#thank you @antivan for the request

[definitelyallergictohalla]

Hey, you know that fic I mentioned I wanted to write? The Illario POV? Here's the first chapter. >:3c

Edit 11/27/2024: Now you can read the chapter below, too! I will likely continue to do this each chapter (per request from a friend of mine), but maybe a few days after I post on Ao3 so I receive more traffic there.

Relationships: Lucanis Dellamorte/Neve Gallus/Rook, one sided Illario Dellamorte/Neve Gallus, Illario Dellamorte/Original Female Character(s), mentioned Female Lavellan/Solas

Characters: Illario Dellamorte, Neve Gallus, Original Female Character(s), Tarquin (Dragon Age), Rook (Dragon Age), Lucanis Dellamorte

Additional Tags: redemption arc, Illario POV, Antivan Crows, Shadow Dragons, Clan Lavellan - Freeform, Pining, Jealousy, Minrathous/Treviso Choice - Treviso Saved (Dragon Age), Shadow Dragon Rook (Dragon Age)

Summary: Illario Dellamorte, traitor Crow, is tasked to help Neve Gallus with a job after the fall of Elgar'nan. He doesn't expect what comes next. (A redemption arc of sorts for Illario, post Veilguard.)

Notes: I like it when the Antivan Crows are morally grey. Also, fuck Caterina (she's not currently super relevant to the story but she haunts it... despite being alive)???

Some notes on my world state that should be seen:

Rook is a Shadow Dragon, as well as a Qunari Mage; leans blue/purple in personality

Treviso saved

Illario spared and not in jail

Harding died during the fight with Ghilin'nain

Neve was kidnapped by Elgar'nan but survived

Solas was given the chance at redemption and (warrior) Lavellan went with him

Clan Lavellan survived the battle of Wycome

Inquisition was disbanded

Tags will update on Ao3 as I go!

Chapter 1: One Job Illario Dellamorte, known traitor of the Antivan Crows, was not a coward.

That being said, as he walked the bustling streets of Dock Town with a duo of Shadow Dragons in tow, Illario had to admit that he was getting a bit sick of attempting to win his back his family’s favor.  Sure, he was thankful that he wasn’t shoved into a prison cell – or worse – after the stunt he pulled…  Yet when getting back home to Treviso post such a dangerous fight for the fate of the world, the man had not expected to be pulled aside by Viago a few weeks later to be sent back the damned city he could have died in.

He should have expected it.  Viago had mentioned that the job about ‘helping him see what he did was wrong’.  The idea stunk of Rook, the bastard Qunari who seemed to have successfully wooed his cousin, despite the latter being an abomination.  It frustrated Illario to see Lucanis cling as the first person who helped him out of the Ossuary, but it wasn’t his place to comment, at least not anymore.

Despite this, Illario was fully intending to make best use of his new situation, turning his attention to the pair of rebels behind him.

“So,” he began, noting the direction all three were heading “What’s the job today?”

One of them - Tarquin, the man – acknowledged the question with the furrow of his eyebrows.  Even shorter than Lucanis and sporting similar hair and beard, Tarquin did not share Illario’s cousin’s good-natured yet-haunted personality.  Illario had met him at the Archon’s palace, but it didn’t take him long to discover that the Shadow Dragon was sarcastic, as well as often rude.

“I take it that you don’t remember the letter?”  Tarquin snarked.

Illario rolled his eyes, flinging the vitriol back at the other man.  “I didn’t read a letter.  Viago did, if I had to guess.”

The other Shadow Dragon – a Dalish elf named Ethena  – glanced over to Tarquin while grimacing.  “You know, I didn’t get a letter either,” she muttered at him as she scratched the back of her head, messing up her cropped copper hair even further.

“I know that, I was planning on filling you in as we went,” Tarquin replied as they made it to the edge of the docks.  “I’ve heard you’re resourceful like that.”

Illario bit back a retort about how he was plenty resourceful due to Crow training, but a look of annoyance skewed his facial features anyway.  “An agenda would be nice.  And maybe a drink while we’re at it.”

“Good thing we’re already stopping at the Cobbled Swan,” Ethena mentioned causally.  “Since we’re meeting our client there.”

Tarquin nodded as gestured in the direction of a large pub, not far from where they had stopped walking to talk.  “Drinks aren’t on the agenda, by the way.”

The trio continued onto their path and walked into the dimly lit pub.  It was neater than what Illario was expecting, but still dirtier than anything he saw in Treviso; occasionally he’d see seagulls attempt to pop in through the front door and windows, only to be beaten back with a broom by an elderly elven man.

Eventually, they wandered to the back of the main of the pub, greeted by who Illario could assume was either the owner of the establishment.  The man was dressed in the closest you could get to fine attire this section of Minrathous; nothing overly showy to be considered a target, but the man’s dark green out was tailored to his tall, slim build.  The details of a business man, however, starkly contrasted his shaved, military hairstyle and the faded scar that ran down the left side of his face.

Regardless, the man smiled warmly at Illario and the Shadow Dragons next to him.  “Ah, I assume you are the help the detective suggested to hire?”

Tarquin came forward and waved an envelope, sealed by teal-colored wax.  “Is she in storage room?” he inquired.

“Indeed, please feel free to go back there yourselves, I trust that a savior of Minrathous would have fine taste in company.”

Ah, mierda.  Of course, he was working with Neve Gallus on this job.

Illario had met her initially when Lucanis was freed from the Ossuary, then during the siege on the Archon’s palace.  Gallus has been briefly fucked up, eyes red from the blight magic Elgar’nan had used to control her mind.  Then poof, the moment the elven god died, she was back in nearly top shape, free from having to go to the Wardens for whatever help they could offer.  Of course, she still looked exhausted, nearly collapsing onto of Rook several times as he helped her move to get checked out by a healer.

And now, as she walked out of the storage closet towards her comrades and her client, her prosthetic leg clicking on the stone like it was a stiletto heel, Illario couldn’t help but to notice how different she felt from the battle three weeks ago.  A sense of swagger and confidence as she set her strides.

Sexy.

A few moments passed, and the owner of the Swan let the four of them talk amongst themselves.

“Glad to see you all here,” Gallus greeted.  Then the detective arched an eyebrow at Illario.  “Interesting choice for Viago and Rook to send you, though”.

Illario bowed a mock bow.  “Anything for family, ma’am.”

Gallus shook her head, clearly unimpressed.  She turned to Ethena.  “Do you have any extra paper, per chance?  I ran out.

Ethena groaned loudly in response as Gallus smiled, perhaps slightly sheepishly.

“I was in a rush this morning,” the detective insisted, and although elven woman clearly didn’t buy it, she tore out a few pages of a fancy leather-bound journal regardless.

“You owe me a new journal,” Ethena muttered, sounding pained.

“Sure thing.  I always give back what is owed.”

Over the next hour, while in the back of the storage unit surrounded by Gallus’ notes, Illario and Ethena were filled in on the job; the owner of the Cobbled Swan, last week, had found the dead, mutilated body of one of his bartenders, an elderly Dwarven man who had worked there for years.  Gallus had since picked up a few leads (the Venatori were involved, of course), but needed a team in case of any violent altercations.

“Will Illario’s former allegiance cause any trouble?” Tarquin asked when there was a pause in the detective’s words.

Gallus glanced at Illario coldly at the Antivan.  “I think he knows what’s at stake if he messes up or causes any issues.”  She turned away to carefully organize her papers into a pile.  “Besides, I trust-”

“Rook’s judgement?” Tarquin suggested.  He rolled his eyes as Gallus continued to shuffle papers around, not answering.  “Not sure that’s a wise decision for Dock Town.”

Illario couldn’t help but to laugh internally as the attention turned to Rook.  He was a hard topic for the Shadow Dragons, too, maybe because of the first attack on Dock Town that the Qunari had ignored in favor of helping Treviso.  Perhaps he could use that information to leverage things.

“When do we start?” Illario inquired.  “I could use some practice with my knives.”

“Tomorrow at sunrise,” Gallus answered, back still turned.  “I need to ask a shopkeep nearby if he has heard any noises, and he’s only around during the weekly fish market.”  She then spun around to face him.  “Hope you can keep up.”

Illario feigned hurt.  “You wound me, Gallus, and you don’t even have a knife in your hand.”  He placed a hand over his heart for exaggeration.

That got a smirk out of her.

Later, the four of them wandered out of the storage room of the Swan and into the streets of a darkening Dock Town.  Confirming their plans to go to the market tomorrow, they all split ways to their other obligations, except for Illario, who needed to find a room to rent.

The Antivan man strolled casually past the many criminals and vagabonds on the side of the street.  This was going to be an easy job, and he’d back home to Treviso in a few days.

Perfect.

[tkwritesdumbassassins]

WIP Whenever

Tagged by @satashiiwrites! Thank you! Seeing all the upcoming stuff for Veilguard (plus what @nemo-of-house-hamartia is cooking up 👀) kind of inspired this. I have no idea if this in-character for our dear Antivan pretty boy but you know what, that's half the fun

Lucanis shifted in his seat. "You never did answer my question."

She frowned without looking up. Although she did fish out another red thin snack before popping it in her mouth. "Well, neither did you if you want to play that game."

"You first."

"What are we? Twelve?" she snorted, twisting the medallion one more time to see if anything had manifested itself. A clue. A magical sign. Spoiler alert: nothing did. If her own principles didn't control her hand, let alone the threat of Silvana not hanging over her neck, she'd be half-tempted to throw it at the wall in frustration. "But fine, if this the hill you wish to die on. Yes. I did."

Isotta let the medallion slip from her fingers to land on the table dragon-side up with a loud *thunk.* She replaced its heavy weight with that of her cup, taking a long sip. She was disappointed it had gone from boiling hot to lukewarm in a matter of minutes. "I said it was complicated."

"'Complicated' is not an answer," he retorted, drinking from his own mug. She noted it was half-empty already, and thus far had heard no complaints. Must have done something right between the creme and three sugars he had requested. "Not when it comes to demons. You either don't have them in your home or you do. There's no in-between. Anyone who infers otherwise has something to hide."

Isotta's free hand twitched. "I've as much connection to the Fade as a nug. So, if you're implying that I'm some kind of spooky evil blood mage keeping demons as pets in her basement," she emphasized this by ominously wiggling her fingers before pointing at the entrance, scowling. "There's the door, and don't let it hit you on the way out."

Unsurprisingly, he didn't budge from his seat for that would have been far too easy. Surprisingly, it did earn her a half-smile as he set his cup down, steepling his fingers together. "Well, are you?"

[shivunin]

aaaaand one for Elowen :3 something written by one of the advisors about your OC?

happy writing friend <3

Thank you again for sending all of these in! I've been rather more the tortoise than the hare with them, but we got here in the end c: Thanks, friend!

(Codex Prompts)

A Missive to the Deep Roads

(991 Words | No Warnings)

A letter tucked into a leather belt pouch. The paper was once fine and creamy, but now dirt smudges the surface and there are large splotches of blood on one corner. It is addressed to the Warden-Commander and reads:

My dear Arianwen, 

I do hope that this letter finds you well. This thing you have undertaken is a dangerous task indeed, though I do have my doubts that even an army of ogres could keep you from doing what you’ve set your mind to. 

No doubt you have heard about our troubles here on the surface. Surely you must have heard tales about the sky splitting open, no matter how deep you have delved in the Deep Roads. If matters were any less dire, I might say that it amuses me to think of you being safer below than we are above for once. As matters are very dire indeed, I will instead say only that we need your help. 

I know what you will say, and I know better than most what I am asking of you. The Inquisition is not the sort of organization you might be inclined to trust. For good reason, I suppose. The Chantry has not been the friend to you that it should have been. We both know this to be true.

Our networks, our might, and the faith of those who have pledged themselves to us will not sway you. Let me instead tell you of our Inquisitor and what she has already done. 

