and swiped his human hand at Varian. The boy shot him a look, backing off and trying to portray innocence. I’m trying to help, he thought grumpily, the least you could do is work with me, here.

Merrick’s metal arm lay awkwardly limp by his side. It was easy to see that something in the delicate machinery had broken, causing it to be nothing more than dead weight. It was also tangled in the rigging, though not as badly as Merrick’s legs were.

Varian swam closer, bringing the knife up and starting to methodically cut at the ropes tangling the other teen’s legs. They were tied to what looked to be part of a mast, the weight of it swiftly dragging down into the depths of the water. Varian’s lungs burned— they needed to get swimming for the surface soon if they wanted a shot at making it. He kept cutting, slowly but surely getting the mage free.

Merrick looked almost confused, holding still so that Varian could work on freeing him. There was only a few more ropes to go, almost there—

Varian let out a shocked burst of bubbles when there was a sudden pain in his arm. He caught a flash of silver to his left, a knife in his enemy’s hand. Oh, that asshole. Merrick’s face was a flurry of rage, swiping again at Varian with the blade, only to fail. The alchemist began to swim backward, out of reach, only for the man to snag him by the ankle.

There was a loud crack, audible even underwater, and with a sickening dropping feeling, the mast began to sink even faster. Whatever had been holding it afloat had broken, leaving the mast, and the two teenagers by extension, dropping down into the void below.

Varian kicked at Merrick, trying to free himself. The mage had a deranged smile on his face— surely he knew that they both were going to drown, right?!— and tugged on Varian’s ankle harder. It seemed like, even after all this, the other refused to give up.

Problem for him, being that neither was Varian.

The younger boy aimed another kick, grimacing when he felt cartilage break under his heel. Merrick let out a stream of bubbles in lieu of a shout, his hand falling away. Varian flailed his legs with as much might has he had, kicking frantically for distance. He felt fingers graze his feet, only for them to latch onto the frayed edge of Quirin’s cloak. Varian nearly choked when it was yanked, pulling him down, down, down.

Varian panicked, flailing again at the rough treatment. He looked down, seeing the strong grip Merrick had on the cloak, and grimaced. The light from the surface was disappearing quickly, the mast more than heavy enough to drag them both down to the ocean floor. Varian grit his teeth, his grip tightening on Eugene’s knife.

With a calculated slice, he brought the blade down onto the edge of Quirin’s cloak. He felt a stab of guilt, as he cut nearly a fourth of the fabric away, severing the tie Merrick had on him. Varian kicked again, the last of the cloak tearing away and leaving Merrick with nothing but a handful of fabric. The alchemist managed to kick up, launching himself up and out of reach.

The mage below him tried to grab at the boy one last time, only to fail as Varian finally managed to slip out of his grasp. Merrick’s face switched from fury to a dawning horror so quickly it was almost comical. The mast was sinking faster now, air rising from it in a plume of bubbles. Varian was forced to look away from his enemy to avoid more debris as they too began to sink, dragged down by the larger pieces of the Der Sonnes sinking corpse.

Merrick was still trying to grab at him, even as he sank further down. Varian weaved awkwardly around a part of the Der Sonne’s bow as it passed, before watching with wide eyes as it caught up in the rigging attached to the mast, and therefore Merrick. The alchemist began to swim down again, trying to keep the other teenager in his sight, but with the combined weight of the mast and the new portion of the bow, the rigging and sail began to plummet through the water.

Within seconds. Merrick’s snarling face vanished into the darkness. Varian found himself stunned, floating in the depths as he watched the inky outline of the mast disappear. He held like that for as long as he could, waiting for… something. What, he wasn’t entirely sure. For Merrick to swim up? For another chance to try and help?

Whatever it was, it never came.

The fire in Varian’s lungs became too much to bear; he was forced to start kicking for the surface, frantically pumping his limbs, and pushing himself through the water. He was so close, just a second more—

His head burst through the water, a bare patch in the wreckage where the debris had already sank allowing space for him to hit blessed air. He flailed a bit, grabbing onto the first thing he could find and clinging tightly. A board, part of the outer hull, that could barely hold his weight. He clung to it anyways, holding close and allowing his aching body to rest.

Varian cast an exhausted gaze around the wreckage, forcing air into his aching lungs. The storm had calmed, the water gentle around him. Varian held tight to his salvation, his exhausted limbs nearly dropping now that he could finally stop fighting. With the Der Sonne’s wreckage starting to slip below the waves, everything had begun to calm. The alchemist settled, finally able to relax.

And then, for the first time in ages, he breathed.

[vihola]

About your Dragon Age AU. How and why does Magister Merkara get involved with the Inquisition? (I thought that you were about to tell us, but then you didn't 🥺)

Merkara immediately becomes interested in the Conclave when she hears that it’s going to happen. She wants mages to be free everywhere because Circles look a lot like slavery to her, but she also considers forming alliances with mages outside of Tevinter. There’s not much she can achieve while she’s in the minority of the Magisterium, so she desperately needs more sources of influence and power. So she decides to infiltrate the Conclave just in case Circle mages need some help in obtaining their freedom.

Liran thinks that it’s a terrible idea. He tries to convince Merkara that he should go on his own because he’s an experienced spy and she has never even been outside of the Imperium. But Merkara refuses to reconsider. She secretly wants to escape her stressful life for a little while. Being a magister is not as fun as she thought it would be, it’s no fun at all. She won’t admit it, but she feels tired and lost. So she travels with Liran despite his heavy sighs and disapproving glances.

The journey is long and they arrive a little too late. They find the giant breach in the sky, ruins, and chaos. This mess needs further investigation, so Merkara and Liran use their cover identities to get information. Merkara becomes Lady Trevelyan, counting on the Trevelyan family being too big for anyone to notice an additional relative out of nowhere. Liran becomes the family servant who was sent by overprotective relatives to take care of her on the long journey.

Merkara is fascinated by the breach, so she takes the first opportunity to get closer to it. She convinces Cassandra and Relu that she may be of use, joining their group and subsequently becoming so entangled in the events that she ends up with the Inquisition in Haven. Liran disapproves again. Too much is going on and it has nothing to do with them, he thinks that they should leave while they still can. But Merkara is too caught up and too curious. The future of Thedas is being decided here, why would she run away from this?

They keep playing their roles well, even though Merkara struggles to hide her Tevinter accent. She tries to get closer to Relu because of the mysterious mark on his hand. She helps out whenever she can, making herself indispensable, but she starts to genuinely enjoy his company. Soon she sees him less as a magical anomaly and more as someone she would like to be friends with. And it all goes so well until Dorian shows up.

Dorian recognizes Merkara and reveals her identity before she can implore him to keep quiet. And then everyone knows the truth.

Cassandra: Is anyone else here lying about who they are? Solas and Blackwall: *sweating nervously*

Relu orders for Merkara and Liran to be locked up. But Corypheus attacks Haven soon afterwards, so they are released. Relu makes it clear that they are not forgiven, but they are needed in the battle. And Merkara proves to be especially useful when she finds half-conscious Relu in the snow and drags him to the Inquisition’s camp.

Merkara stays with the Inquisition in Skyhold. When others have calmed down and her deception isn’t the biggest recent event anymore, they are more willing to consider that she lied because she didn’t have much of a choice. Revealing her true identity in the Frostback Mountains would have made her a suspect number one while everyone was looking for someone to blame for the explosion and Justinia’s death.

Relu takes her side―she saved his life after all. He won’t let anyone say one bad word about her, but he treats her very differently now. He is cold and distant and calls her “Magister” all the time. Whenever they get closer again, he takes a step back. And Merkara is all, “You liked me alright when I was Lady Trevelyan, but suddenly you have a problem with me when I’m a magister?” She’s hurt, but she prefers to be angry at him instead.

Meanwhile, Relu is worried that she just tricked him into liking her and whatever relationship they had wasn’t real. But now that she’s no longer pretending and he gets to know her all over again, he finds himself beyond liking her―he’s captivated. And it terrifies the hell out of him.

[writing-the-end]

LoL Chapter 39- Periapts

Masterpost

A Wizard Hermits tale (AU, designs, ideas belongs to @theguardiansofredland)

How many hermits does it take to find protection amulets? And not bring home even more junk like a target run? And what do they do when the Guild of Gedeon discovers them?

_________________________________________

“Grian, those shoes are worthless for you- you already have wings!” Iskall waves his arms, exasperated by his shopping buddies. In the midst of the Redland bazaar, the hermits have separated out to find supplies they both need and could use. Iskall tones himself down as two Gedeons walk by, the entire area going quiet and watching as the council guildmembers march on. What are they doing in Redland?

“Yeah, but you don’t. You guys could use it though!” Grian buys the sandals without second thought, and without haggling for the price. Mumbo groans. They have yet to even purchase a protection or repelling item- or any amulet. He’s not sure if Grian understands saving money, and can only look away, across the busy, bustling bazaar to see who else is having better luck. 

Hypno can’t help but play with the dowsing rods in his hands, only for xB to grab one rod before the two pieces can cross paths. “Those aren’t a toy, give me those things. Do you want to summon a storm?”

“It could be useful! A big storm to battle off a husk storm!”  Hypno grins, before patting his hands against his friend’s shoulder. “It’s alright, man, we can grab some talismans right after this. But this is too cool to pass up!” 

Together, with xB’s innate kipling knowledge of enchantments, they pick out a few talismans. Wards against harm and unfortunate thoughts. Removing the law of attraction, or at least easing it. Two of the talismans were mass produced, before xB advised Hypno that unique amulets were likely stronger, picking through boxes and glass cases full of strange, vibrant pieces. 

But it doesn’t take long for xB to get distracted on his own. Reeling back when he sees it. “Whoa, I didn’t know these still existed! I thought the last of the moodium ores have died out!”

“But xB, we’re supposed to be looking for amulets.” Hypno mimics xB, but he’s grinning. “What even is it?” 

“It’s a mood ring!” xB’s voice rises and falls to make it sound mysterious. 

Hypno isn’t much impressed. “You mean the trinkets you get from the candy store as a kid?” 

“No! Those were inspired by real mood rings. Watch this.”  xB slips the ring on, and covers the pink, round cut gem and closes his eyes. Hypno snickers, watching for the stone to change color just because of xB’s body heat. His snicker fades, lip quivering as he feels globs of hot tears fall from his eyes. What the hell, why is he crying? Why does he feel so sad? 

“You…” xB’s grin and a wiggle of his bejeweled finger is all he needs to see to know what’s happened. “Asshole! You changed my emotions!” 

“No, I didn’t. You were already sad about something, I just amplified that. I also can smell that you didn’t brush your teeth this morning.” xB covers his nose, pulling off the ring before taking a deep, relieving breath. 

Hypno isn’t sure what he’s sad about, but it was obviously there. He wipes away the tears, large droplets and streams down his cheeks. Ruining his cool guy attitude, just crying in some random shop in the middle of a bazaar. He looks around for something to raise his epic points, but becomes distracted when he sees three Gedeons roughing up a shopkeep, demanding some kind of council tax he never heard of. In fact, all of the bazaar is quieter than other times he’s been to Redland. As if a nightmare patrols with Sidero’s henchmen. Perhaps that’s what saddens him. Even here, the Council’s influence is felt. 

Further down, nestled in an arcade offshoot, Ren, Jevin, and Cleo are in the middle of an intense battle. Not with swords or magic, but words. 

