#the black swan of kirkwall

[halfmoonheart]

Happy Friday!! For DADWC: Fenris x anyone with the song "eyes of green" by the Anyway Gang for inspiration? :)

Thank you for your prompt! I really like this song, thank you for adding it to my rotation!! This takes place in my canon world state, where in Fenris is with my inquisitor Samahl & Solas, but I specifically left it kind of vague.

Word Count: 641 @dadrunkwriting

For reference: Aurora is my Hawke (Warrior) & Ginger is Samahl Lavellan's nickname

The slip of paper had arrived unceremoniously. If it had been any other day, any other morning, Fenris might have missed it. He might have been gone already, heading toward Skyhold to meet with Sam. Or he might have placed it on a beautiful end table of dark oak, forgotten with other letters from magisters and freemen. But he hadn’t been - Fenris had been home. He’d been roasting a duck with apples and leeks. And when he’d taken one look at the golden lion seal, his heart dropped into his belly.

Varric didn’t contact him much these days. What need had he? Fenris was in Skyhold so often, at least once a month, why waste the paper? Unless it was an emergency.

Fenris plucked the paper from the box quickly, slicing the seal open with the claw of his gauntlet. His green eyes scanned Varric’s neat print, longhand for Fenris’ ease. His heart clutched, shuddering to a halt like a startled horse. No. No.

Automatically, he threw the page to the floor. Fenris brushed upstairs, into his bedroom, where the only fire in the manor burned quietly. It couldn’t be. Varric was mistaken. Heavy armour banged to the floor as Fenris undressed. He was more comfortable in his tunic and breeches, cooler in the mid-autumn air. Somehow, it didn’t help. His skin felt hot. His heart was still lodged firmly in his throat. What was it that Sam had told him? Breath in for seven, hold, out, repeat - until his heart stopped trying to strangle him. He followed their ghostly instructions, fighting the tears that pricked in his eyes.

Then he thought her name. Aurora. The flash of auburn hair and the flash of a smile. She was a sleepy, easy presence that tinged Fenris’ early memories of Kirkwall with sunshine. Never one to run, never one to hide. Never one to say “no” to the needs of Thedas’ people. Never one to say “no” to Samahl Lavellan.

No. He couldn’t blame Sam for this. If anything, Sam would have been a voice of reason, attempting to draw their friend back from a fight. This was Aurora’s fault.

Fenris was going to kill her if he ever got the chance.

Vitriol was rising in Fenris’ gut. He could feel warring emotions bubbling. Mainly sorrow. Mainly regret. He wandered back to the foyer to pick up the paper with Varric’s lion seal, dripping tears along the way. He was angry. And frustrated.

“You shouldn’t go. Meet up with Anders. You know Ginger can handle things without you. They’ve been fine so far,” Fenris had said over the rim of a beer stein, watching Aurora Hawke with careful green eyes. She’d met him with a matching stare. Somehow, her eyes had always reminded him of pasture, of lush life. And somehow, he knew she’d disobey him.

“Stupid,” he said now, staring through tears at Varric’s letter. He wandered into the bedroom, where the fire was sitting low on a single log. Impulsively, he threw the letter into it, watching it blacken and curl instantly. Regret squeezed him again, as if the letter was the last evidence of Aurora’s presence on this plane. He tamped it down. This was not her swan song. She was too good for this. She was a hurricane. Hawke wouldn’t be tamed by something as simple as a demon.

After he watched the paper disappear into black ash, Fenris packed his bag for travel and locked the manor’s door. There was no one to notify in the city - Leandra was long gone, Bethany was in hiding, Anders was…wherever Anders was. It was dark when Fenris set out, but he didn’t care. The night was better than Kirkwall without Hawke. Wolves howled at his back as he headed toward Skyhold, but somehow this didn’t disturb him. Fenris was heading home.

