#teenage inquisitor

[depmode]

i wanna talk about my rook so im just gonna cringe is dead etc. storytime: That Time Rook Thought Maybe Andraste Was His Mom.

sasha experiences occasional visual/auditory hallucinations. they are usually very mundane and a lot of the time the voice/person isn't focused on him but more like he is an observer. growing up in the necropolis he was poked and tested and it was concluded that it's not spirits, probably, who knows. it just happens. he figured out from a young age that it was not "normal" bc if he mentioned anything about it grown ups would ask if that was his imaginary friend.

one day, he's at whatever the Chantry version of Bible Study is. lots of kids gathered around on the storytime carpet to learn about The Chant. he has a general idea of it but he's 4. he doesn't care. so he is listening to a chantry sister telling a peppy kid friendly version of a story about Andraste and mentions that she would be blessed by visions and dreams and the voice of the Maker. cue record scratch moment in tiny sasha's brain.

he stands up and excitedly tells (yells at) the chantry sister that he's like Andraste. of course she is bewildered and attempts to move things along. this is not going to happen. now this poor sister is trying to deal with a loud, hyped up 4 year old insisting that he hears voices and sees things too and wow!!! what do you think it means?? could he be related to her?? (honestly sasha didn't care if the voice was the Maker, he was just jazzed to find somebody else Like Him)

a guardian from the necropolis is tasked with dealing with That. the revered mother is brought in. it's a whole kurfluffle that likely took several years off the lives of a few very pious and sensitive sisters. it was two or three days before he was convinced, though for a long time he didn't understand why, exactly, it was different. only that it was.

sasha will tell this as a funny childhood story. the mourn watchers recall it fondly now. but in reality, loudly insisting to a group of your peers that you are like the most holy figure in thedas because you hallucinate isn't great. especially when you were already regarded as kind of a freak. but that doesn't ever need to be part of the story.

[midmorninggrey]

Banters between Dorian Pavus and Celeste Trevelyan, the Herald of Andraste.

Celeste: Uh. Dorian. How do you sleep at night?

Dorian: Rather poorly, if you must know. The thing they've put on my bed and called a mattress is stuffed with actual horsehair.

Celeste: No. I mean, like, after what we saw.

Dorian: Oh. That.

Dorian: That I drown in copious amounts of drink. I'm afraid I can't recommend it to someone of your delicate age.

Celeste: I don’t like the taste anyway.

Dorian: Herald, after you summon up your charming friends, have you ever considered putting a damper on your mana surge?

Celeste: No.

Dorian: I thought as much. Your ricochet is easy enough for me to counter, obviously, but it does become tedious to untangle our spells after every volley.

Celeste: Um. You could stand farther away.

Dorian: Ah. Brilliant solution.

Celeste: My mom died fighting Darkspawn.

Dorian: Yes, I’d heard that. I’m very sorry.

Celeste: I mean, I’m really sorry about Felix. I liked him.

Dorian: Thank you. I liked him too.

Celeste: Um. Dorian. I have a question – about magic.

Dorian: Lucky for you, here I am.

Celeste: Okay.

Dorian: What was your question?

Celeste: I was, like, thinking about the Anaxas Formula, and, like, the time thing, and I was wondering if a temporal rift could be used as kind of, like, a condenser for necrotic energy. Like, taking into account spiritual drift. And, uh, do you think that could be contained with a modified barrier?

Dorian: The Anaxas Formula? Don’t tell me you’ve been basing your spells off of that old gem.

Celeste: It works.

Dorian: Yes, I suppose, if your goal is to perform Nevarran parlor tricks.

Dorian: Remind me to show you a diagram of the Vadis theory when we return to Skyhold. It’s far more comprehensive.

[bishicat]

a couple's stroll... 7 years later 😳

[trilobitepunch]

Happy May the 4th!! And into the Revenge of the 5th!

It's been too long since I drew Grand Inquisitor Kraang, I've missed him. Don't worry, they're just sparring >.>

....but you know how these things go. I mean. Have you seen Vader training Inquisitors in the comics...

I'm hoping to get something done for the upcoming anniversary of Synthesis ! And don't worry, the main story is still going! We have so much planned and it seems like time goes Zooooooom.