“300 rupees.” Cleo declares, holding up the protection talisman. The sigilized stone dangles in the air, twisting and casting it’s armoring gaze out on the bazaar.

“800, little lady.” The portly merchant reaches out, threading his fingers around the cord and starts to pull it back.

“350, and you get to keep your fingers for calling me a lady.” Cleo lays her other hand on the hilt of her sword, smiling a demure grin, her sickly green skin stretching for him to see. 

“Fine.” The merchant untangles himself from the fight and the amulet, grumbling under his breath as he takes the money from Jevin’s outstretched hand. “I dunno why people are suddenly buyin’ up all the protection amulets. There some kinda guild war about to break out?” 

“Not exactly.” Ren snickers, before trodding out of the tent and back into the sunlight. If he were on Eremita, he’d stretch out and sunbathe, sunglasses perched just so that he can see the clouds make their own creations in the sky. His daydream is ruined, however, when he feels a rap against his rear, tail tucking between his legs. 

“Hey boy, wanna get the stick?” Jevin teases, waving a snarled old staff for Ren. 

The mixed-up mage isn’t amused- though, the werewolf in him does make his heart beat in excitement to chase a stick. “My dude, I’m not even a real werewolf. I just know I rock a tail and ears.” 

Cleo shakes her head. “This is ridiculous. Who would waste 2000 rupees on some stick? These merchants are out of their mind. Now I see why Scar left his home.” 

“That’s not just ‘some stick’ li-” The merchant stops when a flash of metal glints against the sun, backing up until Cleo sheathes her sword again. “I- it’s a shift stick. It’s a one time use, takes the holder back in time a minute. A do over, a chance to fix a mistake. Perhaps even more useful than any stone necklace. One of a kind, and for such… unique customers like you, I’ll lower the price to 1500 rupees.��� 

Jevin pulls out 5 gold rupees, before Ren and Cleo can say anything, and clutches the stick. “Totally worth it.” 

“How do we even know if it works?” Ren isn’t sure if it does exactly what it claims to do. They may have bought the most expensive branch in the world, but Jevin refuses to let it go. 

“We can ask Xisuma. He can check or something, he’s a smart guy.” Jevin shrugs. They have enough money, especially with how well Cleo’s haggling has gone. They could buy three shift sticks with the money they’ve been given, and still have enough to buy even more talismans. 

The three wander along the bazaar, meeting with other hermits on their way. BDubs and Keralis show off an entire chest of shielding stones, while Scar is laden with more golden amulets than anyone. When Cleo presses him on how he managed to find so many unique and powerful charms, he only smiles. “I know a thing or two about the trade business.” 

“Those are the dragon spirits on them.” Cub points out the twisting, dancing dragon. Without wings and the white pearl accents, it’s easy to identify which of the spirits is depicted. Ashtios, the Northern Wind Dragon. Another depicts winged dragons, finned dragons, sheared dragons. Fire, water, and earth. The spirits and sages that aided the gods to create the earth, and who provide median between the two realms. Nothing is more protective than a dragon, and they can feel the strength in the spell of each amulet. 

Down the bazaar, the hermits jump at the sound of metal clashing and magic being cast. Followed by yelling, Keralis and Doc are chased from a shop. The shopkeep waves her broom at the two. “What kind of freak eats a bug in the middle of my store! Get back here you cretins!” 

Doc’s gruff snicker is only matched by Keralis’s whimper. “But it was gonna help us. It was just a noisy locust.” 

The two escape from the bazaar, disappearing into the crowds of Redland. BDubs points in the direction his friends just escaped, blinking away confusion. “Should we be concerned about them?” 

“Keralis is with Doc, he’ll be fine.” Xisuma waves. “Besides, their grown men.” 

“Looks like we weren’t the only ones who got distracted by other goods.” Cleo nods her head at the books in X’s arms. 

Xisuma looks offended by the statement, and stutters over his breath to explain himself. ‘The-these are ancient works! They could have important information about dark magic!” He looks at the stick Jevin’s holding. “What kinda crap are we bringing home now?” 

“We have flying shoes.” Iskall holds them aloft, Grian preening the white feathers flat against the golden laces. 

“Dowsing rods and a mood ring.” xB keeps the metal rods far away from Hypno, who seems all too keen on starting up a hurricane in the city.

“And what we hope is a stick that can turn back time.” Jevin holds it up. “Otherwise I’m going to use this stick to beat that merchant for lying.” 

Lucky for Jevin and the merchant, Xisuma can feel the magic in the whorls of the wood. “I’ll say, these are all pretty impressive. Useless for our cause but… temporal magic is difficult. Were all our rupees wasted on things we didn’t intend to buy?” 

“Not the Convex!” Cub grins, hefting the smaller of the duo over his head, blue embers gleaming from their eyes. “We have enough protection amulets to destroy whatever Dolios got!” 

Xisuma opens his mouth to answer, but another voice cuts through the air, his own faltering and fading against his mask. “Now what reason could you have to go against Magistrate Dolios?” All of the hermits turn, seeing a squadron of members from the Guild of Gedeon, red tassels that mimic the Council’s golden ones fluttering in the wind. Behind them, the broom wielding merchant sticking her tongue out at the hermits. “Wait a minute- I think I’ve seen these scum before.” The center mage points at Mumbo. “You beat me in the duel!” 

Xisuma meets his gaze with TFC, both with their eyes wide. Behind him, Iskall rolls up his sleeves and snaps his gloves tight, ready for a fight. Mumbo’s fraught voice whispers out from beneath his mustache. “No one bought any smoke bombs, did they? Anyone?”

The guildmembers hear his words, and three magic circles rise. Mumbo shrieks and hides behind Grian. “Why did we have to send our two best fighters to Alphasgard?” 

Wind blusters against the hermits, tearing flags against their poles and sending the bazaar into chaos. Grian’s wings open, flight feathers brushing against the stone walls on both sides of the bazaar. He beats his wings down, and a gale force wind sends the bucket-headed goons of the Council knocking into one another, rolling down and into the mudcaked gutter. “Alright, I think the shopping spree is over guys. Time to bounce!” 

One second, the head mage is on his feet, the next he’s collapsed on the floor, snoring. Hypno’s wild purple magic circle twists in his hand, eyes blank and full of sleep while he searches his own mind. Digging through his dreams. The other two wizards slip their way out from the gutter, sharp spines of one’s spell driving forward like horns of a bull. But a dense fog appears in the midday sun. 

It’s also bright blue. Beef turns, taking the sudden cover as his chance to escape. All of the hermits follow suit, though Joe remains a few paces behind to follow Hypno. “Blue fog that smells faintly of cotton candy...I would love to study your psyche and dreams one day, my dear friend Hypno.”

[kirkwallgremlin]

Promises

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Carver & Bethany, 1370 words

15 year old Carver and Bethany discuss the possibility of life in the Circle and Carver makes a promise, one that will influence his choices in Kirkwall later in life, aka I got emotional about Hawke twins once again.

Lothering was beautiful in spring, the grass green and the sun bright and warm. Flowers bloomed along the bank of the river as the Hawke twins enjoyed a free afternoon, Bethany’s eyes closed as she took in the warmth as Carver’s knife whittled a stick to a point.

“Hey Carver,” Bethany said, her hand dangling limply in the water, the slow current brushing her fingers as she twisted to look at him. She dropped a leaf in the river, watching until it disappeared from view before she continued. “What do you think the Circles are really like?”

Carver wrinkled his nose in thought.

“Boring and full of rules, probably,” he said. “Father talks like they’re pretty strict. You’d probably hate it.”

Bethany poked her tongue out at him.

“Like you ever follow any rules,” she said. “You’ll drive Mother mad with it one day.”

“Garrett’ll drive her mad long before I do. Besides, you just don’t get caught.”

Bethany laughed, the water changing slightly as she moved her fingers. She raised a hand covered in tiny ice crystals, shards that caught the light, glinting before returning to their liquid form, dripping back into the water.

“What do you think would happen if they caught us?” she asked finally, her eyes watching the last of the water drip from her hand. “They don’t like any mages outside the Circles and there’s three of us. They’d take us all if they knew. And from what Father says, they’d likely send us across the country to split us up.”

“I’d follow you,” Carver said, meeting her gaze as earnestly as he could. “If you ever end up in the Circle, I’ll… I’ll find you. I’ll break you out. We can run away together, like Mother and Father did.” His chin raised in defiance with his words, defiance at the very idea the Templars could even try to keep him from his sister. He’d travel the length of Thedas and fight the stars themselves if it would keep her safe. “I’m not a mage, they wouldn’t try lock me up.”

“They might if you tried to break into one of the circles,” Bethany pointed out, splashing water at him. He threw a piece of grass at her.

“Then I’d escape. I’d run away from them and then I’d find you, no matter where they put you, and we’d run away like Mother and Father did,” he said. “And when you were safe, I’d go back and save Garrett and Father too,whenever they end up.”

“I don’t get to come and help rescue them?” Bethany asked, one eyebrow arched in question as she looked at him.

“Course you do,” Carver said. “We’d rescue them together. Can’t keep us Hawkes in a Circle.”

It was something he’d often heard his father say, in the privacy of their own home, with nobody around to report them and try to change the truth of that statement. And he knew his sister. He knew that if she was determined to help, to do anything really, then nothing would stand in her way.

Bethany lay back, the flowers cheerful around her as she relaxed into the grass. Carver returned to the piece of wood in his hands, continuing to work it to a point. He still wasn’t sure why, what purpose this particular stick would serve, but it was nice to have something to do with his hands.

“Do you think I’d be ok in a Circle? If they did catch us?” Bethany asked suddenly, sitting up again. “I don’t think I’d like it if they took me away. Especially if they took me from you.”

Carver didn’t quite know how to answer that, and Bethany seemed to recognise it.

“Where is this coming from, Beth?” he asked instead, frowning at her. “Did something happen?”

But she shook her head, steam now rising from the water around her fingers. Carver couldn’t imagine being able to do such things with just your hands but his family seemed to find it so easy. Sometimes he wondered what that must be like. Other times he was just grateful he didn’t have to know, didn’t ever have to fear being taken and locked away the way his sister did.

“Nothing happened,” she said. “There were some Templars in Lothering last week, new ones passing through. Father and I saw them. It just made me wonder, that’s all.”

“Oh.”

Neither of them had mentioned that there’d been new Templars around. Carver wondered if his brother had been told, or his mother. Did everyone know except him? Or had it really just been something inconsequential, not worth mentioning at all?

“I think you’d be fine,” he said. “Everyone always loves you and you can kick their asses if they don’t.”

“I think the Templars are there specifically stop that from happening,” Bethany pointed out but she sounded amused.

“Maybe I could be a Templar,” Carver said. “If I can’t get you out, I’ll just join you there. Then I can protect you anyway.”

“I’d feel safer with a Templar like you around,” she said. A small breeze brushed past them, catching a strand of hair, making it dance in front of her face, and Carver felt a particularly strong rush of affection for his twin, one stronger than usual. “You’d stop anything bad from happening, to me or to any other mage. I know it.”

“I won’t ever let anything bad happen to you, Bethany,” Carver said, reaching for his sister’s hand. “I promise.”

“Love you Carv,” she said, squeezing his hand.

“Love you Beth.” Carver gripped her hand firmly, more said between them with the simple contact than could have been said with words.