Several weeks ago, there was an assassination attempt on your favorite king. Many such attempts have been made before, plenty of them averted by your personal intervention, but this one involved an especially troublesome faction of mages from Tevinter. The Inquisitor sent our people to intervene—and just in time, too, it would seem. To hear him tell it, he was all but frozen solid before our people intervened. I have requested a contingent remain nearby in case there is any more trouble. 

There are many victims of this war between mage and templar, no shortage of bloodshed. Even so,  Lavellan has reached out her hand to the refugees and the downtrodden at every turn. I have watched her haul children from the muck of a ruined street with her own two hands. I have seen her hunt for supplies for the same families even when she was ill or out of sorts.  I have seen her clear the roads for people to move freely again. It is not so light a thing, as you very well know, for people to be able to escape when they are besieged. 

I have known Elowen to sit alone on the hills, the better to watch the pale hares move through the brush. I have watched the wild wolves heed to her call as if listening to a dear friend. I know that she would leave us for the wilderness and the roads if she could. I know that she stays because she feels there is no other choice—rather like somebody else I once knew well, if you will forgive the comparison. 

A teller of tales I may yet be, but I have related only the truth here. You already knew how dire our battles have been. Know, too, that the Inquisition follows one who leads with neither iron fist nor hope of recompense. Know that the woman we follow is worthy of the title in many ways beyond naming. 

Know that Thedas—that Ferelden—still needs you, just as it did all those years ago. If ever there was a time to take up the banner of the Wardens and lead those who remain to a worthy cause, it is now. 

If you will not come, Warden-Commander—and I hold no real expectations that you will—perhaps you will consider committing what resources you can to the fight in the world above. I cannot overstate how much that help is needed. 

Do give my regards to your Antivan beau. I would say that I hope to see the both of you very soon, but I hold no such expectations. Instead, I will say only that I will look for word from you, in whatever form it might come.

Your friend, then and now,

Leliana

A letter, wrapped in several layers of oiled leather and otherwise untouched by the elements: 

Leliana,

You’ve always been good with stories. I’ll give you that. 

I’m too busy to come myself. You know that. However great a mess the surface is right now, I cannot spare a single blade for your fight. I have more pressing things to turn them against at the moment. 

I wish you all the luck I can spare. I’ll throw in a few tokens for good measure, though I am sure you can find better on your own. You always were clever like that. 

You are my friend. It has been many years since I have said so, but it is no less true now than it was then. Be well, Leliana. You are greater than your words, however many of them you insist on tossing in my direction. 

The enclosed is for your Inquisitor. If even half of what you’ve said about her is actually true, I don’t mind her having it. 

Zevran says hello. 

—Wen

P.S. I did not say hello. I said that you will either have a grand tale to tell, Bard, or you will find yourself on the other end of a rather sharp knife. For your sake, I hope that it is the former and not the latter. How dreadfully dull it would be to leave all of this grandeur behind to attend a funeral and seek vengeance. You have no idea how often our adventures are interrupted to do silly things like that. 

Do take care of yourself. There is something here from me as well—have a glass by the fire and think of your good friends, yes? 

—Z

[halla-hunts-the-wolf]

WIP Progress <3

Thank you for tagging me, @galadrieljones! I don't have much in the works, but I have been exploring how the former Inquisitor and his long-distance paramour would finally tie the knot! Pavellan wedding fic <3:

---

The peonies were the wrong shade. Their deep magenta would clash with the delicate pink flowers embroidered in Dorian’s suit. He had sent the outfit ahead, with an entire carriage of his belongings. The former Inquisitor had dared to peek at his betrothed’s attire. In the dead of night, he’d unwrapped the rich fabric that protected the outfit and gasped at the image it conjured: Dorian standing at the altar, dressed in soft fabric mirroring Orlais’ spring flowers. The conservatories in Orlais were one of the nation’s crowning achievements. Yet, not a single blossom on the morn of their wedding could hold a candle to Dorian Pavus, not when he was adorned in such a way, stepping away from the intricate buckles and robes of the Imperium to represent Mahvir’s wild and down-to-earth upbringing. 

“Mahvir?” Josephine snapped her fan in front of his face, revealing a curtain of sapphire blue and shimmering gold,  “Were you listening?” 

“The peonies,” he explained as his amber eyes flickered from the fan before him to the vases that adorned every round table in the dining hall. “They’re the wrong shade. They were meant to be pastel. ‘Like painting with watercolor.’”  Dorian had requested as much in his last letter, and Mahvir had requisitioned the best florist in Val Royeaux to bring his love’s vision to life.  However, the flowers had arrived behind schedule; this was the first time he had seen them in the light of day. 

“Ah.” Josephine pursed her lips.  Her hair fell in waves around her face, framing her Antivan features. She’d taken time from managing her family’s affairs to stay with him at the Chateau, preparing the summer rental for a wedding that would host not only the couples’ nearest and dearest but also the Southern Divine.  “So they are.” 

“It’s fine. There’s not enough time to request changes. That would be rather shallow of me, anyway.  Dozens of floral arrangements would go to waste. We’ll make do with this.” 

“Dearest,” Josephine’s free hand squeezed his arm just above the start of his prosthetic. “You’re forgetting to breathe.” 

Mahvir took a deep breath, allowing air to fill his lungs before slowly releasing it, along with the tension settling in his shoulders, leaving a dull ache behind. “I’m so sorry, Josephine. You’ve been a saint, helping me plan and coordinate. Now isn’t the time to lose my nerves, but I haven’t seen Dorian in months, and I want everything to be perfect for this. For us.”

---

I'll tag some of my more active mutuals (I see and appreciate you)! @raeannabelle, @what-wait-why, @phoomwhoosh!

[rosella-writes]

Hey, happy Friday! I submit "nudging the other one" for Solas/Cassandra :)