Love you guys!<3

[jessicas-pi]

I did another "pick a fic snippet" poll, and the results are in! Therefore, and without further ado, I present a snippet of the next fic in the Teenage Rebellion AU!

~~~~~

Wren took his hands in hers and squeezed them gently, looking at him with painful pity.

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but you look awful right now.”

“You don’t. You look like a goddess.” He curled his knees up to his chest and bowed his head, resting his forehead on her knuckles. “I’ll worship you, if you’ll let me, Wren.”

She huffed. “Now you’re just being dramatic.”

“No, I’m not. I think I worship you already. You’ll be my patron goddess. The shadows—the shadows have claws, sometimes. You’ll protect me, won’t you?”

“Did you hit your head when you fell off the roof?” she demanded, ignoring his perfectly reasonable question. “Because if you did, the last thing I am letting you do is go to sleep right now. Do you have a concussion?”

“No.” He laughed miserably. “I’m so tired, Wren. Maybe I’m insane.”

He didn’t look up at her, but he could feel her presence tense in suspicion.

“Youngest Brother,” she said, full-naming him authoritatively like First Sister did sometimes. “How many days has it been since you slept?”

“I dunno. Five and a half. No, six. Six and a half days. Or maybe just six. I—I can’t remember. It doesn’t matter, does it?”

Wren didn’t answer him. She just gently pushed him down to lie on his side, after a moment’s pause, and smoothed the blanket over him again. Then, she knelt down beside him, clutching one of his hands in hers.

“I’m going to stay right here,” she told him firmly, even as she slipped her hand out of his and ran it tenderly through his hair. “And I’m not moving until you’re asleep.”

“Won’t you?” he yawned, blinking as his vision blurred briefly. “That’s nice.”

“You’re welcome,” Wren smiled, knowing what he meant even if he hadn’t thanked her aloud. She was divine, like that. “Now, go to sleep.”

“I’ll try. I think—I can, here. It’s so quiet. Not like in Headquarters.” He shuddered. “I can hear them crying in Headquarters.”

Wren’s tender hair-stoking ceased as she went still, and he tilted his head forward, pressing into her touch so she would keep going.

“You can hear… crying?”

“The girl. Fifth Brother brought her. And a baby. I can hear them crying in the night. They’re going to be broken. It—it hurts to be broken.” He nudged her hand with his head again. “Don’t stop. I liked that.”

“Is that why you can’t sleep?”

“I wasn’t sleeping b’fore then. But I was trying not to. Now I wan’to, an’—I can’t.”

“You will now.” Wren sounded shaky, a little, as she said it, but his faith in her didn’t waver. If she said so, it was true. “Shut your eyes. Just rest.”

“I love you.”

“Shh.”

“Marry me?”

“Go to sleep, Youngest Brother.”

“But—”

“Go. To. Sleep.”

[dragonpyre]

Inquisitor!Cal for @wrencatte's fic series he ain't heavy....

Commission info / ko-fi

[collophora]

colored some sketches

Umbarian: Magendi riss Inquisitor: Brother Capdeth (Not sure abt this one)

[chaosherald]

Writing Challenge Weekend

This is for @thedissonantverses Writing Challenge Weekend found Here

(I got "Character A made a deal with Character B and were enthralled/made to serve contractually for five years. Character C then takes a liking to Character A while still trapped by Character B" for the prompt. This dovetailed into my wildly self indulgent Veilguard headcanoning, so now we have a Solavellan Fairy Tale)

Once upon a time in ancient Arlathan, a lost Halla was summoned before the gods. It is the Queen who speaks to her. Wandering Child, she said, we are calling in your debt. Far and away down the rivers of time, you drank of the well of knowledge and bound yourself to us. The ripples have reached this time and place and so you have been called. Serve us well and when your tenure is spent we shall return you to the future’s distant shore.

And the Halla knew she was trapped. She knew the dangers of walking out of time and had seen a world unraveled once before. She knew the course the river would take and how tempting it would be, how devastating, to try and correct its path.

And she saw the Wolf, at the edge of the gathering. She knew how precious and perilous crossing paths with him here and now would be.

And she feared how much she wanted to.

But this was the collection of coin already promised. There was no choice to be had. The Halla was brought into the Queen's household and bid to serve.

And she did. The Halla served and learned and was enmeshed in the history she had once sworn to uphold. Keeper's First, child of genocides once left but scraps of identity gifted the awful beautiful whole of her people's lost empire. Never had her heart been so full and so broken.