He found himself so caught up in the moment that he failed to see the glint that crept into his sister’s eyes, failed to see it coming when she yanked him forward, pulling him firmly into the water with a splash with an utterly wicked laugh.

* ~ *

The gates of Gallows stood tall and imposing, making Carver feel small as he stood between them. He felt even smaller now than he usually did, standing there alone, the enormity of the choice he was about to make in front of him.

The words his brother had spoken before departing on his Maker forsaken expedition echoed in his mind, mixing with his mother’s pleas to leave Carver behind. The Deep Roads was too dangerous for Carver, apparently, but she was happy to let his brother go, to risk himself without Carver there to even try and protect him.

He’d do anything to keep his family safe but he never seemed to get the chance. His father, lost to an illness he could do nothing to stop. His sister, who he had been too slow to protect. And now he was here, stuck in Kirkwall, praying desperately to the Maker that his brother came home in one piece, that the size of his family wouldn’t shrink to just two.

But as occupied as his mind was with his brother’s words, with his mother’s, it was a different conversation that played on his mind.

“I’d feel safer with a Templar like you around,” Bethany had told him that day, all those years ago. “You’d stop anything bad from happening, to me or to any other mage. I know it.”

It was too late to protect her now. Carver had promised to keep her safe, and he had failed, despite all of his best intentions, despite how hard he had tried, and he lived with that failure every day.

Carver may not have been able to keep his twin sister safe, may not have been given the opportunity to even try to help his brother return from the Deep Roads, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t try to help others. There were people, mages, just like Bethany, who deserved to be safe as well.

He paused a moment longer, taking a deep breath to steady his nerves before he stepped forward, heading towards the nearest Templars inside the fortress. They watched his approach.

“My name is Carver Hawke,” he said, trying to keep his voice loud and clear. “I want to talk to the Knight Commander.”

[enby-hawke]

For I Have Sinned Chapter 9

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Ship Malcolm/Leandra

Chapter 9: The Nightmare’s Wrath

TW for graphic violence, racist talk, exploitation of mages, and child abuse. I hope I'm not forgetting any. The Nightmare is not a happy guy. 

Word Count: 11682

Leandra held her family’s rosary, counting the beads between her fingers as she sang the Chant silently to herself. She knew she was at the Maker’s mercy at this point and she had no idea what kind of god he would be right now. Was Isaac innocent enough to be spared His wrath? Sometimes she knew not even that mattered. She had to be strong for her cousin and yet she could find no more strength within her. She needed to make that phone call, inform Revka and yet how could she?

 She felt frozen by death, he had come for her again. With her grandfather at least it was peaceful, in his sleep in his old age. But when the Hartlings were taken by an irreverent drunk driver who survived it himself, it shattered Mara, and she never quite recovered all the pieces.

 Leandra remembered Mara’s dark days. She stopped eating as if she had to punish herself that she still lived. Leandra would bring over meals from her favorite restaurants just to get her to take a few bites. The grief made Leandra awkward. She was so used to leaning on Mara when it came turn to lean on her, Leandra found she could only give old advice, that Mara would see her family again at the Maker’s side.

 But Mara asked a question that still scared Leandra to this day.

 “What if the Chant’s all bullshit and that’s just something people say so we don’t get sad?”

 Leandra didn’t know how to answer that. Mara was angry at the Maker and had lost her faith. Leandra didn’t know how to give it back to her when she had too many questions herself.

 The conversation ended awkwardly, with Leandra trying to get Mara to eat again. A sidestep. A misstep.

 Eventually Mara started pushing Leandra away and everyone else. She partied dangerously, experimenting with anything that could take the pain away for a few moments. Leandra dragged her out of  plenty of seedy   Lowtown houses and backwater bars with Mara fighting her every step of the way, only Gamlen able to calm and steady her.

 He saved her when Leandra couldn’t. He brought brightness back to her life and Leandra had never felt so helpless. Shallow. Useless. Like her faith was.

 She tried to make it up to Mara however she could, it was a regret she’d always hold.

 Now she was praying even as the shreds of her faith were left in tatters? Isaac barely turned nine. Revka had already lost him to the Circle, but to lose him to a demon, she didn’t think Revka would survive it.  

 How could the Maker be so cruel?

 And as much as her nephew’s death scared her, there was another regret Leandra found bubbling up that made her feel vulnerable, like she knew this would break her. Her eyes flicked to Malcolm, his presence so calming and assured. His honey eyes looked so resolute as he signed his death waiver without even a flinch.

 “Do you want to write out some last words to anyone? Any confessions you’d like to make to a priestess?” The First Enchanter asked, tiredness in his voice.

 “No need, I’m not dying,” Malcolm said in the same self-assured manner he always had.

 Leandra bit her lip, his hubris making her panic more than feel at ease and she said, “we should at least bring you to a Sister to give you the Maker’s blessing.”

 “Don’t need that, either,” he gave her that sexy lopsided grin that made her breath stutter even as his words dripped with blasphemy.

 Leandra opened her  mouth, her  words caught for a second, her cheeks hot. “A-are you really so arrogant that you think you don’t need the Maker’s protection?”

 Malcolm’s face then turned serious meeting her eye. “I’d rather skip the rituals. Isaac’s timeline is more important.”

 Leandra’s mouth dropped but found no argument. He made sense and yet to think he would go in the Fade again without the Maker’s hand guiding him. Her heart clenched frightened at how badly it ached at the thought of his loss. That he could die without her knowing what his touch felt like. This feeling felt too premature to be called love but it was so close, it scared her. Too soon, she thought, and yet she wondered now if she was also too late. Would the Maker see Malcolm’s arrogance as a slight and take both Isaac and him from her this day?

 She didn’t know what else to do. She took the rosary from her fingers, and draped the cord around Malcolm’s neck. “Then take this. It’s protected my family for generations.”

 She had held that rosary during every Mass, blessed her family every night with it, and though she hoped it would protect Malcolm she couldn’t see it as anything but a pretty trinket she carried for comfort. Maybe it would protect him, or maybe he could just wear it and think of her. She found she had no more use for it.

 Malcolm dangled the golden sun chain between his fingers as if he had caught the tail of a dead animal. “I do not need to be accused of stealing this.”

 Both the First Enchanter and the Knight Commander seemed surprised by Leandra’s gesture and was unsure what to make of it. “Hawke is right,” the Knight Commander said for the first time, “he’s too irresponsible to handle something so valuable.”

 Malcolm bristled at the implication in the Commander’s tone but Leandra was ahead of him. “Well then I’ll give it to him with all you as witnesses so now you can’t accuse him of thievery.” Her eyes glistened, as she looked at him, imploring him to accept this small token if not the Maker, of herself. “You need it more than I do.”  

 Malcolm’s shoulders dropped, letting the amulet fall against his black robes. He bowed his head in respect, his dark curls falling in his face. “Thank you for your generosity, my lady.” He then added with a wry chuckle, “though something with Isaac’s essence would help me more.”

 Without missing a beat Leandra said, “I have that, too.” She dug through her purse bringing out a children’s book with different automobiles with faces on it. It looked too rudimentary to belong to a nine year old but Leandra said, “This is Isaac’s favorite book. If he has trouble sleeping he might want you to read this just front to back again and again.” The Knight-Commander’s thin lip completely disappeared as she dug out a small cloth bag. “These are his building blocks. He might not warm up right away but if you start building something he’ll absolutely want to join in if you ask.” She closed Malcolm’s hands over the items as she handed them over, the smell of his clover musk soothing her frazzled nerves. “Would any of these help? He hasn’t held these in months.”

 Malcolm nodded, opening the bag with interest. He held a small bright red tile between his fingers. “No, I can tell these mattered to him. They are coated in his essence.” He dropped it back into the bag, the blocks clattering together as he closed it and he gave a reassuring smile. “I’m sure he’ll be thrilled to have these back.”

 That’s when the Knight-Commander finally intervened, “I can’t allow these. This goes against regulation.”

 Leandra’s shoulders snapped back in fury. “A child cannot have toys?”

 The First Enchanter leaned in. “Lady Amell, there are many mage children whose family cannot send them toys. It causes jealousy. It is better that he learns that the Circle is home.”

 Leandra couldn’t accept that. “And what home can it be if you’re so harsh that a child cannot play. Is it any wonder my nephew fell prey to a demon!?”

 The First Enchanter gathered the large stack of forms they had wasted time on between his gnarled fingers looking completely uncomfortable with Leandra’s temper that only seemed to be rising. “Lady Amell, please be civil. I understand you are stressed due to these events. Go home. Rest. It is in the Maker’s Hands now.”

 Leandra crossed her  arms, planting her   feet firmly. “Excuse me? I’m not going anywhere until Isaac is safe.”

 The First Enchanter tensed sharing a look with the Knight Commander. “My lady,” the wizard’s mustache twitched, “we don’t have the facilities to house a noble. Your safety must be maintained.”

��Leandra scoffed so hard it blew the bangs from her forehead. “For 10,000 sovereigns you’d better figure it out!”

 A snicker escaped Malcolm’s throat drawing the glares of both the Knight Commander and First Enchanter and that’s when Carver stepped in, an uncomfortable bystander to a convenient rescuer. He bowed his head to the Knight Commander offering a peaceful smile. “I believe the chapel can be isolated for the lady. There she can pray for her nephew’s recovery.”

 The Knight Commander pinched the bridge of his nose as if he had a headache and with a wince he said, “Fine.” His eyes then leveled his most intimidating glare to Leandra as he said, “but the Circle is a military institution, not a day spa. Don’t expect to be entertained.”

 Leandra met his glare with one of her own, though it looked like a chihuahua going after a pit bull. “Oh I’m entertained enough by the fact that you used my family’s misfortune to fatten your coffers. Dare I ask what happens to the mages whose families cannot meet your outrageous price?”

 And like a chihuahua, she went right for their knickers.

 They dropped their eyes from Leandra’s accusatory stare, their faces twisting into uncomfortable grimaces as the silence answered her question.

 Leandra’s heart hardened with more anger. What a barbaric place this was. She tightened her grip on the strap of her purse as she readied to dismiss herself. “Do your duty, gentleman, and know I will be watching.” Even if she had no powers of her own, she could at least hold them to that.

     ---

       Isaac was fine this morning. Malcolm still recalled the huge smile on his face and the boy was practically vibrating at breakfast. Ever since Leandra told him of their connection he made more of an effort to speak to the boy, though the conversations were mostly them making truck noises at each other. Today, though, when Isaac came to bus his tray for Malcolm, Isaac actually spoke words.

 “My mama’s coming,” he bounced up and down.

 “That’s awesome, little dude,” Malcolm offered him the usual friendly high five but the boy was so excited he ended up head bumping the flat of his hand shouting,

 “Beep!”

 It kinda hurt but Malcolm laughed regardless. Then Isaac turned to Taylor with the same excited smile, “My mama’s coming,” he repeated with the excited tone.

 “That’s wonderful, Isaac.” And when he got his praise from Taylor he turned to Charlie.

 To think so much could change in a few hours.

 The Harrowing Chamber still smelled like death and everything was as horrifying as Malcolm remembered it. The Fade here was thin, like a film and Malcolm could hear the faint echo of screams that still carried within the stone, thousands of deaths layered upon the other. If he closed his eyes he could see the last moments of mages meeting their ends.