Thank you!! For @dadrunkwriting, rated G, featuring a bakery inspired by this fic by @dreadfutures

~~~

The Orlesian sun was hot, but not the sort that left Cassandra feeling as if she were laid upon a fire — it made her feel relaxed and loose-limbed, even within her gambeson. At the Inquisitor’s request, they had left their armour and weapons with the Inquisition agents within the city. Today, Bryn had stated, was a day for them and them alone. 

The Val Royeaux market bustled. Wide skirts jockeyed for room, heels clacked upon the cobblestones, and the feathers upon hats bobbed and waved at eye-level for many in their party. Bryn alone seemed immune to the reach of these ornaments. They were a foot taller than most in the crowd, and moved easily enough by virtue of their size and status. Cassandra and Solas followed close in their wake, taking advantage of the space. Cole, Cassandra supposed, remained nearby but out of sight. 

Among the many battling scents of perfumes, leatherwork, sun-heated fruit, and flowers came a familiar fragrance — Cassandra turned on her heel, searching for it. She reached out without thinking and caught at Solas’s sleeve. 

“Oh,” she gasped. “Do you smell that?”

The apostate looked at her with an incredulous expression. “Yes, Seeker, whatever it is I assure you I am being assailed by it.”

She scoffed. “It is sweet. It reminds me of a treat I have not had in years. Inquisitor?”

Bryn glanced over at them, their eyes calm and placid and their brows raised in a silent question. They cocked their horned head to the side. 

“Do you see a pâtisserie?”

Recognition dawned, and they suddenly cast their gaze over Cassandra and Solas’s heads. They did not need to stand on tiptoes in order to see, but they rose upon them almost out of habit. Their lips parted as they searched — they suddenly pointed and said, in their gentle voice, “Over there, by the modiste.”

Excitement surged within Cassandra at that, along with another waft of the familiar, mouth-watering scent of baked goods. Bryn’s face warmed when they looked back down at her. 

“Go on ahead without me,” they said. “I want to see what’s in this shop at the end. Meet at the center of the square in a half hour?”

Cassandra glanced at Solas, who looked cautiously interested now. Cole’s hat bobbed near his ear as the spirit passed by and drew close to Bryn’s side. 

“The baker is proud of them today,” Cole said simply, his voice nearly swallowed up by the noise of the crowd. “La crème est absolument parfaite en tous points. You should try the cannelé.” 

They listened — Cole remained at Bryn’s side as the latter made their way towards the stalls, while Cassandra and Solas entered the shadowed interior of the bakery. They blinked away the brightness of the sun and basked in the new warmth, that of ovens and fresh pastry and bread rather than hot sun. Waft after waft of that delicious, sweet scent of baked flour and sugar and butter filled Cassandra’s nose and throat, and she found herself swallowing down her desire for such Orlesian treats. 

The patisserie was crowded, enough so that Solas had to turn to keep his broad shoulders from grazing against their fellow customers as they approached the glass cases near the back of the shop. They were surrounded by the rolling sounds of conversations held in Orlesian, with the odd bit of Antivan and Trade mixed in at the fringes — when another customer entered the shop behind them, Cassandra heard a new swell of the Chant sung from the abbey at the center of the city before the door swung back shut. 

A nudge — Solas’s elbow was sharp, but he prodded her gently with it. She would not have felt it if she were still armoured. “What are these?”

She followed his pointed finger with a surprised gaze. “Do you not recognise any of them?”

“They are…” he seemed to search for the word. He raised a finger to his chin and frowned. 

Cassandra gazed up at him with a slight smile, feeling fondness wash through her that was as warm and sweet as the smell of burnt sugar. “Think of them as… frilly cakes, I suppose.”

The attendant behind the case shot her a dirty look, but she paid him no mind. 

“Pick one,” she urged. “My treat.”

Solas glanced down at her — a mere flick of pale eyes beneath long lashes, shadowed by the dim light in this bakery. His mouth curved in a surprised, private smile behind the crook of his finger as he contemplated. 

“Which did Cole say we should try?” he finally asked. 

Cassandra nodded. “Deux cannelés s'il vous plait, mon ser.”

They left the bakery with their paper-wrapped cannelés in hand, as Cassandra wished for Solas to try his out of sight of the Orlesian baker who might be insulted if he enjoyed them in the wrong way. They tucked away against a fountain, taking their seats on the mortared edge, knee to knee. Cassandra eagerly unwrapped hers and took a large, unceremonious bite. 

“Maker,” she groaned happily. She almost snorted custard out of her nose at the sight of Solas regarding his, and hurriedly swallowed. “Try it!”

He looked at her with trusting eyes as he lifted the flute-shaped cake to his mouth — he held his spare hand beneath it to catch crumbs, and looked for all the world like a man out of his element. She tried to remember if she’d seen him enjoy eating anything before. She could hear the caramelised exterior crunch as he bit it. 

Solas’s eyebrows flew up his forehead as he took in that first bite, and his eyes shone. Cassandra laughed outright — not to mock him, but to delight in his reaction. 

“You look as if you have never tasted anything sweet before!” she chuckled. She took another bite, then spoke irreverently around it. “These are my favourite. Cole’s advice was indeed good.”

For once, Solas was too occupied to retort with anything scathing. He finished the cannelé slowly, as if savouring each moment of it. Only then did he clear his throat and look up at her, a multitude of barely-discernible expressions crossing his angled face. 

“Thank you,” he finally said. He wiped his long, pale fingers clean with the paper the cannelés came folded in, and seemed almost mournful that they were gone. “I liked that very much.”

Cassandra chuckled, then rose and extended her hand. “You are welcome. Now come, let us find the Inquisitor.”

Solas smiled sincerely then, and accepted her helping hand to his feet.

[ghostwise]

During my weeks with covid I wasn't getting much done, but I'm finally feeling well enough to catch up on these :) Tagged for wip-whenever by @scionshtola @lavampira and @creaking-skull!

Thanks friends 💖💖

I'll tag @sunshinemage @s1ithers @ruushes if you're up for it 💖 I am not sure who is or isn't tagged so if you have something to share please consider this a tag!

I'm feeling more comfortable with the decision to add the Adelmar visit to QDT (now titled Matacuervos). It's giving me a chance to delve more into that subplot, and in doing so it's tying more closely to the overall plot. Here's a little peek at some very raw writing from it.

-

The sounds of the brothel floated in through the open door, and Zevran sat in his chair, impassive. He raised a brow, but otherwise did not react to her gesture. Truth be told, he had no idea what to say. He hadn’t expected to be met with so much resistance, and his intuition was telling him there was some reason why Amilcar was desperate to get him gone. But the thought was interrupted as a familiar voice floated through the door.

“Husband?”

Hamal had evidently grown tired of waiting out on the street. With a smile, he sidled in through the door, amidst a background chorus of delighted exclamations from the patrons and employees nearby.

“Husband!?” Amilcar repeated, scandalized.

Hamal simply smiled at her. “Very little Antivan, sorry,” he said awkwardly. “Everything good?”

“I was simply,” Sra. Amilcar said, her voice terse and jumping from syllable to syllable, “Telling your husband that, unfortunately, we cannot accommodate his request.”

Zevran, still seated in the same spot, glanced between Hamal and Sra. Amilcar. Part of him was mortified at the tone the woman was taking with Hamal. Part of him was desperately curious to see how Hamal would handle it, though, so he remained silent, making himself at home in the discomfort.

“Ohh,” Hamal said, and then repeated, “Sorry! Very little Antivan, very bad.”

With that, he stepped close enough to wrap an arm around Zevran with a grin.

“We are married! On honeymoon. I will pay everything. Is good. We are honeymoon! A gift!”

He pressed a kiss to Zevran’s cheek. By now, the discussion had drawn the attention of others, who erupted into cheers at the declaration. Zevran could no longer hold it back; he burst out laughing, under Hamal’s confidence and attention, and the way the prostitutes shouted encouragement and praise. What a doting husband! What a thoughtful gesture! Were they open to adding a third?

Sra. Amilcar had grown quite pale. Swaying a bit on her feet, she seemed to steel herself before taking a deep breath and shouting, “I will call the city guard if you do not leave, NOW!”

[highwayphantoms]

JAY JAY FRIDAY JAY - ❝ sometimes i feel i’m being crushed under the weight of everything i’ll never be. ❞ for Briar Hawke and a character of your choice plsssss and thank!!

TY TY here is some Briar & Varric for you! :D @dadrunkwriting

Words: 1125 Rating: T Warnings: Alcohol consumption

-

She brushed it off at first. In the beginning, it was easy: nobility or not, she wasn’t expected to visit or entertain guests while recovering from significant injuries. If Briar maybe exaggerated the length of her recovery, no one but her handful of household staff and her friends would ever know.

But she couldn’t hide in her home forever. A month and a half after she killed the Arishok in single combat, the polite invitations from her neighbors had started to become much more pointed. Gone were the messages of sympathy for her “grievous injuries” (Anders had been far more concerned than she had, but she wasn’t dead, now was she?). In their place were requests and wheedling and subtext.

She may not have been raised in a noble household, but Briar had not lived in Kirkwall for four years without picking up on some of the subtleties of the upper classes: the hidden daggers and poisoned barbs of language. Nor was she unaware of the… expectations of these invitations. Fine fabrics, knowledge of the current trends in Orlais and the Free Marches, spending hours with Orana to tame her hair into a “more appropriate” style.

Any event that Briar could not show up to in full armor was not an event she had any interest in attending. She felt too exposed in dresses and fine shoes—exposed not to weapons but to attention. And she hated attention.

Which was how she ended up in the Hanged Man nursing the worst ale she’d seen in months. Though the place was busy, it felt deserted; Isabela wasn’t in Kirkwall, Varric was nowhere to be seen, and the only familiar faces were that of the staff. By now, most of the Hanged Man’s regulars knew to leave her alone, but there was always one idiot made brave by alcohol who would try to proposition her or some equally irritating nonsense. Still, it was preferable to what seemed like the equivalent of walking on broken glass in bare feet with a full audience.

She wasn’t so drunk that she didn’t react immediately to someone tapping her on the shoulder. On instinct, she was prepared to grab and potentially break a wrist—but she let her hand drop the moment she turned and realized it was only Varric. “Where have you been?” she said, though she didn’t really need or expect an answer.

The dwarf fixed her with an amused look. “I thought you had plans tonight. Plans of the Hightown variety?”

Briar groaned. “That was before some noble asswipe started making noise about putting my name up for Viscount.” Then she gestured loosely at the fine dress she still wore under a travel-worn cloak and added, “As you can see, I left fashionably early.”

“I don’t think that’s how it works, Hawke.” Varric smiled wryly and tipped his head towards the stairs at the back of the room. “Come on, I’ll get them to crack open something better than whatever watered down shit they’re serving down here.”

She got to her feet wavering only slightly, which was definitely the fault of the ankle she’d twisted earlier in the evening and not the ale she’d been drinking for… she wasn’t entirely sure how long. The stairs were a manageable prospect, so long as she kept a hand on the wall to steady herself, but she was glad to sink into one of the chairs at Varric’s table. When he joined her a minute or two later, Varric shut the door behind him. “Here,” he said, and a heavy glass bottle clinked where he set it in front of her. “Antivan whiskey. Not the best you can get in this city, but you wouldn’t be drinking here if you cared, would you?”

Briar snorted. “Nope,” she replied, and snatched the bottle. Whiskey wasn’t her drink of choice—given an option she preferred wine—but she really, truly, did not care. Not tonight.

“So,” Varric said eventually, after settling into a seat of his own, “is this a drinking in mutual silence kind of night?”

She shrugged and swallowed the last of her ale, freeing her mug to be filled with whiskey instead. “It’s absurd. I mean, look at me. I’m Fereldan, for one, and all I’m actually good at is making people dead. Viscount? It would never happen.”

“It might,” Varric countered. “So long as there’s no Viscount in the Keep, the Knight-Commander rules every inch of this city.”

While she refilled her mug, she said, “Right, because I want more opportunities to be reminded of the fact that my sister is locked in the Gallows and there’s nothing I can do to change it.” Briar shook her head with an irritated sound and grumbled, “It’s just… Sometimes I feel like I’m being crushed under the weight of things I’ll never be. Most of Hightown expects me to be just like the rest of them, to want what they want, and that’s igoing to happen.”

“Shouldn’t have saved them from the qunari,” Varric said wryly. “If they were all dead, you wouldn’t have to deal with them.”

She groaned. “What else was I supposed to do, turn my back and let dozens of innocent lives be slaughtered.” Briar paused, then amended, “Allegedly innocent lives. Maker only knows what shit they get up to behind closed doors.”

“I have a few ideas.”

“You would,” she said with a laugh. “I don’t know. I almost want to start bringing Merrill with me to these things, give them something to talk about that isn’t me, but I couldn’t do that to her. She deserves better than Orlesians making snippy comments behind her back.”

Varric quirked an eyebrow and said, “Something tells me Fenris would go with you if you asked him.”