The Wolf had been haunting her dreams before she was called to serve. Now, he haunted her waking steps. Two servants in the same household. Unavoidable. Undeniable. The Halla tried to keep him at arms’ length, but they were lodestones, drawn towards each other in spite of themselves, caught in each other's orbits.

Necessary tasks became unnecessary dawdling. Hours lost in conversation, camaraderie. Excuses made, schedules altered, buying them more time in each other's company. Fleeting touches growing more bold. And finally, there is a moment, clear as crystal, calm as freefall, a point of no return when the Wolf leans in to claim her.

It would be almost justice, to let him fall, to taste, without knowing who she is, without sharing the history between them yet to come. A skewed reflection of her first foray down this path.

But no. The Halla places a hand on his chest, bidding him stop without pushing him away. There is a truth you must know she tells him. A secret I need to share before we fall further, but one you cannot know, cannot keep, lest we unmake the world with our folly.

The Wolf, the clever Wolf, hears and considers and bids her find a loophole. To tell him what she must, to omit what she must, and be assured he will push for no more than she offers.

A moment of choosing, a moment when the Halla should flee. But the heart wants what it wants and in distant Arlathan where spirits weave in and out of the everyday, emotions can suffocate sense.

So she tells him. She is from the future, called here by magic and obligation. That she grew up in a world where Arlathan is a distant fractured memory, where their people live mortal lives, where the spirits and the power infused all around them are locked away, the stuff of dreams and nightmares. She tells him in her time, they find each other, find love, and then find themselves on opposite sides of an ideological war.

She tells him she fears the him of her time is drowning in regret, alone and adrift, but that he chose to walk away. She tells him there are still truths she does not dare share. And that when her time here is done, when she is returned to her proper place, that he will need to bind away all memory of whatever they are to be in the here and now, less they change the future and destroy everything.

The Wolf listens. Considers. And kisses her, soft as a promise. Tells her how lucky he is, to get to fall in love with her twice.

The heart wants. Wisdom submits to desire. The Wolf and the Halla join, spirit and body, and for a time all is joy and belonging and love.

For a time.

Once upon a time in ancient Arlathan, a beloved Halla was summoned before the gods. It is the King who addresses her, for the Queen and the Wolf are both absent from the gathering. Lovesick Child, he said, you have done so well. We know, about you and the Wolf. You have bound yourselves to each other and in your binding called forth a new spirit soon to be made flesh. Did you not wonder why we pulled you here? You are nothing to us, but everything to him. We see glimpses of the shifting currents of what is to come, hear whispers of the Wolf's treachery, of your hold upon him, and we so hoped you would give us the leash with which to keep him under control.

The King continued with a knife sharp smile and poison sweet words. Do not worry. When your tenure is spent we shall still return you to the future’s distant shore. Your child shall remain here, in our service, to ensure the Wolf’s continued loyalty. While we wait, you shall enjoy our hospitality. The King bid the Halla be taken to his household, under lock and guard.

And she was. The Halla raged and plotted, feeling foolish and bereft. Growing with child, rashly made but desperately wanted. Awful, beautiful - never had her heart been so full and so broken.

She called out to the spirits, who weave in and out of the everyday, who care not for locks and guards and less for the King's cruelty. The Halla begged for their help.

The spirits tell her the Wolf is also imprisoned. The Queen is trying to intervene. The immortal court moves slowly by mortal reckoning and her time is running short.

They tell her she is bound in powerful magic, has been since she was brought to Arlathan.

A trigger, that once her child is born the Halla will be quickly pulled back to her time.

A block, holding all her memories of this time. She will return alone and she will not remember.

The Halla begs, can they be removed?

The spirits tell her no. The magic has been woven with the mark of the Well, willingly accepted in her past, their future.

The Halla weeps. Can it extend to her child? Can she take them away with her?

The spirits tell her no. Partially spirit born, partially flesh. The child would not be likely to survive, not without time to settle. And there might not be time before the spells are realized.

The Halla thinks. Can the spells be modified?

Yes.