 Lanterns lit the walls making the room dark and the shadows  bounced   off each other as the ground was discolored by various stains that they failed to scrub out. In the middle of the chamber was Isaac strapped down to a table, sweating profusely, his bangs sticking to his forehead as his body fought the demon the only way it knew how. A bright red barrier surrounded Isaac, keeping him in place in case the transformation completed. He whimpered as he thrashed in his nightmare, his voice still chanting in an echo that repeated itself;

 “My mama’s coming.”

 Along the walls lined the Templars surrounding Malcolm, their guns gleaming in the threat of his failure. The helms hid the Templar’s faces but he could feel the eager energy in the air, ready for slaughter.

 Malcolm’s hands were sweaty with nervousness as he waited for Senior Enchantress Karena to finish her spell.

 Malcolm fiddled with Leandra’s rosary, well his rosary now, but it was coated in her spiritual energy, almost making it feel like her arms were wrapped around his neck. It made him breathe easier in the nightmare of being back in this room. Gave him hope that there was some kind of future for the two of them after this.

 Enchanter Karena hunched over an ancient spellbook reading over the instructions, her glasses giving her fish eyes as she stirred different animal and plant parts into the lyrium brew. She seemed to be taking a long time, cutting things down into the smallest batches and scraping only the tiniest pinches into the mixture.

 Malcolm sat on the gurney that they had wheeled in for him, feeling antsy.  He gazed over the over at the cauldron, the mixture foul and pungent and heady.  “Do you need help?” he offered genuinely.

 The Enchantress scowled, “Excuse me, young man, I have made this spell hundreds of times.”

 Malcolm wasn’t sure how he offended her this time but he gritted his  teeth, biting back   his usual snark. “Look, I'm just trying to speed things along. Isaac doesn’t have a lot of time.”

 “Don’t rush me! If the ratio is off there can be dire consequences,” she snapped but then she turned back to the brew with a frown, “but I’ve never made such a weak concoction. With only one vial of lyrium I’m not sure there will be enough strength to pull you into the Fade.” She glared at  Malcolm, her   squinted eyes enlarged in glass. “If you were boasting, young man, that child will pay the price.”

 Malcolm scoffed. How many times must he prove himself? “I don’t need to boast.” If only he could slip into the Fade right now and skip this charade. He still had a tile from Isaac’s toy bag, even though Carver had to ‘confiscate’ everything else Leandra brought which also included some sour gummy worms, a phone and a drawing his sister made for him. Still, the tile would be enough to track his dream. He didn’t need this witch’s brew.

 Then Enchantress Karena pulled a vial from a case that was especially red, viscous. As soon as she uncorked it an iron smell filled the air.

 Malcolm didn’t like the way it tingled the hairs in his nostrils. He wasn’t sure what would happen if he drank that. He had never ingested lyrium before but he was sure it would make taking care of whatever demon assaulted Isaac a piece of cake.  Malcolm wrinkled his nose in recognition. “Is that what I think it is?”

 Enchantress Karena stiffened as she poured in the vial. “It’s the essence of life and will help tether you to Isaac.”

 Malcolm shook his head. In other words, Isaac’s phylactery.

 He watched as a portion of blood was mixed into the blue shimmery concoction causing it to bubble, the whole cauldron taking a purple sheen as she stirred. It thickened the air with a copper rain-like smell.

 “Soooo, how is this not blood magic?” Malcolm wrinkled his nose. Sure blood would be the easiest way to find his essence but he never expected the Chantry to actually resort to it.

 The Enchantress snarled. “This is nothing like blood magic, blasphemer!”

 Malcolm held up his hands in mock innocence. “Hey, I’m just asking a question. Don’t bite my head off.” Still he couldn’t help but feel like the Chantry were a bunch of hypocrites.

 An armored hand clapped his shoulder, gripping slightly in a warning to be quiet. “Let’s let the Senior Enchantress concentrate,” Carver’s voice echoed from underneath his square imposing helm.

 Malcolm sighed, dropping his shoulders as he relented. Of course the Circle sanctioned blood magic under the circumstances they deemed fit. He wasn’t sure why he was even surprised, but it made Malcolm wonder what other secrets the Circle was hiding.

 Carver bent over his eyes gleaming from the darkness of his helmet as he said in a low voice. “Don’t take any stupid chances in the Fade.”

 Malcolm  scoffed, whispering   back, “This isn’t my first hunt. I know what I’m doing.”

 “Still,”  Carver drew   his shoulders together, “it never hurts to be careful.” He lowered his helm to Malcolm’s ear and whispered, “what if it’s that terror demon?”

 Malcolm stiffened. He had considered that as a possibility, and his leg swung impatiently from his seat. “Isaac’s managed to hold on this long. Have a little faith.”  

 Carver nodded, the tension not releasing from his shoulders.

 Soon the purple brew darkened a few shades and the Enchantress took her spoon tapping off the extra liquid back into the cauldron, the sound echoing like a dull bell through the chamber. “It is done.” The Enchantress poured the concoction  into   a goblet and passed it to Malcolm. “Now drink every drop and lie down immediately.”

 Malcolm gagged as he stared at it. Thankfully there  were   only a few mouthfuls to swallow but along with blood he had seen animal organs and poisonous mushrooms ground in. His skin turned a shade greener as he held his breath, unable to take the raw odor.

 But then he remembered he could change the flavor and took a moment to weave the spell over his tongue before he knocked it back into his throat. He tasted strawberries again, but the texture still made him gag and there was still a distinct coppery taste that overlapped the flavor and burned into his nostrils. He forced himself to swallow before he coughed wishing he had soured something else. The liquid numbed his mouth and his throat and he found himself unable to say anything as he tried his best not to throw up.

 “Lie down,” she reminded him curtly, pressing his nails into his shoulder and back into the gurney.

 His head knocked  against a firm   cushion, the swirling feeling overtaking him as the room started to discolor and spin.

 She then snapped her head at Carver as she took Malcolm’s arm and strapped him down with the leather bindings. “Bind him firmly, Knight Captain.”

 Carver obeyed, his helm obscuring his expression, but his fingers shook as he bound his friend’s limbs tightly to the gurney.

 The ceiling melded into indescribable colors but then Malcolm realized it was because the Enchantress had activated the containment barrier they had drawn around Malcolm. The room was swirling as his skin prickled with energy, the lyrium buzzing in his blood so it seemed to be singing.

 The pull was immediate, the room melting away and replaced by images of a green sky, the stone walls growing into jagged hills as a road stretched before him, unpaved and uneven the hills glittering with the darkest obsidian. The Fade felt so real, the air smelling like the sea, the gravel crunching beneath his body as he pushed himself upright from the ground.

 Usually traversing the Fade felt like walking through a memory, details not always in focus, but he could see every whorl on his fingers, feel the breeze wafting through his hair, smell the dirt coming from his clothes. He looked behind him and saw that he was trapped on an island, a sharp fall into a bottomless chasm that stretched out like the sea. The island stretched upwards and upwards into a tower so high that the clouds  obstructed the view   from the top. The other islands lay barren and pulverized, every path destroyed except the one forward.

 Malcolm thought for a second that he had been deposited to the gates of the Black City but when he gazed over the chasm, there it  hung   in the sky, looking closer than ever. He plucked the Fade strings with his fingers, reaching out to Compassion.

 She didn’t answer him.

 In fact nothing did.

 That’s when Malcolm noticed there was something strange about the way the Fade here was constructed. For one the usual hum of spirit chatter was nonexistent, the Fade strings seemingly gnarled and cut up. He could sense no connection to any spirits like he was a shorting circuit, and it gave Malcolm a sense of unease. He couldn’t read the terrain like he usually could. It just seemed like the whole area was frozen in a silent scream. The memories of the Fade had been stripped completely blank somehow.

 “Somniari?” Compassion’s voice finally rang out in his mind and he flinched like he had been burnt, but the feeling faded into discomfort. The hair on the back of his neck stood at end as the voice coated him, primal fear seeding in him, but he was quickly reminded of his previous conversation with Compassion and bit down the feeling as best he could so he would not warp her.

 “A child is in danger of being possessed,” he said aloud, the connection starting to feel more familiar each second, the unease subsiding as he chalked it up to being in the middle of a demon’s web. “I could use the backup.”

 “A child? Oh dear, I must come immediately,” her voice said with more enthusiasm than usual. Malcolm thought it odd, but before he could think much on it she appeared before him, her robes more fitted than before. Her eyes burned brightly, but the azure color a shade more lilac than he remembered, but no sooner than he thought that in a blink, the color looked more familiar, and Malcolm chalked it up to a trick of the light.

 “Thanks for getting here so quickly,” Malcolm kept polite, but his eye never left Compassion studying her as she took in her surroundings in interest.

 She gazed down at the abyss, her braid dangling almost like a snake with how it moved.

 Forcing down uncertainty he said, “I think I sense Zefuckwad here, but I’m not completely sure. Something’s wrong with this place, right?”

 Compassion’s eyes flashed as the corner of her lips quirked in a smile for once not correcting Malcolm’s mispronunciation. “This realm is sundered, memories swallowed, but whether it is the work of Zelophehad remains to be seen.” Her voice tripped over the terror demon’s name, and for a moment it seemed like the Fade stirred, as if it flinched.

 Malcolm could agree with her assessment. There was no memory in the stone, no whispers telling him of secret knowledge. “I’m certain,” he suppressed a shiver. “Only felt like this once before. And the fact Isaac was taken doesn’t feel like a coincidence.”

 The spirit pricked up at Isaac’s name. “I sense your connection to the boy. He is precious to you?”

 Malcolm’s gut twisted. “Not to me,” he admitted. He suddenly wished he had made more of an effort to build a connection. The boy seemed lonely. He never seemed to hang out with anyone his own age, but clung to his teacher’s skirts.

 “Ah,” Compassion cocked her head in sudden understanding. “The connection is to the one is Bound to your heart. My mistake.”

 Malcolm suddenly felt uncomfortable, unsure what was relevant about this conversation, though to hear Leandra was Bound to his heart did strike a sense of joy in him. He could sense the Compassion spirit watching his reaction in interest and he decided it was time to change the subject.

 “I can track Isaac,” Malcolm said, feeling the block that still was tucked in his physical hand. He pinched his fingers, feeling the ridges, and soon the little plastic red tile formed shining brightly. He let the tile go, letting it take life. It blinked in it’s yellow light, flitting around in a circle as if it was trying to  get a sense   of direction.

 “Impressive,” Compassion nodded, “and so what do you need me for?”

 Malcolm touched the tile and it spun, glowing like a star in the murky Fade. “To keep me alive.”

 The tile floated like a wisp, droplets of light leaving after images of where it flew. It darted up the rocky path bouncing up and down as it waited for it’s master to follow. Malcolm sighed, dropping his shoulders as his feet crunched up the rocky steps.

 The castle hills were craggy that slid down and threatened to plummet them into the chasm below. The walls of the castle crowded them against the cliff, as if they were reaching for Malcolm. Some of the steps crumbled beneath his feet, the rocks clattering down to the bottom and into the pit. The beacon stayed in sight flitting just out of reach leading Malcolm higher and higher until they reached a deserted courtyard. Ruined rubble filled the area, the grass dead brown and dry. Two beheaded statues guarded a dark murky portal that served as the castle’s door. The beacon floated between the crossed axes of the statues spinning in place before it sucked into the hazy rippling portal with a bloop.