“I don’t know,” she replied, desperately reaching for some excuse to cover the fact that the thought of Fenris made her heart ache. “I don’t exactly need a bodyguard,” she said lamely.

“Uh huh.” There was no fooling Varric. She could see it in his face, that he’d just confirmed any suspicions he might have had.

Four and a half months, and she still couldn’t shake the feeling that it was her fault. It wasn’t, Fenris had said so, but knowing and feeling were two very separate things. Briar sighed and took a long drink of whiskey, half hoping the burn down the back of her throat might cancel out the pain in her heart. “I should head home,” she said after a few moments. “Thanks for the drink and the company, Varric.”

“Anytime, Hawke.”

When she staggered out the front door, Briar took three steps in the direction of Hightown before she reconsidered and turned to head for Darktown instead.

[exhausted-archivist]

I'm just going to keep updating this because this is a journey and you guys came here so you're in for the whole ride.

Anyways, we got to talking some more, falling down the pepper rabbit hole and discussing how peppers got their name (specifically bell peppers, thanks Columbus for making english even more of a mess) and between two different friend groups we have come across (or in my case rediscovered cause these things were in my pantry for the longest time) the long pepper.

A much more interesting real world comparison given the flavor profile. They also fit the bill for "cord seed" that one might imagine. And are a spice, a completely arbitrary category I've deemed it must be given the context Antivan cord-seed is listed in.

In fact, my parting gift to the thane of Fennec-Tooth Hold was, at his request, ten jars each of black peppercorns, powdered mustard, and Antivan cord-seed.

However, if I go with cord-seed being crushed pepper flakes, I've decided (again by completely arbitrary means) that these would be the best peppers for them to come from. Piment thunder mountain longhorn. (Thank @chauncey-the-tiny-bear for finding these and sharing... and just going on this pepper journey with me).

I really do need to finish fleshing out the headcanon for this spice though. Because it's taken up too much of my brain space for the past few years and I have other more pressing botanicals to think about. Like the different cultivars of deathroot and spindleweed.

The most unimportant piece of information that has motivated me on my entire Thedosian Botany Project of Eternal Suffering at this moment is only mentioned in one codex. Mentioned, not even described.

It has no known real world counterpart, and because BioWare does not feed us with food and plant lore it is now my sole fixation at the moment to describe this plant. This spice. This piece of botanical material that is apparently so edible and so delicious that the Avvar value it for cooking.

Antivan Cord-seed.

BioWare, I hope it exists in da4 or some other media installment because this is just as bad as your origin era "three rare herbs from the Frostbacks are needed to make this" and you sell the item like they're elfroot potions. Which were the original motivators for me to expand on Thedosian botanicals.

[exotic-inquiry]

it’s ya boi

[barbex]

Sorry for being late on the prompts but I napped until the middle of the night and hope you're still taking prompts cause I love watching you update on AO3. I had to think really hard what single thing I was gonna request and !!. I think I'm going for "I wish you would write a fic where Anders is an anxious ball of energy from Fenris' threaths/jokes and begs him not to turn him in" ??? I'm not creative please I just love angsty Fenders where Anders expects the worst and Fenris is an angel

Thank you, dear Anon. This was really inspiring and resulted in 3400 words, oops! For @dadrunkwriting, fenders, Fenris x Anders, references to sexual abuse and prostitution.

I know for a fact that I've read a fic like that and I'm trying my utmost to not just copy what I remember from that fic.

---

Anders pulls his arm back, putting all of his not so significant weight into it, and punches the man on the nose. He crumbles with a truly pathetic wail and Anders shakes out is hand with a hiss.

Market days usually aren't like this. On normal days, when Anders goes to the market in Lowtown, he gets his goods and leaves again, with nobody commenting on the hood over his head or the "walking stick" he leans on, that definitely doesn't look like a mage's staff. Some people greet him as the healer, sell him their goods at a lower price because they remember the friend or family member he helped once, and then he goes back home to the clinic. 

But today, a new group of people has set up shop at the market, traders from Antiva in direct competition with traders from Nevarra, and the atmosphere is already strenuous when Anders enters the market. And of course, things only get worse. 

He's already on his way out, deciding, very wisely he would say, to get the herbs another day to avoid the commotion, but it's already too late. Tables tip over, tents collapse, fists are flying, and Anders is right in the middle of it. The first knife coming at his throat forces him to react and then he just tries to keep people at a distance to get away. 

Someone grabs his arm and Anders whips around to strike, but a familiar voice has him stop. "Anders, what are you doing here?" Varric looks over his shoulder and raises his crossbow. Whoever tried to attack Anders' back clearly has no interest in interacting with Bianca the crossbow and retreats. Somewhere on the other side of the brawl, Hawke and Aveline yell once, twice. Most people stop fighting at that and walk away from each other with the kind of dazed and embarrassed look that people often have when they leave the Hanged Man. 

Just one antivan trader does not know that it's time to settle down, and runs towards Anders, holding a club in his raised hand. That's when Anders breaks his nose. 

Shaking his hand out, Anders takes stock of the situation. Multiple people have minor wounds but he'd be damned if he risks discovery in the middle of Lowtown to help these troublemakers. His wrist hurts. He'll need to find a quiet corner to heal himself first, anyway.

"You keep holding back, mage, why?" 

Fenris' gravely voice is much too loud. 

"Shhss, will you keep it down?" he hisses at Fenris. Right on time, templars appear at the entrance of the market. Of course, the trouble is already over and they don't need to risk denting their armor.

"Why?" Fenris looks at him, confused. "You never hide that you're a mage and an abomination."

"Why don't you yell a bit louder?" Anders snarls. "The templars didn't quite hear you." He looks over to the templar, his helmet slowly turning as he takes in the market. "You may not notice it, but I do hide, especially when I'm alone." He glares one last time at the elf and then waves at Varric and walks towards an alley that offers an unseen path back to Darktown's elevator. Turning to a wall in the shadows, he sends some healing into his throbbing wrist and sighs when the pain recedes.

"Mage."

How he didn't hear Fenris' approach, is a mystery for another time.

"Oh, for crying out loud. Must you announce this to the world every time you see me, slave?" Anders lets the glow of his magic die down and continues to walk down the narrow alley. 

"You think you can forbid me to speak?" Fenris snarls. "I have to listen to your whining and you think you can order me to be quiet, mage?" He glares at Anders, his markings flickering.

For the first time in a long while, Anders is truly afraid. He's used to bullies, to people wanting to feel important, people who know they have power over him. But that's not what he sees in Fenris' face. All he can see is pure hatred. Fenris doesn't look for something to gain. Fenris just hates him. 

"Sorry," he breathes out and turns and runs as fast as he can. He ducks into tiny alleys, secret passages that saved his ass before, through cellars and warehouses, until he reaches the rickety ladders leading down to Darktown. It's not as comfortable as the elevators, but safer. Hopefully. Nobody ever checks the holding brackets on these things. 

He waves at the carta dwarf standing watch in front of the clinic, one of the regulars, protecting the clinic and him. He isn't sure if he owes this to Varric or to one of the carta leaders he treats in the clinic. When the door falls closed behind him, he breathes a sigh of relief. But, even with the protection outside, he can't quite shake the feeling that the problem with Fenris will keep festering like a wound. If Fenris decides he has enough of the mouthy mage, he can easily alert the templars somewhere where no carta will protect him and be done with him. 

The next time Hawke drags them out on a job, he makes sure to stay far away from Fenris. If he doesn't speak to the elf, he won't get angry, so Anders keeps his mouth shut as best as he can. 

Isabela bumps his arm. "What's the matter with you, Sparklefinger?" 

"Wow, haven't heard that name in a long time."

"Back when you were still fun." Isabela pouts at him, as if he personally insulted her. 

"Sorry, Izzy, but we all get older." He hooks his arm under hers and pulls her close. "So far I didn't need to look for a second job, but if I take up Madame Luisine's offer one day, you'll be the first to know." 

Isabela giggles and presses a kiss to Anders' cheek. "It'll be just like old times."

"Yeah..." A wave of sadness settles over his head. He had been more carefree, back then. Even though his life and freedom were in danger every day, his worries were somehow smaller than today. 

"You worked in a brothel?" Fenris' deep voice pulls him out of his memories.

"Yes," Anders answers quickly. "There aren't many jobs for —" He stops himself and shuts his mouth hard. If he starts talking about how shitty his life was, it'll only make Fenris angry and he can't risk that. "It was just a job." He grabs his staff tighter and hurries his steps to catch up with Hawke at the front, asking her about the job. When he looks over his shoulder, Fenris frowns at him. 

Great, he still made him angry.

Hawke keeps them busy for four more days, running around on some sort of investigation that at least doesn't result in many injuries. On the third day, Anders asks to stay at the clinic, pointing out that his patients need him. "It's not like you're running into anyone dangerous in this investigation."

Hawke looks at him for a bit and then nods. "You're right. I'll ask Merrill."

"If anything happens, you know where to find me." Anders watches them leave, catching Fenris frowning at him, and he breathes a sigh of relief when they're all gone. Two days of tip-toeing around the elf, keeping his mouth shut and never mentioning anything that could be interpreted as whining, has used up all of his mental reserves. 

He sits down on his rickety chair, rolls his shoulders, and lays out the ingredients for fresh health potions. At least he can use the time for something useful. That mellows the tiny sliver of guilt he feels for not accompanying Hawke and their friends.

A sharp whistle from outside has him jump, his chair tipping over. It's a warning from his carta protector. He grabs his medical bag, throws in his books, the vials of royal elfroot extract that cost him a fortune, and the two health potions he already prepared. Already he hears the clanging of armor outside of the rickety door of the clinic and he dives into the darkest corner of his room, where a pile of debris seems to have fallen from the ceiling. He lifts the whole thing up with the hidden trapdoor underneath, jumps in and pulls it closed above his head, just as he hears the front door splinter. 

Pressing his bag to his chest, he breathes in the scent of leather and elfroot. He hates the darkness and he hates small spaces, but he hates the templars and the Circle even more, so he has to endure the first to avoid the latter.

For what feels like hours, Anders listens to the templars trampling through the clinic, smashing everything in their way. Potions fall from broken shelves, vials breaking and liquid seeping into the floorboards. It smells of herbs and alcohol, which is an improvement to the stank of Darktown, but Anders' heart breaks when he thinks how long he had to scrape all the things together that now get destroyed in minutes.

It's been quiet for a while now, but Anders doesn't dare to move. Templars can be very patient. One could wait outside, waiting for Anders to come out. He holds the bag to his chest, breathing as quietly as he can. Justice makes a soothing sound in his head, not quite a song, more like a hum, and it makes sitting still in the darkness a little easier to endure.

After a long time, footsteps come closer, running, storming into the clinic. "Anders?" 

Hawke. It's Hawke.

"Creators, they broke everything," Merrill says, sounding like she's close to tears. 

"Mage?" 

Fenris, of course. Maybe checking if someone else solved his problem?

Anders pushes the trapdoor open and climbs out, making sure to hide it again, before he shoves the tattered curtain aside. "I'm here, they didn't find me." 

"Andraste be blessed," Hawke cries out and pulls him into a hug. Merrill comes up to them and joins the hug and Anders feels like a weight falls from his shoulders.

With a long breath, Anders opens his eyes again and untangles himself from Hawke's and Merrill's arms. His gaze falls on Fenris and the blood freezes in his veins. Fenris looks angry, downright furious. 

Anders' thoughts stumble over themselves. Did the elf expect something different? Is he disappointed that Anders wasn't taken? Did he send the templars himself, knowing that Anders was alone in the clinic? Fenris catches his gaze, and whatever shows on his face, it causes Fenris to turn on his heels and leave the clinic.

"Where did Fenris go?" Hawke asks after a while, as they pick up the salvageable pieces from the floor, bandages that just need a wash, vials that aren't broken by some miracle. 

"I don't know." Anders sets a table on three legs and fishes the broken one out of the rubble. He finds a few nails and some other broken pieces and fixes the table leg with some well-placed nails and hits with his hammer. "Maybe he's disappointed that the templars didn't catch me."

"How can you say that?" Hawke stares at him. "Fenris would never —"

"He wouldn't?" Anders lets out a bitter huff. "He yells out that I'm a mage, an abomination, at every opportunity. It's just a matter of time until a templar hears him."

Hawke shakes her head. "That's not..."

Anders whips around. "That's not what?"

"He's been hurt."

"Everyone hurts in some way." Anders sets the table down too hard, nearly breaking the leg again. "But only he makes sure to tell me all the time what a pest I am and how all mages should be locked up or tranquil."