The memory block is expanded, extended, twisted to make not just the Halla but all she encountered in Arlathan forget. The Wolf, the gods, time will march on ignorant of any deviance and those who do not remember her child cannot use them against their father. It is made manifest, a foci of faceted crystal and veilfire.

They delay the trigger, as much as possible. To give the Halla what time they can.

They promise to hide her child. To keep them safe in one of the many unknowable folds of reality, a place they know where death and life create a Well of energy that can mask any entity to those who know its ways.

And then they wait.

Once upon a time in ancient Arlathan, an angry King felt a surge of magic tear through his halls and his mind. He knows something has been taken from him, riding magic of his own making, but cannot counter fast enough to recover that which was lost. He tracks the source of the magic to a locked chamber, under guard, and none in his household can remember who or what it contained.

Inside there is blood, a foci of faceted crystal and veil fire, and the quickly fading remains of ritual made manifest. The King acts quickly, drawing in power, calling on the blood and its ties to whoever shed it.

He sees a glimpse, two great spirits bending over a woman who cradles a newly born child in her arms. He knows not who she is, who they are, or why they were imprisoned in his home.

We have one last gift the spirits in the recalling say. One more modification. A key to unlock the memories. Tell us your daughter's name. We will try to get her to you. If she tells you her name, it will free the blocked memories.

And the woman speaks, fervently, with hope and love and sorrow, the magic around them and around the King already unraveling, fading, swept away.

Her name is -

“Amara? What are you reading?”

Amara Ingellvar, apprentice of the Mourn Watch, looked up at her friend, startled. She had read though the papers clutched in her hands twice and still wasn't completely sure what they were describing. “I don't know. Some kind of tragic love story, I think, but it's not finished. One of the spirits gave it to me.”

Sybil frowned, circling around her friend and classmate to better look at the tattered parchment. “Once upon a time in ancient Arlathan” she read aloud. “Huh. Is it an elf story? Why's an old elf story written in Trade?”

Amara shrugged, angeling the fragile papers away from Sybil. She wasn't sure what the story was about, but she felt inexplicably shy about sharing it. “I don't know. Just because I'm an elf doesn't make me an expert.”

“Yeah, I know. It's just weird. Why are the spirits always giving you weird stuff?”

“I don't know. They said it was mine. It's not, I've never seen it before.”

“Well, you should bring it down to the archives. There's time before class.”

“I will,” Amara said. “I just think I need to read through it one more time.”

(In a related note, here's a bad screenshot of Amara "Rook" Ingellvar and Inquisitor Keara Lavellan. I was pretty proud of how much Rook looked like a younger version of her Mom 💕)

[lelianasbong]

okay in order to avoid getting seduced by sera or josephine, i'm going to have to play this inquisitor as the straightest straight woman who's ever straighted. if she is even a little bit bicurious i will immediately succumb. she LOVES the men and only the men. she's not thinking about the alluring swell of sera's hips or her soft inviting pillowy lips or the way her voice drops when she says honey tongue. unlike me

[vodkacheesefries]

Give! Bellara! A! Griffon!

[disastertriowriting]

@clonefandomevents

Here's our fill for the square "lies". :)

Anika Fell with the fall of the Jedi. She may be an Inquisitor now, from reluctance to leave the Empire along with her former master, but that has not lessened her attachment to the clones.

[tarantula-hawk-wasp]

Out of curiosity (certainly not for any, possibly art related, reason) how tall is Maera?

<3 ok you would not know how often over the past 5 years I think about what my good answer for this is... you would not believe the way I have looked at pediatric growth percentile charts and at people's theories of the heights of characters (bc the in-game models vary between cut-scenes, gameplay, and heights given in supplementary media) Uhm. relatively, not quite to Cassandra's shoulder but a bit taller than Varric... which I put at like.... 4'10" ish- 5 ftish I think she is pre-growth spurt .... but artistically I just kind of do whatever for the vibes bc if gravity falls or batman etc can stylize like 12 year olds that small I can do whatever I want too with my vaguely 10/11 yo