 Malcolm looked to Compassion. “Isaac’s inside but I don’t like the idea of just charging in blindly.”

 Compassion looked between the cracks of one of the large walls  that   caged them in, her lips in a small thin line. “What are you suggesting?”

 Malcolm thought for a second. He had never had to be so careful on a hunt before and he wanted to do this as stealthily as possible. “Can you coat me with your essence? I can hide my physical form but if the demon can track my aura it would be pointless.”

 Compassion looked hesitant, even though the request seemed simple enough. “Your aura is so powerful I’m not sure mine will do much to mask it.”

 “Do you have a better idea?”

 She smiled. “I do,” she then opened her hand and in a flash of white light a staff of dark gnarled twisted wood with long purple thorn spikes appeared in her hand. “This is Thornheart. Use it in the coming battle.”

 As Malcolm’s fingers wrapped around the shaft, his hair raised up in alarm. He had never felt so much power in his hand, and he suddenly felt stronger, faster, more alert. He balanced the staff, feeling the ridges of the bark beneath his fingers, an unsettled feeling sinking inside him. “Not sure if a branch is going to help me.”

 “It is my soul in solid form. It is the greatest aid I can offer.”

 Malcolm felt her power seeping into him, her foreignness feeling like a leather glove over his skin. The way the magic melded together made him slightly nauseous, like he had gorged on too many sweets. The energy gave  him   a buzzing feeling, and he felt like he needed to run a few laps to burn it off. He ignored that and waved the staff instead, trying to pull parts of the Fade into himself to help mask his presence. By the second turn of the staff he was completely invisible.

 “I’m right behind you,” Compassion spoke in his direction though it offered no comfort.

 Malcolm gritted his teeth as he looked at the portal, feeling that familiar darkness lurking within. The demon could have wiped Isaac out at any second, but Isaac was alive, being toyed with. And Malcolm felt responsible for putting him there. If he was smart enough to use  the boy   as bait, then this changed everything.

 With a steadying breath, he steeled himself for the worst and stepped inside.

 Suddenly he was in a mansion, grander than he had ever stepped in before. Kids' drawings filled the walls and toys were everywhere, servants surrounded them in a flurry as they brought down luggage from a grand staircase. A tall brown man with a silky mustache that connected to his beard and a wide nose was walking down the stairs as two screaming children held his legs, one a little girl with long brown hair and bright brown eyes, and the other boy he recognized as Isaac.

 “Daddy please,” the little girl held onto his pants leg as if she was holding onto her life. “Daddy please don’t go.”

 Isaac just kept repeating the same phrase over again like a mantra. “I’m sorry.”

 The man practically kicked his children off. “Get off me! I’m not your father. Your mother’s a cheating whore.”

 Malcolm clenched his fist, ready to clock the man, but moving in dreams was not like moving through life. Each part was played by a different demon, only Isaac the true player. Malcolm stepped closer to the family, waiting for his moment to strike.

 The man headed for the door, Isaac dragging on his heels. “Daddy,” he sobbed, snot bubbling down his nose. “Daddy. I love you.”

 The man recoiled as if he had been hit. He bared his teeth, “You are a thing. You don’t even work right. There is no way I am your father.”

 That’s when Malcolm almost swung, but before Malcolm could, another demon came from one of the back rooms and started throwing clothes at the man. She was a plump woman with warm caramel skin and a long satin dress. “Get out!” she screamed. “Say no more words to my children and leave before you infect them with more poison.”

 The man’s nostrils flared. “Gladly. Just don’t come running after me for coppers to feed these creatures.”

 She huffed, angry tears in her eyes. “As if I ever needed your money.”

 The man slammed the front door in Isaac’s face, almost smashing his fingers. “Daddy,” he said in a broken voice.

 His mother scooped him up as he cried  on her   shoulder, Malcolm breathing a sigh of relief. Now he just needed to find a way to speak to Isaac to wake him up without alerting the rest of the demons. He tried to find where Compassion was in the nightmare but she had gone oddly silent ever since he stepped through.

 The boy sobbed into his mother’s chest, the other little girl reached for her with outstretched hands as she joined in the family cry.

 “I’m sorry, loves, I’m sorry,” Isaac’s mother wiped her children’s eyes. “We’re cursed. We’re a cursed family. This is all my fault.”

 Malcolm tensed as Isaac renewed his wailing.

 The little girl stopped crying and  said.   “Mama, how do we break the curse?”

 The woman smiled through her tears as she cupped the little girl’s face. “It’s simple. We die.”

 Isaac took fistfuls of his  mother's skirts  . “Mama, no. Mama, no.”

 The woman took hold of his chin with a razor smile. “Oh, my sweet  child, I   should have drowned you at birth. It would have saved you so much suffering.”

 That’s when Malcolm finally revealed himself, slicing the demon’s hand with a wave of his staff. He gra

 “Mama!” A frightened Isaac elbowed Malcolm in the face.

 Malcolm gave him some more room but didn’t let him go.

 “That’s not your mother, look at her more closely,” he struggled to keep the boy still. He was surprisingly strong for his small size.

 The boy reached out for his Mother, her arm not bleeding as much as it should. Her teeth and eyes looked sharper but it didn’t seem to matter to Isaac. He couldn’t see past his nightmare.

 The woman waved with her unhurt hand. “Isaac. Mama’s leaving now. And she’s never      ever    coming back.”

 “No, that’s not your mom. Your Mom is waiting for you to wake up, little dude,” Malcolm forced the boy to face him but  Isaac's eyes   couldn’t leave  his   mother.

 Isaac’s Mother grabbed his sister’s hand and with a sly smile turned her hand on the doorknob. And then Malcolm realized his mistake. He had forgotten to protect the portal.

 As soon as the woman opened the door every corner of the room filled with blackness, the only slits of light now emanating from the  goat's eyes   splitting from the darkness. The servants and Isaac’s family started to warp as the nightmare changed into more sinister shadow forms. Isaac’s outstretched hand lay frozen as the face of his mother morphed into Compassion.

 Except now Malcolm could finally see that it wasn’t Compassion at all. The demon was wearing Compassion’s face, but her skin was now too purple, her eyes darkening to a malevolent shade of violet glowing like embers.

 A desire demon. Her brown hair started to float as it mimicked the fire that should be on her head.

 Malcolm instinctively reached for his weapon but the staff wrapped around his wrists, thorns snaking into his arms and into his torso. Malcolm let Isaac go before the thorns could wrap around him, too.

 Malcolm tried to speak, tried to tell Isaac to wake up, but only blood coughed out of his mouth.

 “Mama?” Isaac cowered from the figure in confusion, his eyes and heart seeming to wrestle with  what was happening  .

 The Desire demon outstretched both arms, her hand regrown into  thorn-like   points, her robes turning into flowing strands of silk. “Bound and offered, Master, as you commanded. I told you my plan would  work  .”

 The goat eyes swirled in amusement as another figure loomed in the portal forming in the tendrils. “So you said, Avarice. I am most impressed.”

 Malcolm’s spine chilled, trying to move, but the more he struggled the more it hurt. He could feel something stabbing his heart, keeping him from speaking, but even if he could his words would be stolen from him. The voice the demon took raised all of Malcolm’s hair on end and he withheld a tremble as his father stood before him.

 The elf was all lean muscle, his fists scarred and fingers broken from fistfights and punching walls. Malcolm forgot how much he looked like his father, the same nose, the same shaggy curls, the same smattering of freckles, even his eyes were the same shade of gold except instead of regular pupils they were square like a goat. They blinked eerily, the corner of his eyes and lips wrinkled into sharp lines.

  Malcolm knew he made a mistake but he was so focused on Zelophehad he had never considered the demon would team up with another to trick him, never considered that the demon would successfully dig out the thing in his psyche that would freeze him in place. He watched helplessly as the Desire demon sauntered up the steps towards Isaac, holding her arms out in a welcoming hug.

 “Come to Mama.”

 Isaac stood his ground, trembling in fear. “Y-you’re…not…” The boy couldn’t finish his sentence. He stood instinctively near Malcolm, even though there was nothing Malcolm could do to protect him at this point.

 Malcolm tried to push through the pain, his panic riding against him in an oncoming wave, but couldn’t let himself be overcome. He saw only one option, and he started to subtly weave threads from the tips of his fingers towards Isaac.

 The demon was coming closer, faster, it was hard to focus on weaving the magic with the fear eating at his nerves.

 “Your mama’s never coming back. But I can be your mama. I promise I’ll never abandon you, child.”

 Malcolm panicked as the demon closed in, about to grab Isaac but before she could Zelophehad blinked beside the demon and grabbed her wrist. He raised a thick eyebrow, his sneer almost a smile. “And what are you doing with my snack?”

 The Desire demon looked too terrified to fight, but the confusion on her face was apparent. “M-master, I thought this was what was agreed?”

 WIth a flick of Zelophehad’s wrist, he broke the demoness’ wrist and she howled in pain staggering back. “I agreed to let you have my scraps, but if you’re so impatient you’re welcome to be included on the menu.”

 The demoness looked conflicted. The anger was apparent on her face. “This is how you repay my service? You will reap what you sow.”

 Then she blinked away from sight leaving Malcolm alone with his terror demon.

 Malcolm had forgotten how overpowering the demon’s presence was, blanking out thought.

 Isaac shuffled towards Malcolm grabbing his hand in fright, and Malcolm squeezed back, trying to offer what comfort he could.

 “So shall I eat the boy first?” the demon circled them lazily, slouching with confident ease. Tendrils of dark tentacles circled around his legs and snaked up his arms reaching out to taste the fear on Malcolm’s bound body. “Or will you chivalrously go first?”

 Every movement still shredded him, but he found with Avarice gone, her magic was no longer overpowering and he could force himself to speak. “Real cocky considering you made your servant do your dirty work.”

 “And why not?” Zelophehad said with a gleeful smile. “Is it not what they are for?”

 Malcolm scoffed, though that made a thorn stab deeper into his ribs. He held onto Isaac’s hand his Fade strings wrapping around his balled fist. He saw only one way out of this. “You haven’t won, yet.”

 “Good,” the demon grinned. “I like a meal that has fight. Let’s see how brave you are after I eat your charge.” Then the tendrils wrapped around Isaac pulling him towards the demon.

 Isaac screamed, squeezing onto Malcolm’s hand, and Malcolm  pulled, wrapping   the rest of the Fade strings firmly around Isaac.

 Malcolm closed his eyes, diving into the depths of his psyche and pulling Isaac along with him. He felt the pain intensify as Zelophehad tried to rip Isaac away from him, but Malcolm pulled them safely both into the safety of his mind.

 Their spirits tumbled as the Fade tried to give form to their consciousness, Isaac and Malcolm’s memories melding together in projections in every corner he saw, the overlapping memories serving as the Fade’s usual hum. Malcolm could feel the terror demon ripping  off the w  alls of his defenses, following him inside. He was at his most powerful since it was his mind therefore his dream, but he was also cornered, trapped. If the terror demon managed to overwhelm him here, he had no more tricks to pull, no hidden hole to dive in.

 Malcolm wouldn’t have done this if he had another choice.

 He needed to become conscious, take control of the dream, find Isaac and wake them both back to safety, but that was easier said than done. The Fade had not become so much as moldable clay but a projection of thoughts and wants sprung to life with just a breath. Any stray thought, no matter how tiny, could derail everything.