"He doesn't mean that." Hawke steps closer, looking at Anders' hands. "You're shaking."

"I think it's been a bit much, what with the raid and," he gestures at the destruction all around, "all of this."

"You're sleeping in one of the guest rooms tonight, come on," Hawke says, resolutely taking his arm. "We'll finish this tomorrow."

After a pleasant meal and some conversation that mentions neither templars nor Fenris, Anders lies in the luxurious bed in Hawke's mansion, staring at the painted ceiling. He can't sleep. His thoughts jump around, returning again and again to the way Fenris looked at him. 

The elf clearly despises him. Even if he didn't tip off the templars this time, he could do it any time he likes. That threat will always hang over him. He has to do something about that. Placate Fenris somehow.

With a sigh, Anders sits up and puts on his trousers and shoes. Stepping quietly on the carpet, he can hear Hawke talk with Merrill in the library. He slips out with no one noticing him and stomps over to the dark, rotting mansion that Fenris occupies. He knocks on the door, and after waiting a while, opens it and steps inside.

"Fenris?"

"What do you want?" The voice comes from the hall in the centre of the house. 

Anders walks in, stepping over the usual assortment of magically preserved corpses and mushrooms to reach the fireplace. Fenris sits in a stuffed chair in front of the fire, a half empty wine bottle in his hand, and glares at him. "What do you want, mage?"

"No, what do you want?" Anders tries to keep his voice hard and firm, despite his hands shaking behind his back. "I don't know if you sent the templars after the clinic today, but even if you didn't, you made it clear that you could any time."

Fenris jumps up. "Get out!"

"No." Anders widens his stance and crosses his arms over his chest. "Just tell me. You wanted to make me weary and anxious? Congratulations, you were successful. Now, just tell me what you want." 

His heart beats too fast and he can't stop his hands from shaking, despite shoving them under his arms. Fenris just stares at him. Running out of options, Anders falls to his knees. "I don't have money, you know that, so please, tell me what I have to do. Do you want me to serve you on my knees? Clean your house? Suck your cock? Just tell me."

Fenris' eyes go wider with every word and he stumbles backwards, nearly tripping over the stuffed chair. "Don't say that, don't... why?"

"Why what?" Anders holds out his hands, ignoring the tears that drip from his eyes for some stupid reason. "Just tell me what you want. I can't live like this, wondering when you're gonna —"

"I would never!" Fenris' voice rattles the windows. "You think me this... this vicious? That I'm such a monster?" 

"The monster is me, according to you." Anders stands up, slowly, wincing when his knee protests. 

Fenris looks at his knee. "Why don't you heal your knee?"

Anders dismisses the question with a wave of his hand. "It's an old injury, a templar lesson." He sighs, looking up at the dirty skylight in the ceiling. "At any other time, I would just leave the city, but I can't, so please, just tell me —"

"I don't want anything from you." 

"Great." Anders throws his hands up. "So I just have to wait for the day when a templar overhears you calling me mage or abomination and just like that you'll be rid of me. That's just great for my non-existent sleep patterns." His eyes fall on a table at the wall and he walks over, offering his last trump. 

Shoving his pants down, he leans over the table and throws his coat over his back. "Here, you can fuck my ass. Fuck a mage, as hard as you can, wouldn't that be —" He grunts as Fenris presses against him, leaning over his back. His armor digs into his back and Anders shoves down all the dark memories that want to rise. 

He can endure, he's done it before. It's just a little harder to breathe.

"No." Fenris breathes down his neck and then his weight leaves his back. 

The air feels cold on his face, brushing over tears. He doesn't know when he started crying. Putting his clothes right, he glances at Fenris. "I know you hate me, but this is just cruel."

"I don't hate you." Fenris' voice is nearly too quiet. 

"What?"

Fenris' head snaps around and he yells, "I don't hate you! I fear you, I fear your power."

"What power?" Anders yells back. "You have power. I couldn't even poke you before I would look at my own heart in your hand." Anders hits his fist against his chest. "Tell me, what power do I have? The power to have my emotions burned out of my skull if you keep yelling 'mage' under the templar's noses?"

Fenris stares at him with wide eyes. "I'm sorry, I wasn't aware."

Anders feels like someone punched the air out of his stomach. "How could you not be aware? You saw the mages and the tranquil at the Gallows, you told me yourself that all mages should be made tranquil."

"I said that I know some mages who should be tranquil, in Tevinter." 

Anders sets his hand on the table, letting it take some of his weight. He's so tired. "What difference does that make?"

"I didn't mean you."

"Why not? I'm a mage, just like them."

Fenris shakes his head. "You are nothing like them."

"Lucky me." Anders' legs suddenly feel like lead and he leans against the wall and slides down until he sits on the floor. The stress of the day catches up with him and the healer part of himself notes the cold sweat at the back of his neck and his shaking hands as signs of exhaustion. "I'm too tired for this. I'll do anything, whatever you want. Just say what you think and maybe we —" 

"I think that you're kind and passionate." Fenris crouches down in front of him and looks him in the eyes. "I think that you respect life and people. I think you care too much sometimes. You care about your friends, your patients, helping them at the expense of your own health." 

Anders stares at Fenris, all coherent  thoughts having left his mind.

"If you ask me what I want — I want to look at you without fear." Fenris lowers his eyes, watching his hands as they wring each other. "I want to be able to trust you. I want to talk to you and not hear a magister, waiting for an opening to hurt me."

"Fenris," Anders says softly, putting his hand on Fenris'. "What can I do?"

Fenris turns his hands up, pressing his palm against Anders'. "I don't know. This is all new to me."

Anders wraps his fingers around Fenris' hand, stroking with his thumb over a line of lyrium on the back of Fenris' hand. "Maybe all we need is time?"

"Yes, maybe." Fenris lets out a breath and looks at Anders. "I will not call you abomination again, if you don't call me slave." 

Anders flinches. "I did that, didn't I? I'm such an ass sometimes. I promise, I won't call you slave again."

"And I will keep my mouth shut about your mageness around templars."

"Thank you." Anders lets Fenris' hand slip out of his grasp and gets up, using the table as support. He looks at it, at the scratched, but clean surface and the sturdy legs. "Do you have chairs? Two of them?"

Fenris frowns as he gets up. "Yes?"

"Would you like to have dinner tomorrow night? I can make soup if I can use your kitchen."

Fenris looks from the table to Anders and back. "Here? Dinner? With me?"

Anders shrugs. "My table is broken."

A smile pulls at the corners of Fenris' mouth. "Yes. Yes, I would like that." 

"Good." Anders feels strangely light, excitement curling in his stomach. "Then I'll see you tomorrow after the seventh bell." 

"Yes." Fenris looks at him, his hands twitching as if he doesn't know what to do with them. 

"I better get back to the mansion now, before Hawke sends out a search party." Anders walks towards the door. He turns once more, raising his hand in an awkward wave. "Good night, see you tomorrow."

Fenris raises his hand slowly, looking at him with a strange frown. "See you tomorrow."

Smiling once more at the elf, Anders walks out, a swing in his steps and butterflies dancing in his stomach. He shakes his head at himself. It's like he's a bloody teenager again.

[nirikeehan]

❛ i’m trying to fix your hair, so hold still. ❜ for Thalia and Pravin for DADWC this Friday????

Hi Blue!! Thank you so much for this prompt. This is the first thing I've ever written for Thalia and Pravin. Pravin belongs to @monocytogenes, who I am trying to lure to DWC by borrowing her OC. 👀 Pravin is a bard, recruited to the Inquisition as an additional advisor. And, unbeknownst to anyone else, he is Thalia's long lost cousin. What could possibly go wrong?

Anyway, here is his debut on @dadrunkwriting.

WC: 1136

---

“I’m trying to fix your hair, so hold still.”

“I am holding still,” Thalia retorted, wincing as Pravin tugged too hard on her scalp. “I can do my own hair, you know. I did it for over a decade at the Circle.” 

The two stood in an antechamber off the main hall of Haven’s Chantry, in what had recently been transformed into a wardrobe for the so-called Herald of Andraste. An upcoming soiree with Orlesian elite had requested her attendance, and Thalia’s advisors had descended en masse to ready her for the outing. Josephine had ordered a floofy gown in a deep green (meant to accentuate her red hair, supposedly); Leliana had given Thalia a rundown of the Orlesian nobles who would be present and what family secrets could be exploited for the Inquisition’s benefit; Cullen had cleared his throat and complimented her dress. 

And Pravin disapproved of it all. 

“I am not critiquing your skill,” he said, voice muffled by the hair pin he had put in his mouth. “But first impressions can make or break people in Orlais. A more culturally appropriate hairstyle would go a long way, as I’ve been told you’re refusing to wear a mask.” 

“They’re creepy.” In the full-length mirror, Thalia squirmed and tugged at the loose sleeve that had fallen off her shoulder. She could see Pravin behind her, frowning. He’d once seemed so tall to her, but time had evened out the difference to a few inches. “And Josephine said if I’m not Orlesian, they won’t be expecting me to wear one anyhow.” 

“Doing exactly what’s expected of you could be death in an Orlesian court.” He sighed wearily. “What happened to you? You had more spirit when you were twelve.” 

“And you were more fun when I was twelve.” She had clear memories of cousin Pravin and the Antivan side of the family coming to visit. Pravin, ten or so years her senior, usually caused a scandal by acting wildly inappropriate at parties. Once, she remembered, he’d brought an entourage of drunkards and women of the night, causing her uncle to turn purple with rage. Pravin had had a rebellious streak she envied, though dared not emulate. Now he was dour and soft-spoken with her when they were in private, and she’d begun to suspect that the persona he put on for the rest of the Inquisition was just a mutation of the show for their family those years ago. “I’m not sure I even really know you anymore.”

“Hey.” 

Pravin grabbed her by the shoulders and turned her to face him. His eyes, a striking green, bore into hers. He wore his dark hair longer than she recalled; it brushed the collar of his tunic, and his beard had gone from a carelessly fashionable scruff to a full growth obscuring his jaw. He looked different, acted different, went by a different name. Even the look in his gaze was not the playful one it once was, but intense and foreboding. 

 “I’m trying to keep you alive, Thalia. It’s about time someone did. You’ve fallen into a pit of vipers with this Breach business. The rest of them, they may view you as a symbol, but their interests lie with their newfound institution, not your personal wellbeing.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Thalia shot back. “What do you suppose I’ve been doing for the last ten years? Convalescing? I was in the Circle, Pravin. You want to know what happened to me? Your spirit is the first thing they break there.” She huffed, pulling from his grasp. Part of her wanted to run, but being seen flouncing from the Chantry in this absurd dress, her hair half done, would only make things worse. She turned her back to him and struggled to regain her composure. 

In the mirror, Pravin stood frozen, hands still in mid-air. His expression reminded her of one watching a wounded animal, or a templar watching a mage about fail her Harrowing. 

“I’m sorry,” he said. “You’re not a child anymore. I shouldn’t presume to treat you like one.” 

“You’re right. You shouldn’t.” Thalia took a deep breath. 

“But I do still worry about you,” Pravin continued, bowing his head in a chastised manner. “You’re family, and it certainly seems like your parents and siblings have been falling down on the job.”

Thalia snorted, and wiped at an eye that seemed to be leaking. “Yeah, well. I haven’t heard from them since they sent me away. I don’t expect them to pop back in just because some weirdos in the Frostbacks are calling me a prophet.” 

Pravin smirked. “Now there’s a bit of the girl I remember.” He slid in behind her, tilted her head gently, and went back to work on her hair. “That’s rather shite of them, by the way. I would have expected more of the Trevelyans, but given that my metric is the Talavera side, anyone would seem like a step up.” 

Thalia snorted. “‘Modest in temper; bold in deed.’ I’ve learned what that really means is they’ll do anything to cover up the skeletons in their closet. Did you know when I came into my magic, Micah said to me: ‘Six generations of Trevelyans, and not one mage. Not one.’ Like it was my fault somehow, that I’d tarnished the record.” 

“Your brother always did love sucking his own cock. Second only to when someone else offered to do it for him.” 

Thalia let out an uproarious giggle, then clamped a hand over her mouth. 

“Oh, don’t do that,” Pravin said drily. “The others will start to get suspicious if they think we’re having too much fun in here.” 

Sobering, Thalia glanced at him in the mirror. Perhaps he wasn’t the stranger she feared, but there was still so much left unsaid. “I don’t like lying to them. Cullen, Josephine, Leliana… even Cassandra. We might not always see eye-to-eye, but they’re good people. They want to see this thing through.” 

“I can see that, yes,” Pravin said, all monotone again, scraping a final pin against her scalp and standing back. “There. Now you’re presentable.” 

Thalia looked at herself, at the elaborate twist he’d manipulated her hair into. It did look nice, she had to admit. She turned to face him. “I’m just saying… I’m keeping this secret for you. They think you’re Fidencio Frye, and I haven’t done anything to dissuade them. Will you at least tell me why it’s so important that they don’t know?” 

He looked at her with a strange mix of melancholy and fondness. “One day, little Thalia. I promise I’ll tell you one day. Just not yet.” 