[tapir-boy]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: The Veilguard (Video Game) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Inquisitor & Rook (Dragon Age), Inquisitor & Inquisitor (Dragon Age), Lace Harding & Rook, Lace Harding & Inquisitor Characters: Lace Harding, Rook (Dragon Age), Inquisitor (Dragon Age), Emmrich Volkarin, Lucanis Dellamorte, Morrigan (Dragon Age) Additional Tags: featuring mentions of my half-finished dai rewrites, technically pre-relationship for rook/emmrich/lucanis but its not relevant, Inquisitor is Possessed (Dragon Age), Inquisitor Hawke (Dragon Age), religious horror of the inquisition, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Inquisitor Has a Mabari (Dragon Age), Angst, Dwarf Rook (Dragon Age), Mourn Watcher Rook (Dragon Age), Nonbinary Rook (Dragon Age), Adopted Sibling Relationship, between the inkys Series: Part 6 of ingellvar, last of their name (dav) Summary:

Rook is summoned to meet with Morrigan, and with one of the great heroes of the age. Harding finds out her fondness of the Inquisition is not universally shared.

[jessicas-pi]

sorry y'all, it's taking me so so long to finish the TRAU fic, here have a snippet of it while you wait

---

First Sister was the right hand of Lord Vader himself and had more influence than even the Grand Inquisitor, and yet here she was, hurling herself around the struts of a skyscraper-in-construction, trying to catch a teenager who had suddenly regressed to the immaturity of a five-year-old.

This was embarrassing.

The wind whistled fiercely up here, biting through even the insulated uniform she wore and giving her goosebumps as she followed Youngest Brother out onto the thin strut. She spread her arms out for balance as an especially hard gust of wind made the entire structure creak and twist.

Steadying herself, First Sister hollered, “I’m not kidding, Youngest Brother! Get back here right now!”

“Come and get me,” he taunted, sauntering backwards ahead of her, as if he wasn’t balancing on a strip of durasteel two inches wide with a hundred foot drop beneath him.

“You had better believe I will!”

“No, you won’t!” He reached the other end of the strut, alighting on the thicker beam, and crossed his arms stubbornly. “And I won’t be attending that preposterous ball!”

First Sister calculated the distance between the far strut and her position. Youngest Brother’s presence was bursting with overconfidence that she couldn’t make the jump.

She made the jump.

With one hand, First Sister snagged the supporting upright beam beside him, to keep her balance, and with the other hand, she grabbed him by the scruff of his coat.

“Yes, you will,” she told him. “And you’re going to stop this ridiculous—HEY!”

Youngest Brother unzipped his coat and dropped out of it, catching himself on the beams a story below with a mocking jeer.

“Tough luck, Sister!”

First Sister wasted no time jumping down after him, but he was already running off down the beam.

Maybe it was time to try another tactic.

“You know, when I was your age, I loved parties!” she coaxed, following him slowly as he began to ascend once more.

“Then you were strange.” Youngest Brother swung from a beam like a gymnast, flipping around to crouch atop it.

Well, fine. She’d just keep chasing him then.

“I refuse to be dressed up like a doll—” He jumped higher, still one pace ahead of First Sister, ascending another level. “I refuse to wear that silly outfit—”

“I guess that’s fair,” First Sister muttered, crouching and then leaping up two levels, swinging herself to balance beside him on the bar and making a grab for his arm. Youngest Brother saw it coming and sprung, sailing through the air over a wide gap in the beams—it seemed this level of the building would have some kind of a large rotunda—and landing with a little wobble on the other side.

“—I refuse to do the ISB’s job for them, and above all, I refuse to go to Leia Organa’s masquerade ball!” he shouted across the gap, raising his voice so she could hear him over the whipping wind that howled even louder at this elevation.

[musewrangler]

Obi Wan heard Owen's rifle fire though he didn’t turn to look.

He kept his full attention on the five individuals before him. He could sense their dark torment, but he could not stay his hand in sympathy at what had caused their turn.

Luke’s life was on the line. Owen and Beru as well. They would be mercilessly slaughtered, and Luke would either be killed with them or he would be taken to a worse fate, just as his father had been.

“Kenobi,” laughed the leader. “We shall be doubly rewarded then when we present your head to His Majesty.”

Obi-Wan watched all the red blades ignite and he held the gaze of the leader.

“Sidious does not give rewards,” he said. “He gives only pain and death.”

“Which we get to deliver,” stated one of the women. The Third Sister, Obi-Wan saw. “You got away last time, Kenobi. And all to guard the spawn of Anakin Skywalker.”

“He is dead,” Obi-Wan said, flicking his own blue blade on. “But yes, I will protect the boy.”

[attractthecrows]

wish games would let you choose an age range. im tired of making a character that's like a 34 year old Dad or a woman in her 50s, and then getting to a cutscene, wherein the game informs me that No, You're Twenty, Actually