 It took all of Malcolm’s energy to focus in the dream fog, like a dulling drug to his senses muting his thoughts. Isaac. He needed to find Isaac. He repeated the name in his head, not allowing any other thoughts to surface. He suddenly recalled something Leandra said after gifting him the rosary, which was like a warm tether on his neck. Without another thought he tore off parts of the Fade and reshaped them into brightly colored blocks.

 And started building a simple wall. He clicked the pieces together, slowly building as he started to recite what he could remember from the book Leandra brought.

 “In this big wide world,

 We all have a place

 Every bee needs it’s rose,

 Every rose needs it’s vase.”

 Soon the walls formed into a house where he left room for a couple windows and an opening for the door. The shadows of Isaac’s memories strengthened with each stack of the block, as Malcolm led his spirit back to him.

 “But where do the broken and stinky things go?

 When the pen in the ink refuses to flow

 Do we keep all the clutter? Does anyone know?”

 “Yes,” a small voice finally answered him, “it goes in Mr. Dumpdump’s tow.”

 He looked up from his work to see that Isaac had joined him, taking the blocks in his hands with focused effort as he started crafting his build.

 “Hey, little dude,” Malcolm sighed in relief. “Are you ready to get out of here?”

 But Isaac wasn’t listening to Malcolm. His eyes never left his hands as he built up the walls of his structure with impressive speed, all while reciting the book like a mantra.

 “He takes what is bad

 So things can be good

 Isn’t he the best neighbor

 In the whole neighborhood?”

 The Fade churned as the walls of the dream struggled to take shape in the competing mindscapes of Isaac and Malcolm, the familiar Circle the only common ground for the Fade to form in. Malcolm could tell Isaac was paler than usual, his eyes seemingly blank as if he was far away and not at all aware what his hands were doing. The Fade was practically responding to his creative urges forming walls around him, as if he was trying to block himself in.

 Malcolm crept up to Isaac, his fingers reaching out hesitantly. “I’m going to wake you up, now, but I need you to trust me.”

 “How can you trust him?” Revka’s disembodied voice rang shrilly across the Fade. Suddenly Revka was there dressed in fitted royal purple silk, her brown hair loose around her shoulders. She outstretched a pointed nail at Isaac, her pupils too square to be human but everything else was a remarkable likeness. Yet Isaac was frozen, staring at the image of his Mother with a tremble as he fumbled with his blocks. “Come to Mama, Isaac. Let me in.”

 Malcolm stepped closer, imploring Isaac to listen. “She’s not real. Your real Mom is waiting for you to wake up.”

 The demon smirked with a sharp toothed smile. “I’m your Mama. This elf is the one who is not real. Why would he help you?”

 Isaac blinked at Malcolm, his eyes suddenly filled with distrust.

 Malcolm held up his hands showing open palms forming no spells. “This is a bad dream, Isaac. You can end it now if you wake up.”

 “If you wish hard enough you could have more than just this little reality,” Revka’s laugh tittered as the Fade started to shape into what Malcolm could only guess was some twisted form of Isaac’s old bedroom. The building blocks seemed to take a life of their own building into the sides of the room. Kids drawings filled the walls and books filled dragon shaped shelves. Revka sat down on Isaac’s bed, her fingers beckoning him to come closer.

 Isaac’s eyes filled with tears. “I-I can’t.”

 Malcolm dared to take one step closer to Isaac. “Let me help you wake up.”

 The Nightmare growled, the room distorting color. “He wants to kill you. Don’t let him get close!”

 Isaac froze, as if he didn’t consider that and backed away from Malcolm. When Malcolm took another step closer Isaac took another step back closer to the Nightmare.

 Malcolm gritted his teeth, wondering what he could do to prove to Isaac that he was really him and not some twisted imitation. He needed to prove to Isaac he was real, but he didn’t know how.

 And then it hit him and Malcolm took a deep breath and belted out the loudest most obnoxious “HOOOOOOOONK!” he could manage.

 The Nightmare blinked in confusion as the boy broke down in a fit of surprised giggles.

 Malcolm joined in the carefree laughter, ignoring the glaring Nightmare demon and said, “Hey, don’t leave me hanging. Your turn.”

 The boy didn’t hesitate, he threw back his head and screamed, “HOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOONK!” in a louder, more obnoxious way that only a 9 year old could manage.

 The Nightmare’s forces seemed to be shrinking in the laughter and the demon scowled. “How undisciplined. I guess it’s time to punish you until you listen.”

 Then the Nightmare leapt, his claws forming into long scythe-like points as he raked for Isaac.

 Malcolm twisted the Fade around the Nightmare and turned into a crushing prison, paralyzing the demon for a moment but he wasn’t sure with its strength how long it would hold.

 He turned back towards Isaac who was now huddling behind his constructed wall, his head in his knees and his hands over his ears.

 Malcolm crept beside him. “Little dude,” he said in a hurried voice. “You need to wake up now.”

 “I c-can’t,” he sobbed into his knees, holding fistfuls of his hair.

 The demon howled in pain, causing Isaac to tremble.

 Malcolm reacted with haste touching his forefingers to each side of Isaac’s temples, pouring his magic into him.

 Isaac popped up socking Malcolm in the jaw as he gasped in shock.

 The jab hurt but Malcolm held firm and Isaac’s next fist went through Malcolm as he faded back into the waking realm where he was safe from the Nightmare’s grasp.

 Suddenly a claw wrapped around his neck, digging into his skin but no sooner did the Nightmare grab hold did he fling his hand back like he was burnt.

 Malcolm looked down to find the rosary around his neck glowing in what he could only describe as a heavenly light.

 Warm trickles of blood seeped down Malcolm’s neck and when he touched the cord it grew hot. A strange and unfamiliar sensation ran through him.

 Malcolm wasn’t sure what happened. That was no spell he weaved and yet the demon seemed to eye his rosary with a wariness that he didn’t reserve for the man himself.

 The Nightmare’s face contorted, its shape shifting into several darkspawn like forms before it settled onto the face of Malcolm’s father, but Malcolm was a bit more ready for it this time. Still the sight of the man before him made him take an uneasy step back, his nerves instinctively screaming at him to wake up from this nightmare.

 “Are you going to face me like a man or run like a rabbit?”

 Malcolm clenched his fists, the slur even from a demon like a punch to the gut. Still, he knew when he was being baited. “Yeah real manly going after a child. You really do take after my father.”  Part of him wanted to throw every spell he knew at his disposal. It was his dream, but he was facing the Nightmare. He knew it was smarter to run.

 “I’ll take that as a compliment,” the demon examined his burn in disinterest, a casual smirk on his lips. “But I have to say if you don’t get rid of me now, I only plan to become a bigger problem.” He tapped a finger on his lip. “Shall I try to eat Charlie next? Taylor?”  

 Malcolm’s heart froze in his chest as the Nightmare’s golden goat eyes seized him in place with the next name that fell from his smirking lips.

 “Leandra has been looking awfully delicious,” the Nightmare fell back to the rosary neck and gestured to his burned hand imprinted with its beads. “Shall I pay her a visit now that you’ve generously supplied her essence?”

 Malcolm saw red, sending crackling energy at the demon but it disappeared in a blink and his lightning bolt hit a wall of colorful blocks scattering them.

 The demon suddenly appeared behind him delivering a stunning blow to the back of Malcolm’s head.

 He saw stars as he struggled to reorient himself. He sent a clumsy fireball at the demon’s direction, but even if the demon didn’t teleport out of reach again the ball would’ve barely grazed the demon.

 Malcolm was ready for the Nightmare to be in his blindside again, and moved to dodge, but his foot was caught. He looked down to see that a tentacled hand had wrapped around his ankle from the floor and prevented him from missing the crushing blow to his nose that made his eyes water.

 Blood spattered from his face, streaming down his nose so he couldn’t breathe. It felt broken. Jostled, he picked himself up enough only for a blow to the chest that knocked the wind out of him.

 This went on for a while, Malcolm barely keeping his footing as he absorbed blow after blow that he was too slow to react from, each spell dying in his hand before he could fling it. He was unsure why the demon chose to use his fists over something more lethal like magic or claws or anything, but Malcolm realized that even with those goat eyes when he was staring at that face the punches hurt more, his reflexes were more hesitant, and that familiar taunting laugh tripped him off balance.

 This didn’t feel so much of a fight as a beating.

 “What’s the matter, boy?” The demon punched Malcolm in the stomach, avoiding the rosary by inches. There was an unexpected weight behind each punch but this one felt like being hit by a freight train and Malcolm keeled over, almost throwing up blood. “Weren’t you supposed to be teaching me a lesson?”

 The demon then knelt beside Malcolm's crumpled form and caressed his curls fondly, which made Malcolm shiver as distant memories were quickly brought to the surface. “I’m going to take everything you love sooner or later. You have two choices, the painful way, or the less painful way. It’s up to you.”

 Malcolm tried to flee, to wake himself up, but all he could do more was cough and gasp as he tried to breathe through his pain, the memories of his childhood terror so fresh, he was trembling. His voice was caught in a web he couldn’t get out of. All he could do is touch the rosary around his neck, praying for the help that burned the demon before.

 The Nightmare seemed to sense this so he sighed, grabbing fistfuls of Malcolm’s curls. “The painful way, then.”

 One punch shattered his nose.

 “Even if Leandra loves you, she’ll always love her status more.” Malcolm struggled to breathe as another punch knocked out a tooth. “They’ll laugh at your children.” Another punch dislocated his jaw. “What kind of a father will you be anyways?” By the fourth punch he was losing consciousness, and he struggled to grasp for his body in the waking world before it was too late. Suddenly the Nightmare stopped and took in a heavy annoyed sigh.

 “You are intruding, little spirit.”

 Malcolm’s spotty vision noticed a blinding glow in the darkness in the room. He raised his head to see Compassion, the real Compassion shining brilliantly, a rainbow crystal staff wielded in her hands.

 “Have you not feasted enough, Zelophehad? Is your hunger so great you must swallow everything in your path?”

 The demon smirked malevolently, his bloody knuckles cracking as he clenched his fist. “My gluttony is boundless. My wrath is unquenchable. My greed unsatiable. A little compassion will do nothing to stop me.”

 Compassion stood vigilantly, unshaken, her staff brightening with indescribable colors from the carved crystals. “That’s where you’re wrong.”

 She met Malcolm’s gaze, his head trapped in Zelophehad’s fist, her azure fire eyes burning. “Somniari, trust me,” And then Compassion turned the crystals to the ground, and poured light that made the floor glitter like diamonds.

 “Awaken again, my friends,” Compassion poured more healing magic into the Fade, the air brightening to a more normal greenish hue.

 The demon hissed, dropping Malcolm to cut off Compassion.

 Malcolm hit the floor with a thud, breathing in the magic, that seemed to soothe his aching, broken body. Suddenly, the Fade was no longer silent, a rush of hurried frightened whispers of the particles of the Fade woke up and filled up Malcolm’s thoughts with indecipherable chatter.

 “Shut up!” Zelophehad bellowed as he dove for Compassion, his claws coming out to scythe-like points but she blinked out of sight and then beside Malcolm.

 She knelt down and touched him with her iridescent hand.