“Why not?” Thalia protested. 

“Oh, because.” He flashed her a brilliant, yet tired, smile. “As with all things Orlesian, the truth is complicated… and extremely dangerous.” 

[dacompanionreactions]

Hi! Can I request dai companions reacting to receiving baked goods made by Inky (including romance options if possible)? ^^♡

This was so fun to write! I tried to research some foods of Thedas to predict what kind of baked goods the characters would like <3

Cassandra gasps as she is presented with a small fruit pie. She sniffs it gingerly and- yes! It has spiced pears inside. One of her favourite delicacies from home. Cassandra holds the pie close to her chest and thanks the Inquisitor with a huge smile. She offers them a piece, but they decline. She digs in immediately and makes a mental note to ask the Inquisitor to make more.

If romanced, the Seeker will take the pie with a shy smile. She tastes it, then feeds a forkful to the wonderful man that made it for her. Cassandra loves it. She finds the gesture very romantic, and if she were the swooning type... well, to say she enjoyed the pie would be an understatement. "You are amazing."

Solas raises his eyebrows in surprise. He was not expecting a plate of sugar cake, and yet one somehow appeared on his desk anyways. "Inquisitor, you continue to surprise me." He's not sure what to do. Does he return the gesture and make a cake for them? Solas finally settles on eating the damn thing and is not disappointed when he does.

If romanced, Solas will stop what he's doing to try the cake his vhenan baked for him. It tastes even better than it looks. He kisses the Inquisitor's cheek and thanks her for the delicious cake. The interaction is enough to bring a smile to his face for the rest of the day. He will miss her cakes.

Varric sets his quill down when the Inquisitor comes to him with a fish and egg pie, specifically from Starkhaven. He barks out a laugh as he's reminded of Sebastian, and accepts the plate. "Andraste's ass Inquisitor, this actually tastes good! You deserve a medal." By the end of the evening, he's full of pie and warm memories of his friends.

Dorian peers over his book and raises an eyebrow. On the table in front of him is a loaf of freshly baked bread and a side of olive oil. It's a common dish in Tevinter, and also happens to be one of his favourites. The homesickness slowly ebbs away as he takes a bite. By the time Dorian is done, he's practically begging them to bake more.

If romanced, Dorian will laugh as he's greeted with a plate of bread and a kiss. "What's this, amatus?" When he's finished, he kisses his love's knuckles and thanks him. Internally, he thinks 'I cannot fall in love. I cannot fall in love. I cannot- oh kaffas.'

Sera looks at the cookies in front of her and snickers. There has to be some kind of prank involved. Raisins? After a thorough inspection, she realises the Inquisitor just made them for her to enjoy. Sera eats them all at lightning speed. She can't help it. They just taste so darn good.

After receiving the plate of cookies, Sera peppers her Honey Tongue's face with kisses. The cookies were perfect. And the first person her Inky thought of to give them too was her? Sera isn't the type to blush, but her face brightens with a wide grin.

Blackwall glances at the plate then back at the Inquisitor, raising an eyebrow to ask 'Is this for me?' He sets down his wood carving tools and takes a bite from the Ferelden pasties. They're warm and flaky, and perfect to eat during his break. He offers the Inquisitor some and they sit in the barn, eating together.

If romanced, Blackwall's heart practically explodes with adoration for the Inquisitor. The nagging thought that he doesn't deserve her is promptly shoved to the back of his mind as he digs into the pasties. They are wonderful. She is wonderful.

Cole looks at the plate of bread rolls and informs the Inquisitor that he doesn't eat. He sees the look on their face, hears the momentary panic in their mind and takes a bite anyways. "I don't need to eat, but I want to." It makes the Inquisitor happy.

The Iron Bull observes the plate of cinnamon rolls with a certain wariness. The last time he had these, they were poisoned by a friend. These ones are just fine, however. Screw fine. They're delicious!

If romanced, he brings his kadan into his lap and feeds them a piece of a roll. Bull thanks them with a kiss (much to the chagrin of Krem, though he stops complaining as soon as he's offered one too). "My kadan is a badass and an excellent baker as well? Damn, I'm lucky."

Madame de Fer. Iron Lady. The name strikes fear into the hearts of weaker opponents, so it is strange to see Vivienne lose her composure. She's touched by the gifts of powdered biscuits, and after the loss of her dear Bastien, it's just what she needed. Vivienne thanks the Inquisitor with many darlings and my dears, and quietly tucks in, her heart warm with thoughts of her lover and baked goods.

Cullen glances up at the icing dusted biscuits presented before him. "These are for me?" He eyes the biscuits, then his paperwork, then gives in to the temptation of the sweet treats. Cullen feels less stressed about his day than before, and happily tucks into them with a soothing cup of tea by the side of his desk.

If romanced, Cullen blushes at the sight of the heart shaped biscuits. They're cute and sweet (much like the person in front of him) so he has no choice but to ignore his paperwork. He's already thinking of a million ways he can return the favour.

Leliana blinks at the plate of cookies in front of her. "You are too kind, Inquisitor." She takes them with a rare, genuine smile and allows herself to relax. It's an odd feeling to be sure, but not an unwelcome one.

Josephine has about a billion things to do. Organise a party between an Antivan and Orlesian ambassador, spread support for the Inquisition in the little villages of Ferelden and... eat baked goods? She decides to make it a priority on her never ending to-do list and doesn't regret a single crumb.

If romanced, Josie finds a giggle easily reaching her lips. "Did you make this, my love?" She's all 'thank you's and bright smiles. Her love's baking has her glowing with happiness all day long.

[ramblinganthropologist]

Fictober 21 - 9 “There’s no right side to this”

Fanfiction

Fandom: Dragon Age Inquisition

Summary: Kaaras has a problem. Lucky for him, he’s been training all his life to deal with it. He’s going to need a room with only one exit, a plate of cookies, and a whole lot of patience to settle things, but it’s for the good of Skyhold. Now, if he could only do it before his migraine melted his brain...

---

“Thank you for stopping to see me on such short notice, Kaaras.”

Why did getting called to Josephine’s office feel like he was getting lectured?

Kaaras at least got to sit for this as he settled into the chair across the desk from his head ambassador. Like always, it was piled high with papers and letters from various dignitaries and countries that needed their help. If it was up to him, he probably would’ve read through all of them and never got anything done, but the Antivan was far better at this sort of thing than he was. Her summaries helped move things along and allowed him to make proper decisions… but he got the feeling as she looked at him that it wasn’t about that.

Oh boy… what had he done this time?

“I’m always happy to help, Josephine.” Even his smile felt awkward as he tried to keep calm. Naturally, that was impossible for him – he always ran a bit nervous. His aunt had told him he needed a proper outlet for it, and at one point he had taken up jewelry making as a way to quiet both his hands and mind. Now he was great at it but bringing his tools to meetings tended to be frowned upon… so there went his coping strategy.

Maybe he needed a quiet one, so he didn’t wind up picking the skin off his hands.

The human in front of him smiled back, but her eyes said it was straight to business time as she sat as well. “I do hope I am not being too presumptuous with my request.”

“Hard to say, I don’t even know what it is yet. I doubt it, mind you. You’re the soul of propriety.”

At least he wasn’t babbling. Score one for the Dalish-qunari federation of two.

She smiled at him, but that soon faded as she shook her head. “Normally, I would just let them settle things amongst themselves, but things are beginning to get out of hand.”

Her words set up a number of possibilities in his mind as he sat there. Orlais and Ferelden were naturally near the top, but of course there were still plenty of mage and templar flare ups to be dealt with. For all he knew this could be about two noble families doing stupid noble shit to each other.

But… her words also made him doubt that. What would be presumptuous about that?

Josephine took his silence on the matter and continued. “Forgive me, but I would request you oversee the dispute between Jackel and Akri.”

Ah.

Kaaras could already feel the headache blooming as he resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. “What did I miss when I was out fighting that dragon?”

It had been one of the rare times that he hadn’t taken either both of them or at least one member of his family. Both had been preoccupied with other tasks and begged off, citing they had something important to handle. He had gone off without them, taking a few members of his inner circle to literally cross swords with an honest-to-the-Creators dragon that was causing havoc in one of the areas they were stabilizing. It had been a nasty fight, and he was just starting to settle back into being in Skyhold again.

Now this.

His ambassador nudged a piece of chocolate towards him – probably her version of a bribe. He took it anyway, mostly because chocolate was proving to be quite a boon in dealing with his headaches. If only he would have had it when his horns were growing in, maybe he wouldn’t have had to drink all that nasty tea…

But he was avoiding the problem. He did that a lot. It was kind of bad form when you led an organization.

“I am unsure. Everything was fine until a few days ago, then they started arguing with each other nearly every time they met. I fear it may come to blows at this rate, and I honestly cannot tell who would come off the worse. Josephine sighed again. “Does this sort of thing happen often with your family?”

Well, let’s see…was it normal for two people with strong personalities and stubborn natures to butt heads?

Was the sky fucking blue?

It must have been written all over his face, because Josephine pushed another piece of chocolate his way, maybe out of sympathy. “I don’t want to overstep any boundaries, but their last blow up was in the library and it put quite a few people off. Could you please talk to them and see if you could sort things out?”

Kaaras responded by popping the chocolate in his mouth and sighing as it began to melt. Once he had swallowed, he nodded. “I’m probably the only one who can get to them right now anyway. At least Akri can control his magic now, it was even worse when they were younger.”

He still had scars from those days. Lucky for him, he was must better at dodging now.

“Thank you, Kaaras.” She smiled at him. “And… would it be too much to see if you could resolve things quickly?”

“Quickly is the only way you can do these things. You need to catch them off guard.” He stood. “I’m going to need an empty room with no windows and one door. Also, if I could get some cookies or something else sweet.”

A plan was already starting to bloom as the chocolate worked its way through his sore brain. Lucky for him, he had years of experience of dealing with the pair when they were at their worst. It was time to get to work.

---

A few hours later, Kaaras found himself in the mentioned room. Josephine had made sure to find a decently sized one with thick walls, away from people. The only furniture inside was a table and three chairs – everything else had been moved out for safety’s sake.

And of course, he had the cookies. Today’s batch was chocolate chip, which in itself felt like a good luck charm.

Like clockwork, he heard his first target coming before he saw her. Jackel was quiet, but he had grown up with her. More than that, he knew she couldn’t say no to sweets. That was all he needed as he opened the door after waiting for a few seconds.

“Thanks for coming, Jacks. I could really use your help.”

His cousin, far smaller and thinner than he was even as a child, looked suspicious as she stepped through. He did his best to keep his face neutral as he gestured to the table where the cookies were waiting. Naturally, she went right for them, one going immediately into her mouth as she settled into perching on the chair.

“So, you wanted to go over shit you found fighting that dragon? Not sure why you need me, that’s more a magic nerd thing.”

The mere mention of magic nerds made Jackel scowl, and she shoved another cookie into her mouth. Kaaras felt the sweat bead on the back of his neck, but he didn’t let it show as he sat down as well. She had to think he was genuine for this to work – otherwise, she’d leave.

That was why there were no windows. She was prone to jumping out, especially if there was a nearby tree.

“I’m pretty sure this isn’t magical. Dorian gave it a once over when we found it, but he said he didn’t feel anything.” He placed the dagger on the table. Honestly, he had wanted to talk to her about it – tools like this was really her area of expertise. “I’m thinking it’s from Orlais based on the handle, but there was nothing Orlesian around it. Maybe it’s from a scouting party?”

Jackel picked it up, holding it between her hands. “Yeah, but it looks like the dragon shit it out. Where the hell did you find this?”

Not up a dragon’s ass…

Kaaras didn’t get the chance to answer – he heard the sound of footsteps approaching. Lucky for him, the dagger had caught Jackel’s interest for the moment. He used that moment to stand and walk to the door. When she got like that, nothing could pull her out.

Was it wrong to use that against her? Maybe, but if it was as bad as Josephine had said, he needed all the help he could get.

Without a word, he opened the door. Just like he thought, his brother was standing on the other side. Like always, Akri looked prickly. However, thanks to how he had arranged the room, he couldn’t see the other member at the table.

This was why Kaaras had been so insistent about the room. Optics were everything in this operation.

“You wanted me to look at some magic stuff you found while killing that dragon?”

Before Jackel could react, Kaaras grabbed his brother’s arm and pulled him in. The sudden throw got him off his feet, enough that he stumbled away from the door. As soon as he had, he threw the key into the lock and clicked it shut. Then the key went into his pocket, and he sat down, chair against the door.