 The magic was almost instant. In one breath, everything ached, like shards of bone were digging into his gut, his eye was swollen shut, his nose too mangled to breathe through, and then in the next moment it was like coming up from a cool pond. There was an uncomfortable sensation of bones knitting back into place, as a cooling healing touch soothed his burning skin. In a few moments he could move more normally again, his vision clear, his mind alert.

 Zelophehad growled holding up his hand and a beam of concentrated dark light shot towards Compassion. Malcolm, still grounded, threw up a barrier without thinking, and Compassion did the same. The double barriers cracked but held but the force still blew them back. Zelophehad kept the assault, making the beam bigger, the energy arcing wildly.

 “Wake up!” Compassion ordered.

 Malcolm balked, his energy being drained by trying to keep the barrier reinforced. “Don’t you need help?”

 “You’re in the way,” she sneered, which was like a slap in the face to Malcolm. Still, as much as that stung he couldn’t argue that he pretty much had his ass handed to him that fight.

 “Fine,” he scoffed, pulling back the magic, and reaching for his body back in the waking world. As he did, the barrier started to crack, light showing through.

 Malcolm hesitated, pouring more magic into the barrier.

 “I have this handled. Flee, you fool!” Compassion hissed, the crystals of her staff quivering in effort. Suddenly the Fade air shimmered around Compassion, sealing the cracks in her barrier as soon as they formed.

 Malcolm wasn’t sure what Compassion’s plan was, but it was clear she knew more about what she was doing than Malcolm did, so he pulled back his magic completely, and concentrated on reaching his body. It was quicker with the lyrium in his system. He could feel the buzz of it speed up his magic in a way he didn’t think possible so that instead of falling he felt like he was flying back. He was unsure what magic Leandra had given him, but all he knew was that she saved him.

 Red light finally filtered through his eyes, and he opened them quickly to find blood all over his face and robes and every templar pointing a gun at him. Even Carver.

 Malcolm gulped nervously, his limbs still bound to the gurney. He found himself struggling not to panic at the sight of his friend holding a barrel at him. “I’m not possessed.”

 Carver lowered his gun slightly, but there was a hesitancy to it. “I’m sorry Malcolm, but we’re going to need a test.”

 Malcolm’s gut dropped. He had forgotten that Carver was still a templar though it would be harder to forget in this moment. He gave a nervous, bloody grin and said. “Yeah, dude, whatever you need.”

 Carver walked up to the barrier and turned to the Senior Enchanter and said, “lower it.”

 Enchanter Karena nodded and with a wave of her staff the red barriers around Malcolm and Isaac came down.

 Carver looked over at Isaac who was strapped to his own bed with a frightened look on his face.

 “I’m not going to hurt you,” Carver said in the most soothing voice as he could manage, though it was hard to believe with his gun strapped to his side.

 He took out a device that looked like a small tablet and scanned Isaac’s head. Isaac squirmed to the side as the device beeped and fed Carver information. It was supposed to be the templar’s foolproof way of thwarting possession, looking for extra brain waves or unusual activity. Though sometimes mages that looked completely fine were sometimes pulled because of weird readings so it never failed to make Malcolm nervous.

 Though whatever was on the screen seemed to satisfy Carver. He started unbinding the straps, turning to the Senior Enchanter and said, “get this boy into the infirmary. He’s very weak.”

 She nodded and hurried to Isaac, unbinding him fully so he could stretch out his arms and legs. He sat up reluctantly, helped by the Enchantress, who proceeded to cover him with a blanket to help with his shiver.

 Carver approached Malcolm with the scanner, and ran it over his head.

 Malcolm could hear the device whirring and beeping. This wasn’t the first time he’d been scanned but it never failed to heighten his nerves.

 Carver’s voice was a whisper as he eyed the drying blood on Malcolm’s face. “Are you alright?”

 To be honest Malcolm wasn’t sure. His body didn’t ache anymore, but the pain was like a ghost haunting him, his father’s cruel mocking laugh still ringing in his ears. He wondered for a second if Compassion made it out alright, or if he had gotten her killed. He might have gotten Isaac safely back, but this felt like a defeat.

 “I just need to see Leandra,” his voice was almost begging. He wasn’t even sure if it was protocol, but he just needed a moment, so it all could mean something. He wasn’t sure if he would last if he didn’t end the day at least seeing her face.

 Carver started unstrapping his ties as the templars lowered their guns hesitantly, looking at each other in disappointment. “Let’s get you cleaned up first.”

       ---

       Revka’s sobs filled the chapel as she squeezed Leandra’s hand in a vice-like grip. She had taken the first plane back to Kirkwall and had stormed the Circle, along with Guillaume, Mara and Gamlen who had generously picked her up from the airport. (Well Mara and Gamlen were supposed to, but Guillaume insisted on coming to show support to Leandra.)

 Now the five of them were huddled in a group prayer as they begged the Maker for Malcolm to succeed.

 The nuns were all very accommodating, reciting the proper Chants with them, and invoking protections on Isaac on Malcolm from afar, though Leandra felt so powerless she felt like she was only doing it to keep her and Revka sane. Because they had to do something to make the time pass.

 When asked about the rosary during prayer, because Leandra always prayed with her rosary, she evasively said she lost it and hoped it would never come up again. She was surprised when Gamlen scolded her, because he wasn’t particularly religious. Still, she knew what he would think if she told him the truth.

 “It’s my fault,” Revka sobbed, breaking from the Chant as she crumpled in exhaustion. The others broke off from the Chant, looking away to give Revka the privacy of a breakdown. Even Gamlen didn’t have anything smart to say for once.

 “No,’ Leandra squeezed her hand. “You can’t think that.”

 The tears streamed from her eyes as she shook her head. “What kind of Mother is not there for her children? Colette’s all alone at home. I had to abandon Anna during our visit and now Isaac...is lost.”

 Leandra pulled Revka in for a hug unsure of what other comfort to offer. “Have faith in the Maker, Revka. He will deliver Isaac.”

 ‘And Malcolm,’ she added silently. She didn’t dare say his name aloud while Guillaume was by her side.

 Suddenly the doors to the chapel pulled open and all of them turned to see who disturbed them. Carver and the Knight Commander stepped through, side by side, Leandra deflated, thinking that they were by themselves when Malcolm finally lagged behind, a noticeable sag to his shoulders and a sluggishness to his steps.

 Revka stood up and pushed her way forward towards the Knight Commander. “Isaac. He is safe?” It was a command rather than a question.

 “He is, my lady, you can rest easy,” Carver bowed his head with a warm smile on his lips.

 Revka’s eyes then overflowed with tears. “Thank the Maker. And thank you Commander.”

 The Knight Commander preened at the gratitude. “Only doing our part.”

 Revka’s hands flew to her eyes as she hastily wiped them. “Can I see him? Just for a moment.”

 Carver looked imploringly at the Knight Commander who seemed uncomfortable with the idea. “It would do wonders for Isaac’s recovery.”

 Leandra stepped up beside Revka glaring at the Knight Commander, joined by Guillaume and Mara. The Knight-Commander’s eyes passed over them, seemingly wanting to avoid a fight, and turned to Carver and said. “Yes, yes give her five minutes and then they all need to leave.”

 Revka looked overwhelmed with relief and eagerly held out her arm to be escorted.

 Only for Carver to be distracted by the fact Mara was there. Their gazes seemed to catch, her face going red as she avoided his shocked stare. He seemed frozen, as if he had not expected Mara to be there at all, and he didn’t notice he was staring until Gamlen put a possessive arm around her.

 “Captain?” Revka asked impatiently.

 Carver shook his head as if he was breaking from a daze and said, “Sorry, my lady. This way.” And then he took her arm and started leading her out of the chapel.

 The Knight Commander then stared at the rest of the group as if they were ruining his day. “Your mage wishes to return your trinket.”

 Leandra bristled at the phrasing the Commander used and she found herself arguing. “It was a gift.”

 Malcolm bowed deeply to Leandra, the rosary draping from his fingers. “My lady, the protection magic on this saved my life, and for that I thank you, but I would rest easier knowing it's guarding its true owner.”

 Gamlen looked outraged seeing the rosary in Malcolm’s fingertips. “A gift? I thought you said you lost it? Leandra what were you thinking?”

 Leandra opened her mouth to argue when Guillaume put a warm hand on her waist and said, “My lady only ever has the purest intentions, Lord Amell. Do forgive her.”

 Gamlen barked out a laugh as he eyed Malcolm, a shit eating grin as he muttered “Poor schmuck,” under his breath.

 Mara elbowed him in the stomach with warning eyes to be quiet.

 Leandra stiffened at Malcolm’s sudden glare, not able to voice what she was thinking and took the rosary back feeling conflicted and partly rejected. Their fingers brushed as the necklace exchanged hands, the feeling like a shock to her heart. She wanted to insist he keep it, but she knew that it would be inappropriate and rude so she bit her lip and examined the beads, noticing some new stains on the metal. She gasped. “Is this your blood?”

 Malcolm looked sheepish. “Sorry, I thought I cleaned that better.”

 The Knight Commander put a warning squeeze on Malcolm’s shoulder as he pulled him back from Leandra and changed to the real subject he wanted to talk about. “As you can see Malcolm is the finest mage we have to offer.”

 Guillaume put a finger on his chin. “Yes, ser, I quite agree,” he said. He offered his free hand in a friendly shake. “You are quite talented, messere. This means everything to Leandra. I can’t thank you enough.”

 Malcolm gritted his teeth staring at the hand as if it stunk, but one glance at the Knight Commander had him schooling his face and he took the hand politely. “Anything for my lady,” he said while looking straight into Leandra’s eyes as he gave Guillaume the firmest shake he could manage.

 “And a man’s handshake at that. I’m very impressed,” Guillaume beamed amusedly.

 It took everything Malcolm had not to snort. He wiped his hand on the side of his robes feeling vindictive and petty. To see Guillaume’s hand so casually on Leandra’s waist was like sitting down for a good meal only to find a dead fly in it.  

 The Knight Commander gave Malcolm’s shoulder another squeeze. “We look forward to your renewed bids on Hawke’s services. We assure you we’re training him daily and instilling the best manners and education so he can best attend to your needs.”

 The Knight  Commander's   words made that two dead flies.

 Malcolm looked at Guillaume, a tall handsome man with everything and the world, who could hold Leandra’s hand in a crowd and kiss her openly in the sunlight, or the moonlight, and everything in between. He found himself trembling as he tried not to scream or cry or punch the man senseless.

 Guillaume pulled Leandra closer and took one of her hands as he stared seriously into her eyes.

 Leandra shied away from him but didn’t stop the embrace from happening which was like a dagger in Malcolm’s heart.

 “Ma cherie, after everything that's happened with Isaac I wouldn’t dare put us at odds any longer.”

 Leandra couldn’t meet Guillaume’s gaze, her eyes pulled unwillingly to Malcolm who was not looking at them at all. “Guillaume, I don’t know what you mean.”

 Guillaume patted her hand. “I’m withdrawing my family’s bid for Ser Hawke. If there is truly a curse, then I shall not have you unprotected.”

 Leandra didn’t know what to say so she went with a diplomatic, “That’s very generous, Guillaume.”

 “Not at all,” he said, kissing her cheek, his mouth lingering near her face. as he said, “Besides we’ll be husband and wife soon, so chances are he’ll be serving us both in time.”

 And that’s when Malcolm turned to the Knight-Commander and said, “I think I should go check in on Isaac, yes?”