Sadly, that was the easy part.

“What the- “Akri’s face soon hardened as he saw the room’s other occupant. “Oh, come the fuck on.”

Jackel shot him a dirty look as she glanced around the room. Betrayal crossed her face as she glared over at Kaaras. She always was good at figuring this kind of thing out, but sometimes he could trick her.

They were both going to be pissed at him after, but he would take a united front against a destruction derby.

“You’re so dead when this is over.” She shot Akri another glare. “I have nothing to say to you, asshole.”

Akri snorted as he spun his chair around and sat down, crossing his arms over the top. “That makes two of us, you dick.”

Ah, lovely. It wasn’t as bad as he had thought. At the very least they were still insulting each other. The worst was when they didn’t talk at all. There was hope yet for a peaceful conclusion to the matter…

He just had to nudge them.

Kaaras looked from cousin to brother as he gauged their reactions. “I only did this because Josephine told me you two were causing a ruckus in the library. Poor Trevy wound up reshelving half the entropy section because of your fight.”

His cousin snorted at that. “Blame your brother, he’s the one with the magic.”

“Blame your cousin, she’s the one who fucking started it.”

How the hell were they adults again?

The headache was starting to return. All Kaaras could do was pinch the bridge of his nose in a hope to ward off the worst of it. His hand sparked as he did, filling his veins with fire. In a weird way, it was a reminder that this wasn’t just a regular argument. After all, all three were involved with the Inquisition now. They needed to resolve this peacefully.

Also? It hurt like shit. He wanted to go to bed, but instead he was stuck dealing with his stupid family.

“I don’t care who started it.” Creators, he sounded like his father right then. Talk about a nightmare. “It’s fine if you’re mad at each other, but it’s dragging other people into it and I’m not going to watch what happened last time go down again.”

The scar on his wrist throbbed in memory, but he kept it off his face as he looked from person to person. Akri and Jackel were annoyed, but at least they weren’t throwing anything. Though, that was probably because there was nothing to throw.

He was an old hand at this.

Sighing, Kaaras did allow for a pinch to the bridge of his nose to stop the headache. “So, mind telling me what the problem is?”

“Don’t see how that’s any of your fucking business, Kaas.” Akri wasn’t quite at a snarl, but he was pissed. “I don’t feel like talking anyway.”

Jackel was picking at another cookie. “I’m with the asshole on this one.”

Yep, his headache was even worse.

“Fine, then we’re just going to sit here until you do feel like it. Josephine cleared my schedule for this.” He crossed one leg over the other. “So, I’m sure you have better things to do than glare at me. Might as well get it over with so you can go off and do them.”

Before either could try it, he added, “My chair is enchanted, by the way. You’re not going to be able to get me out of it until I decide to get up on my own. So, don’t even think about trying that, Akri.”

It wasn’t often he got to outsmart his family – but he had experience in the matter. And bruises, a lot of healed bruises from moments like this. Sometimes, he just had to shut off all other routes of escape to get these assholes to deal with whatever was bothering them.

He was starting to get an idea though. Only one thing could probably annoy them this much…

“Why don’t you ask your horn dog of a brother?”

Ah, right on the money.

Akri glared over at Jackel, who continued to innocently pick at her cookie. “It was my fucking night- “

“And you did it in my spot!”

His brother rolled his eyes as he scowled. “How the fuck was I supposed to know that random ass spot was your area with him? We don’t exactly share our fucking spots! If it was so important, Bull should’ve said something! Besides, that doesn’t exactly let you fuck with my experiment!”

“How was I supposed to know that random ass spot was so important?”  

Their voices were starting to get to shouting level. Lucky for him, the walls were thick enough to muffle it. They could scream until they were hoarse (hopefully not, mind you) and no one would ever hear it. It would give him the world’s worst headache, but at least he would manage to keep the peace.

At least he had the picture now.

Kaaras once again pinched the bridge of his nose. “So… if I have this right… Jackel, you’re mad at Akri because he was intimate with Bull in a space you keep special for just the two of you.”

When she nodded, he turned to his brother. “And Akri, you’re upset because you think she messed with your experiment in revenge for this.”

Another nod. Good. They were getting somewhere.

He let the matter hang in the air as the two fumed over their issues. Sometimes, it took someone else saying it for the full emphasis to drop on how ridiculous they were both being. But they were making good time… maybe he could catch a nap after all. He really needed it – the headache was only getting worse. Plus, he needed to change clothes… it was getting kind of hot in there.

Who knew being around two hotheads could raise the room temperature?

A few moments later, he let out a sigh as he ran his non-glowing death hand over his hair. “There’s no right side to this, you know.”

Before both could start to shout at him, he added, “You both crossed each other’s boundaries. This could have been solved with better communication. How was Akri supposed to know that was your special space, Jackel?”

His cousin sucked in her cheek – she could see the logic. “He could have asked Bull…”

“It was dark. You know his night vision’s shit.” At least Akri wasn’t shouting. That was a good sign. “I didn’t fucking do it on purpose, it was an accident. You can’t fucking claim the same, you cost me two weeks of work!”

And he was starting to raise his voice. Shit. Things had been going so well too…

Jackel scowled at him. “I don’t know what magic looks like, I can’t even read! How the hell was I supposed to know I was walking through mage shit?”

Akri’s scowl turned into more of a frown – that was his tell. “I had the damn area blocked off…”

“Half of Skyhold is blocked off, the damn place is a fucking ruin.” Jackel picked at another cookie – she had left two. “It’s not like I did it on purpose, I just needed to be by myself after all this.”

The tension was starting to evaporate from the room. Akri and Jackel weren’t looking at each other, probably because they were feeling a little stupid and didn’t want to admit it. By now, they should’ve been used to this feeling – it wasn’t exactly their first fight. Damn the fact they had similar personalities when it came to getting pissed.

But still... a win was a win.

“So, it sounds like you both didn’t mean it. It still happened, but it wasn’t done on purpose.” He sighed in relief as he felt his forehead throb and stomach start to churn. Neither were exactly promising signs, but he just had a bit further to go to make sure Skyhold wouldn’t fall apart due to these two and their argument. “Sound good?”

Jackel nudged the plate close to Akri. “You still need a better way to mark your spots off.”

He accepted the cookie. “Right back at you. Maybe we should bend branches or something so the shems can’t figure it out.”

“There’s plenty of walls to carve a symbol or something in too.”

Wonderful, they were thinking about solutions. This had gone better than he had hoped. Kaaras’ shoulders sagged in relief as he allowed his eyes to close briefly. His head had gone straight into fucking killing him mode in the last few minutes, so they had wrapped things up with plenty of time for him to wish he was in a coma.

Whatever was causing these headaches needed to fucking stop… but at least the quiet helped him not want to throw up.

“Kaas, you ok over there? You’re looking green as hell.”

Akri’s voice was calm, but it still hurt. The palm on his forehead was cool, though. He was almost sad for it to be pulled away with a hiss.

“Shit, he’s burning up.”

Jackel’s chair scraped as she went somewhere, he didn’t know where. “He’s probably fucking overdoing it again. Come on, let’s get his dumb ass to bed before he passes out.”

The enchantment tingled as Kaaras tapped the chair and took a shaky step to stand. Almost at once, he stumbled. Lucky for him, his brother was way bigger and stronger than he was. No floor naps for him.

“I got you, Kaas.” Then his feet were off the ground. “Damn it, did you eat anything while you were killing that dragon? You’ve lost like ten pounds at least.”

They were moving now – the motion made his stomach churn, but at least he didn’t have anything in it to void. All he could hope for was that they were going through a quiet route. People tended to get upset when they saw their leader out of commission.

“I was fine… until a few minutes ago.”

Jackel snorted somewhere near his side. “Bullshit, you’ve worked with the flu before. I can’t believe Josie didn’t notice the shitty condition you’re in.”

Neither did he apparently… maybe that wasn’t a good sign.

After a few flights of stairs, Kaaras felt his back land on something soft. Akri slipped off his jacket and helped him work his way out of his upper shirt. Then it was straight to pillow town, operation him.

“Thanks…”

From the sound of things, Jackel was sitting nearby – so was Akri. “Just get some fucking rest, moron. If you’re up later, we’ll get you some dinner.”

“We’ll make sure nobody comes to fuck with you.”

Well, at least they were working as a unit again. Kaaras could be glad for that as he buried his burning face in the pillow to sleep off his headache. Nothing like a family medical emergency to bring people together…

You think it would teach them to talk things out, but it never did. At least they had him to sort things out… though he would’ve preferred to do it without his body crapping out on him like that.

Oh well… he could worry about that later, after his nap. With any luck, Josephine would come up to look for him and get the good news. That would save him giving a follow up report of how his family’s sex and work life had become hopelessly intertwined.

Creators, he would give his left hand to avoid that…

[shivunin]

Hellooo! Thought I’d pop in and request number 13 from the OC codex prompts? Transcripts of an interview with Maria Hawke, about anything of your choosing! :3

I would be interested to hear about interview thoughts on Anders post-chantry incident though tbh. It’s touched on so little in Inquisition and it’s clearly hard for Hawke or anyone to discuss—whether they were with Anders romantically or not. But those difficult conversations can be the most fun to read or write, no?

With those thoughts aside, any interview you come up with would be great! Have a great day! ✨

Oooh, thanks for the prompt! I also think that her thoughts post-Chantry explosion are intriguing, but I need to think about that a bit more before I write it out. Here is an interview set just after Act 2 instead c: I hope you have a great day as well!

(Codex Prompts)

13. transcript of an interview with your OC

Interview transcript from Kirkwall’s official chronicler, dated 13 Harvestmere, 9:34 Dragon. Transcription notes by scribe apprentice Carmac Faragher. The name of the chronicler is not recorded here. Interviewee noted as one Lady Maria Amell-Hawke, though there is a note stating the lady in question contested that name. Interview conducted in Interviewee’s home.

Transcript begins: 

Chronicler: Good morning. This session is to record, for posterity, the events surrounding the Qunari incursion resulting in the death of Viscount Dumar. I understand your wounds are healing well?

Lady Hawke: Yes, thank you for your concern. I can move without my intestines spilling out now, which as you can imagine is a great improvement in my days. 

Chronicler: Ah. I see.

Lady Hawke: That was a joke. You’re allowed to laugh! I have it under good authority that it is an excellent set of intestines. Quite robust. Say, the fabric of your vest is quite lovely—is that Antivan?

Chronicler: Yes, it is. If we might return to the subject of—

Lady Hawke: You know, I’ve heard that Antiva’s had a bit of a trade war recently with Nevarra—have you heard of this?—I was just reading about it upstairs. Apparently, that’s why the cost of Antivan goods has dropped so much this past season. Some sort of issue with assassins, though in my humble opinion that’s the sort of trouble one courts when your government is run by said assassins. Pardon me; you look confused. Don’t mind me, I’m awfully cooped up in this place and nobody will let me go anywhere after—go on and ask your questions. 

Chronicler: [clears throat] Right. Can you recount for me the events in question, beginning with when you first heard of the trouble? 

Lady Hawke: Goodness, that’s awfully far back. Well, I came to Kirkwall during the Blight in—

Chronicler: Excuse me, no. Let me be more specific: I am referring to when you first heard of the imminent uprising by Qunari forces. 

Lady Hawke: Ah, an important distinction. Well, about a year ago—

Chronicler: No, no. Messere, please. 

Lady Hawke: The questions you’re asking me are horribly vague. Do you mean to tell me the city at large has been unaware of the massive contingent of disgruntled and behorned fellows occupying the docks for the last four years? Because I cannot believe that’s true. We’ve been on the brink of what happened for ages. 

Chronicler: [sigh] Let us begin again. 

Lady Hawke: Oh, please, let’s. Now, about your vest…

Transcript is accompanied by a note from the chronicler in question that indicates the interview was never completed. A follow-up discussion was scheduled, but no notes on said meeting remain in the chronicles or archives.

[shutupaboutandraste]

Hellooooo! How about a prompt from your summer list? For either Canders or Zevistair, stargazing. Happy Friday!

Why not both? ;) Thank you so much for the prompt I hope you like it! Words: 832 Pairings: Carver/Anders, Alistair/Zevran For @dadrunkwriting​ Fingers threaded tightly into each other. Stars twinkled, winking at the ground below, unblinking and apathetic to those that gazed upward at them. Calloused skin met calloused skin, desperate to feel that the other was real. A single tear, salty and cold, rolled down a cheek, absorbing into scratchy stubble. Years had taken their toll. Within the reddish-gold hairs there were flecks of white, the marks of age and stress. 

Old… He never should have lived long enough to grow old. Even now, he was hardly as old as others, even ones he knew twice his age. But no one’s life was exactly the same and he had made his life particularly hard. In fact, he had made everyone's life particularly hard. A shaking sigh escaped him. The hand holding his own clutched it, squeezing firmly. 

“Don’t think too much,” he heard his lover murmur. The younger man rolled over, letting thick fingers thread through golden locks, “You can’t blame yourself.” 

“I’m the only one there is to blame,” he reminded him. 

Teeth grit. A deep frown settled in on his lover’s face, trying to piece together words to comfort him. But there were no words the other could say. His presence was the only comfort he had anymore. Only the end of the war that he had helped escalate would bring him peace now. And he could do nothing to usher it forward-- he was hiding away, like the coward. 

A chaste kiss pressed against his lips. Life soared back into his chest, electrifying his heart. For a moment, he felt like himself again as his lover hovered over him, brighter than any star. His arms threaded upward, wrapping around the other man. He was all muscle with that flash of thick, dark hair with a sea of bright blue eyes. Even amidst the ruins of his life, there was one beautiful star who loved him anyway. 

“I love you.” A whisper against lips.

“I love you.” A rumble in affirmation. 

Honest. True. Hope.

Alistair let his fingers play with the edges of Zevran’s hair. They were both blonde, but Zevran had that lovely bright blond that seemed to glow in any light. His own was darker, it didn’t shine-- it was just hair. Like everything about Zevran, his hair was perfect and lovely. 

Stars twinkled above them while Alistair tried not to spy on Alistair and Carver below. When The Warden had requested he house Anders, Alistair had been apprehensive, but the other had come with his own personal guard. And, well, Alistair was a sucker for a good love story. Stargazing was a calming little date. Though, it was quite obvious their stargazing had shifted to kissing. Alistair couldn’t blame them. When you were in love it was one of life’s few comforts. His thumb rolled small locks between itself and his pointer finger. Each roll came with a satisfying calm of touch, each little hair pressing feather-like to the pads of his fingers. 

Lithe, tanned fingers reached up, threading their way under the collar of Alistair’s shirt. Cheeky. Maker, he was living a charmed life. 

“You have knitted your brows so tight you might as well make socks, caro mio,” hummed Zevran, pressing kisses to Alistair’s chin. 

The name made Alistair’s heart sing. Caro mio. My dear. Zevran had once explained it fully-- that in Antivan for something to be caro, it had to be precious, expensive. How Zevran could ever see someone like Alistair like that was beyond him. So, instead of asking and risking his good fortune, Alistair lifted Zevran’s other hand and pressed a kiss to his knuckles. 

He watched Zevran all but melt under the affection. A mischievous smile overtook Alistair’s face. Dirty talking wouldn’t even make the assassin flush, but act like a gentleman and suddenly he became putty. There was an act to it, of course. Zevran was a Crow at one time-- and now, Alistair was sure, slowly killing any competition in order to gain control over the Crows itself, which somehow made the other man more attractive-- which meant he was very good at holding back. To show this vulnerable tenderness meant the world to Alistair. Trust linked between them. 

His fingers traced the lines of Zevran’s tattoo. He could do this a million times and would still find new details, new reasons to love the pattern of the elf’s face. Alistair could get lost doing this. As they grew older, these moments were so few and far between. One day, though, he and Zevran would get to sit, damn who knew or who saw or what Eamon thought, and do this for as long as they both desired. 

“You tease me,” Zevran all but purred, reaching up to nip at Alistair’s lips, “Or are you more interested in star gazing?” 

Alistair shook his head, pressing a kiss to his lover’s lips, teeth knocking slightly against his flesh, “I’m far more interested in the sky right in front of me.”

[lesetoilesfous]

The smell of freshly baked bread + Zevran/Anders (I've never considered that ship before! I'm curious)

I’m so glad you requested this, thank you! I think they’re fun. I love to imagine both polyamorous scenarios with the Warden, and dirty weekends at The Pearl for thiese two...This one is pre-relationship, but I hope you like it!

(If you’d like me to write you a dragon age fic, send me a prompt from here!)

@dadrunkwriting​

Pairing: ZevrAnders

Characters: Zevran, Anders

Tags: pre-relationship, allusion to past torture, allusion to past starvation, casual polyamory

Rating: Mature

There are very few things better than the smell of freshly baked bread. One of them is Talen: the specific blend of leather and wood polish he uses to work his bow, a smell that Zevran cannot taste without a bone deep sense of safety, even in the most outlandish of environs. Another is Antivan leather, the rich, stinking, choking scent of tanning, smoky and so heavy in the air that it feels like you can touch it. But freshly baked bread: to a man who had more than once flirted with starving to death, was a very special kind of paradise. 

So Zevran follows his nose, out of the main hall of the Vigil and down towards the kitchens and the scent of baking wheat, feeling his mouth water even after all these years, even now, when he always knew where his next meal would come from, and how to get it if he didn’t. Zevran walks past the soldiers of the Vigil in a daze: the only person who’d likely catch his attention at this point is Mahariel, and he’s working on training the recruits. 

(Recruit, singular, the Howe boy who Talen claims Zevran does not have the patience to deal with, yet. Zevran’s answer, that the boy would learn, had not been accepted by his all-too-patient lover. Yet despite his best efforts, Zevran could not resent him for it. After all, it was Mahariel’s generosity of spirit that had seen him not only survive a contract on a Grey Warden but find his freedom, and there were very few Crows who could say the same.) 

The soldiers and walls of the Vigil blur into a river of greys and browns as Zevran follows his nose to the kitchen, ears ringing when he’s close enough with the familiar percussive cacophony of rattling pans, slamming doors and sizzling roots. A pair of young mabari are crouched by the door to the kitchens, whining, and a skinny ginger tabby is perched on the wall above them, watching them warily. Zevran’s mouth lifts in a small smile as he regards them, before setting his hand on the iron handle to the door and pressing on the latch.

At the exact same moment, another hand touches his. 

Zevran reacts on instinct, pressing a dagger to what he had assumed was the height of an elvhen stomach and instead pushes into the too-thin meat of a skinny thigh. At the same time, the (very tall) figure beside him yelps, stumbling backwards - which in turn startles the mabari and the cat. The mabari start barking, great whooping yelps, and the cat disappears in a flash of red fur. Zevran glares at the human beside him as if that will save face for the utterly stupid lack of judgement that had let - what, a mage? Sneak up on him. Ice runs cold into Zevran’s stomach as he considers how firmly deceased he would have been if this man were anyone else, and the taste of freshly baked bread dissipates in his mouth.

The mage, for his part, with long blonde hair tied back from his face and a rickety wooden excuse for a staff, holds up two long crooked hands in an open gesture of surrender. “Sorry! Sorry, sorry, sorry, I didn’t mean, I didn’t see you -”

Attempting to collect himself, Zevran sheaths his knife. This man is no threat to him, judging by the way his long, skinny limbs are shaking. He forces an exhale, pushes a non-existent strand of hair out of his face, and tries to ignore the cold sweat on his back, painting on a smile. “No, it is I who should apologise. You... gave me a fright.”

The mage nods, and swallows, glancing between Zevran and the door to the kitchen. “The feeling’s mutual.” Slowly, he stands and brushes down his - skin tight suede - robes, before holding out a hand. “I’m Anders, by the way.”

Zevran takes his hand, and is surprised by how firm Anders’ grip is when he shakes. “Zevran. You are one of the recruits?”

Anders’ thin lips pull up at one corner, as if at some private joke. The smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Something like that.” At Zevran’s questioning gaze, he clarifies. “I’m an apostate. And given a choice between a quick death and a slow one, I chose getting eaten by Darkspawn.” Anders’ lips twist, and his fingers flex as he lowers his hand.

Zevran very deliberately does not think about Talen, and what will happen when his Calling comes for him. The mage, Anders, puts his hand on the door handle, then seems to catch himself. “Oh, but I’m not dangerous. Like, I’m not a blood mage. I just.” He shrugs, an awkward movement of his too-thin, broad shoulders. “Don’t like being cooped up.” He offers Zevran another humourless smile. Then he opens the door with a faint click.

There’s a broad, fat woman inside the kitchens, and when she sees them she beams at Anders, her cheeks red with the heat that wafts out of the room in waves of sweet-smelling steam. “Anders! I should have known it was you causing such a commotion.”

Anders’ sharp shoulders drop as he makes eye contact with the woman, and he steps away from Zevran quickly, crossing the space to drop a kiss onto her cheek. “Sarah. Sorry about that, I, um -”

He glances back at Zevran, and she follows his gaze. Zevran gives them both a wave, and then a flourishing bow, because it amuses him. “Zevran Arainai, Antivan Crow.” He grins when both of them startle, “I am not here in a professional capacity.”

The mage, Anders, has moved to stand between Sarah and Zevran - which Zevran thinks is either brave or stupid, considering how awkwardly he holds himself, and how easy it would be to unbalance him. He frowns down at Zevran, “So why are you here?”

Zevran performs a gusty sigh, imitating an actress who’d once made him laugh in a Rivaini streetshow. “Perhaps you will know me better as the Warden’s paramour.”

Anders’ frown transmutes from suspicion into confusion. “Which warden?”

Zevran laughs, then, honestly, and catches the moment that Anders’ mouth quirks upward in a shadow of a smile when he does. “Aha, I had become so accustomed to there being just two in our travels during the Blight that I have neglected to remember his recent efforts. No, I mean the Warden. Talen Mahariel.”

Anders’ eyebrows hit his hairline at the same moment Sarah dips a hurried curtsy of stained brown skirts. “Oh my word, the commander’s paramour in my kitchen! Oh, everything is such a mess.”

Sarah immediately begins to busy herself with clearing surfaces, apparently at random. Anders looks caught between soothing her and keeping his eye on Zevran, so Zevran spares him the decision, stepping quickly forward and easily around the mage to catch her hands. They’re warm and soft in his, and Sarah stops immediately, eyes widening as she flushes. She, at least, is a more ordinary size, and only slightly taller than Zevran.

“Please, do not stand on ceremony for my sake. I admit I was only drawn here by the scent of fresh bread.” Sarah’s eyes, if possible, widen further, an effect exaggerated by the flour sticking to her cheeks. But then her expression softens, and she gently pulls her hands back.

“Well then! You should have said. Here, sit down. You too, Anders.” Sarah’s tone takes on a distinctly matronly quality when she speaks to the mage, though she can’t have had more than a decade and a half on him in age. Zevran supposes he’s known younger mothers.

Both of them sit at a rough wooden table on simple stools. Over their heads, sunlight spills like honey across the deep stone windowsill. Anders offers Zevran a tight smile, whilst Sarah ducks and opens a heavy iron door in the oven built into the wall. The smell of fresh bread intensifies, savoury sweet and warm on Zevran’s tongue. Sarah hums to herself tunelessly as she fishes out two iron plates from a cupboard, and slices the bread with a soft crunch.

She presents the plates and a clay dish of butter, as well as a tiny clay pot of rock salt, and puts her hands on her hips. Zevran stares at the steam rising in curls from the fresh bread and resists the urge to lick his lips. Sarah bumps Anders’ shoulder with her hips, and moves a hand to muss his hair. “You should have seen this one when he got here. Skinny as an alley cat and led by his nose just as easily.” Anders flushes, and opens his mouth to respond, but Sarah just claps his shoulder hard enough to make him buckle forward. “Go on you two, enjoy yourselves. I’ve got dinner to prepare for a small army.”

Then she turns and moves back to the kitchen, humming as she goes. Zevran pauses before touching his bread, glancing at Anders. He isn’t sure what he’s looking for, but the mage hunches his shoulders defensively, crooked hand frozen with his bread halfway to his mouth. This close Zevran can see that his fingers are littered with scars, and several of the knuckles are out of alignment. He is familiar with the treatment that elicits such effects, but he had not expected to see its marks on a mage. Perhaps Talen was right, and he based too much of what he knew of magic on cheap romances. Zevran had always assumed a mage would stop anyone before they could do such a thing.

“Withholding meals is Templar 101,” Anders mutters, glaring at Zevran defensively, “At least here I don’t get in trouble.”

Several things fall into place. Zevran picks up his bread: the crust is gold and thick, and warm to the touch. He butters it with a generous pat before sprinkling a little salt over the top. Anders watches him with poorly concealed curiosity. Zevran pretends not to notice. “Disciplinary starvation is not uncommon among the Crows.” Zevran offers Anders his first honest smile, and tries not to feel as if he exposing a vulnerable organ. “It seems we have this in common.”

Anders stares at him for a long moment, then, before eventually ducking his head and offering Zevran a hesitant smile in return. Satisfied, Zevran bites into his bread, and lets out a moan that he knows is pornographic. Sarah giggles, and Anders flushes pink across his cheeks, down his long neck and across what areas of his chest are exposed by those truly inviting robes.

Zevran hides his grin in his next bite. Well, Talen had a pet project with the Howe boy. Perhaps some amusement could come of knowing the mage better. It would, at the very least, be a pleasant enough way to pass the time.