 The Knight Commander seemed surprised but pleased by Malcolm’s initiative and said, “Do that. I will escort everyone else out.”  

 Leandra immediately launched after him as he stormed away, forgetting anyone else was there. “Malcolm!” she cried out.

 He turned to meet her, stopping her with a glare and she went red, realizing that Gamlen was smirking at her as he raised an eyebrow about how she would play this.

 “Leandra, is something wrong?” Guillaume stared in confusion, a hand touching hers imploring her to spill her troubles.

 But her attention was on Malcolm. She bit her lip as Malcolm watched her along with everyone else and unsure what she was doing she stuck out her hand like Guillaume did. “I’m truly indebted to you. I won’t forget my whole life, what you did for me.”

 Malcolm’s face softened into a smile, truly the only thanks he was actually looking for, and he couldn’t help but take her hand since it looked so warm and inviting, “And I’d do it again,” he said as he brought her hand to his mouth and put a chaste kiss on her knuckle.

 It was proper, but so very intimate that her face flooded with warmth, her breath caught in her throat.

 “Messere Hawke,” The Knight-Commander barked strictly, causing the both of them to jump.

 Malcolm cleared his throat and left without a word, the Knight-Commander glaring daggers into his back.

     ---

             Every goat eye searched the whole surface of the Fade, but it seemed that the Compassion spirit had indeed escaped his labyrinth. How she managed to get in, he did not know. Everything in this realm was supposed to be loyal to him. If there were whispers of her coming he should have known about it.

 And yet the Fade protected her. Hid her. His own minions of his realm would not raise a hand to fight her.

 What was she to them?

 And why was it so hard to kill one measly Compassion spirit? They had hardly any offensive powers. They spent their days healing the sick, not taking on embodiments of darkness. Still if the Somniari Bonded with her, it would prevent his Bonding to take place. The Spirit would have to die first.

 An eye alerted him that it found something and he teleported to a wing of the palace that he had forgotten about but seemed to have been altered. Drapes of fabric held from the ceiling and it seemed like collected human artifacts like statues and goblets filled with gold and shiny jewels was scattered through the room. In the middle was a bed draped in silks, the roof overhead broken so the moon shone on Avarice in a masculine form, wearing nothing at all. Her chiseled muscles were relaxed in the plush bed as she stared at Zelophehad with a smirk on her face.

 “So he got away.”

 Zelophehad almost killed the demoness out of pride but his need for her kept him from lashing out. “There was an intruder. Why did you not take care of it?”

 The demoness’ long fiery purple hair danced on her head lazily, “I thought you didn’t need me.”

 The taunting jab made Zelophehad punch a decayed wall. A new crack ran up it all the way to the ceiling. “I can always find a smarter demon.”

 That only made her smirk widen. “I delivered the Somniari gagged and bound, as ordered. I could have had him for myself, Master, but I only spared him because of my loyalty to you.”

 Zelophehad sneered, his ugly mouth a mess of gnarled teeth. “That Compassion spirit will regret toying with me. I’ll burn every ounce of Compassion until there is none left in this world.”

 The demoness chewed on her cheek, her violet pupiless eyes not masking disappointment. “You could do that, or….”

 “Or…” the Nightmare echoed impatiently.

 The demoness perched herself up on a pillow. “We approach a mortal and make a strike in the waking world.”

 Zelophehad cocked his head at the idea, a malevolent smile spreading on his inky lips. “I know just the one.”

[aria-i-adagio]

30 Day DA OC Challenge, Day 19: Courtship

Day 19: Courtship

Does your OC get involved romantically or sexually with anybody? When do they first fall for them or get involved? If they fall in love, when does it happen? Does the relationship last?

Anders! (And yes, it lasts, for better or worse.)

[most of this is a repeat from this post]

I tend to go with the idea that no matter what romance route is played that Anders has at least some romantic interest in Hawke from Act 1. But after Karl’s death, I think there’s a combination of both not being ready and believing that he’s too dangerous for anyone to be in a relationship with him.

Adrian was interested in Anders from very early on. An oddly attractive man with a ‘sexy, tortured look’ develops into honest admiration of the fact that Anders is one of the few people in Kirkwall who’s actually interested in doing something good. But he’s A) used to playing his cards close to his chest (as while Ferelden may not particularly care about same-sex relationships, there does seem to be something of an expectation that such relationships shouldn’t get in the way of family expectations and making children, Leandra has definitely messed with his head, etc.), and B) he’s a small, somewhat insecure ball of anxiety who’s afraid of rejection. He also very good at repressing things, so for most of Act 1, he’s in denial of being interested beyond a “yep, that one’s handsome.”

However, have a show rather than tell.

Hawke has determined that he does not like the Deep Roads. And he hates Bartrand. Who the fuck does that? Leaves their brother to die over a chunk of stone, or whatever that idol was made of?

You let your brother die. You left him.

That was different. I couldn’t protect him. I tried, I swear.

Bethany sneaks up on him from behind and loops her arm through his. She leans her head on his shoulder. “Carver was already dead, ‘Dri.”

He knows that she can’t actually read minds, but sometimes he wonders whether she picked the skill up somewhere. Or maybe it’s a little sister thing. He stops walking and tilts his head to the side, touching his cheek to her hair. “I should have -”

“If any of us could have, we would have.” Bethany pats the other side of his face. “Look about, is this a decently safe place?”

The Deep Roads do require a qualifier for the word safe. Adrian lifts his head and glances around. Ahead, there’s a bridge over a chasm. If it’s sturdy enough, it will give them good lines of sight and walls on two sides. “Ahead will do.”

“Thanks, ‘Dri.” Bethany lets go of his arm and jogs ahead to where Varric and Anders are walking together, both with their weapons in hand, reasoning that if Anders could sense darkspawn, Varric might be able to take them down with Bianca before they got too close. Or thin them out. “Hey. Think it’s night yet?”

“You’re the only Sunshine I see. What’s your opinion?”

“That I’m tired.”

Varric looks around and shrugs. “Then it’s night. Might as well make camp.”

Hawke keeps watch well after they've eaten a sad and meager (who knows how long they'll be searching for an exit now?) meal of hard bread. Bethany told him that he didn't need to; the glyphs she and Anders had set on either end of the bridge would last far past the time Varric's little clockwork watch was set to come. But he couldn't talk himself into following her advice. Darkspawn had killed Carver. They were not going to take Bethany from him.

He isn't the only one still awake. Anders had laid out his bedroll as close to the fire as he could, and he huddles close to the glow of the embers. He’d panicked when Bartrand swung the door closed on in, and once it became clear that neither Varric nore Hawke would be able to pick the locking mechanism, cast multiple spells at the door before giving up on the idea of breaking through it by force. The mage had been quiet since, not even Varric had been able to draw him out.

"You alright?"

Anders lifts his face. There are always dark circles around his eyes, but they look worse in the low light of the fire. "I hate the Deep Roads."

"You could have said no." Hawke asked him to come because he had experience with the Deep Roads, and Darkspawn, and according to what was said of the Grey Wardens would be able to sense them ahead of time. "I would have understood."

Anders smiles grimly. "They're worse without a cat."

"You should try to sleep."

"You should too. Those glyphs I set were designed by a Warden mage. They're strong. This spot is as safe as it's going to get."

"Good to know." Hawke lies down, unsure whether he'll sleep, or just rest his eyes and listen for trouble. "Hey, Anders -"

"Yes?"

"Thanks for coming with me."

"Well, I'm here now."

It might have been an hour, it might have been two, and Hawke might have fallen asleep, or he might have been awake the whole time, but his eyes snap open the moment he hears something other than the crackling of coals. A low, distressed groan and panicked, incoherent mumbling. Hawke opens his eyes. There’s just enough of a glow left in the few embers to see Anders rolling over fitfully, flinging his arm out, nearly managing to catch his fingers in what’s left of the fire. His other arm falls over his mouth, muffling what might have been a scream if allowed to escape.

Hawke tosses off his blanket and crawls across the pavers to him. As he pulls Anders outstretched arm back from the fire, the mage’s eyes snap open and he bolts upright with a gasp, forehead knocking against Hawke’s chin.

“Hey there. You were dreaming.”

“I can hear them.” Anders curls forward, draws his long legs against his chest, and wraps his arms around his knees. “I can still hear it.”

"Hear what? The darkspawn?"

Anders doesn't respond with words, he just goes limp and slumps to the side. Adrian catches him and lets him lean his head against his shoulder. He's perfectly still for a minute, then awkwardly runs his hand through the mage's hair, not entirely sure Anders is awake enough to know where he is, much less who's holding him.

"Take a few deep breaths, okay?" Adrian wraps his other arm around Anders' and pats his shoulder. His joke about Anders 'sexy, tortured look' didn't seem quite as funny at the moment. "Nothing has tripped the glyphs you set. We're okay."

Anders' breathing calms, at least a little. "It's so dark. I can't do this again. I can't."

"I'd build back up the fire for you, but there's no fuel left." Varric had carefully gathered a certain dry fungus from the walls of the cages as they walked. It was the only combustible material available. "Do you hear them more, in the dark?"

"Or I hear nothing in the dark. Not a sound, not a word. I'm alone in it again, and..." The pitch and volume of his voice begins to rise and on instinct, Adrian hugs him tightly. Maker, the poor man is miserable. Hawke never would have asked him to come if he had only known.

Anders shudders and hiccups. "I can't be alone in the dark."

"I'm here." What happened to Anders that made the dark so terrifying? The Deep Roads themselves weren't always dark. Parts were. Other parts were lit by the glow of some sort of marvelous dwarven lamps that still worked after centuries. This wasn't one of those areas, and the lower the embers grow, the more Anders trembles. Without really noticing it, Adrian begins to rub his back and whisper in his ear, the way he sometimes had when one or the other of the twins woke with a childhood nightmare.

He doesn't know Anders well. It's maybe been three or four months since he sought him out to get the maps of the Deep Roads. He's good to know though - a good man. Bethany agrees. And Varric had taken the mage under his wing; Hawke knew the dwarf was paying off the Carta to leave the Darktown clinic alone.

Anders is also handsome in his own way, devilishly funny, and flirtatious, despite the very sad look he gets in his eyes if someone mentions the word Tranquil. 'I hadn't seen him in years,' Anders said, the one time Adrian got him to talk. 'But you know how it is, with first loves.'

Adrian does not actually know how it is with first loves. What relationships he had in Lothering weren't love affairs, just temporary flings with a presumed end date. A Ferelden freeholder needs a wife, needs children to help him work the land. It's just the way of things. No sense in getting too attached.

Like he's getting attached to this mage who hides years of sadness underneath dry humor. Anders has put himself back together a few times already, and right now, the cracks are showing.

"Lay back down. I'll stay with you."

It takes a few more shivers and hiccups before Anders does stretch his long limbs back out. Adrian intends to just sit next to him, maybe keep their fingers together, but Anders pulls at his arm until he lies down beside him on the narrow bedroll, on his side with his head cushioned on his folded arm. Adrian hesitantly strokes Anders' hair, and when that earns him a soft sigh, loops his free arm around the other man and snuggles a bit closer.

After all, it's not just dark in the Deep Roads, it's damn chilly as well. That’s what he tells himself.

When Varric’s little mechanical clock chimes a fake morning, Hawke still curled up around Anders, and Bethany is smirking at him.