If you like my writing, please consider checking out my AO3! <3

[crysdrawsthings]

Time for my objectively correct opinions (no)

Dane's Refuge: mugged on the way there, crowded, but a front row to Warden throwing hands with some mercs, 3/10

Unnamed Tavern, Redcliffe: unremarkably mid, probably bad drinks, might be caught in the middle of some undead infestation, but nice view, 3/10

The Spoiled Princess: I am thoroughly sceptical about their water sources and whatever might get flushed into the lake from the Circle Tower. Nice name though, 4/10

The Gnawed Noble Tavern: drunk mercs, annoying nobles, duels over at the back alley, but an okay place and probably okayish drinks. Mid, 5/10

Tapster's Tavern: seems decent enough to me. Interesting area with a great view, variety of options, unique enriching experience for non-dwarves. Oghren might be there. Solid 6,5/10

The Crown and the Lion: not familiar. Assigned unremarkably mid by default

The Hanged Man: is in Kirkwall, what else can be said. -100/10

The Singing Maiden: rustic, unremarkable, might be a bit culty, worrying view on the giant hole in the sky, they might sing mabari song there, though, so as long as you miss Corypheus appearance it should be good, 5,5/10

Herald's Rest: fortified, exciting, great view, good atmosphere and public, likely good drinks, 7,5/10

The Gull and the Lantern: not familiar, assigned unremarkably mid by default

Edit: upon the review, suggest by Zefirka, the rating of the establishment was adjusted to 6/10 to reflect the business' involvement with the life journey of famous Magister Dorian Pavus as well as Alexius family

The Cobbled Swan: adorable sign, live music, delightful ambiance, probably serves khachapuri. Located in the Minrathous' Dock Town as it's own warning. Still, consider the khachapuri. Solid 7/10, everyone goes to the Cobbled Swam

Cantori Diamond: you order wrong kind of wine or bring up preferring tea over coffee or not liking your coffee black and there is a pending contract open for your head, 4/10

[kogiopsis]

2 for your inquisitors, 3 for your wardens, 5 for you Hawkes? on the companions ask meme

ALRIGHTY HERE GOES.

2.  Which companion does your hero find hard to trust?

Kepi has mixed feelings about Vivienne, given their fundamental disagreements about magic, but the companion she distrusts?  Solas.  Her Dalish identity is deeply important to her, and she feels weird about him from the moment he disavows both Dalish and city elves in their first conversation.  It’s hard for Kepi, someone whose whole life has been shaped by a sense of duty to her people, to like or trust someone who will criticize but refuse to help, and that’s how she sees Solas.

Nell trusted Blackwall... until she didn’t.  Also, the first time Solas told her what he thought of her idolizing the Wardens, she told him very bluntly where he could shove it.

Faina does not like Cole at first.  She gives him a chance for Varric’s sake, and when he becomes more human she can relax a bit more, but she’ll always find him somewhat unsettling.  She also dislikes Solas; she thinks he’s irresponsible with magic.  Both of these tie back to her Circle background and the fact that she is very wary of spirits and apostates on the whole.

Isaak... listen, Isaak likes everyone, by and large.  Not really Mother Giselle after she tries to get him to lie to Dorian, but he’s a friendly guy.  I guess, at first, he’d have trouble trusting Cassandra - she’s a little too by-the-book and, well, as a trans guy in a world we know does have transphobia, Isaak is probably a bit leery of authority figures.  (This is assuming we’re talking about an AU in which he and Faina are separated.)

Marva might not even recruit Cole, to be honest.  She’s not here for that spirit shit. 

Shahar does not trust Sera as far as they could throw her - and they’re a warrior, so that might actually be pretty far.  Shahar tends towards careful, reserved planning and Sera is the inevitable wrench in any such strategies.  They’re also leery of Bull before he becomes Tal-Vashoth, because his split loyalties make him a liability.

Minari trusts no bitch.

Wardenquisitor Daine - well.  Do I even need to say it?

3.  Who does your hero get competitive with?

Daine is very internally-focused, the kind of person who competes mostly with herself... but I think as she develops her skills as an Arcane Warrior, she spars with Alistair and sometimes Leliana, and gets a bit competitive with both of them in a playful, sporty way.  You could characterize her friendship with Sten as competitive, in the sense that they’re both trying to be the more stubborn one.

Tohora acts as if competing with her companions is beneath her... but she and Morrigan absolutely try to one-up each other in woodscraft.  It’s weird, especially for everyone else, especially when an argument on Morrigan’s side of camp escalates to shouting and then, inevitably when everyone is trying to pretend they’re not watching, to passionate kissing.  Also, Tohora and Zevran have an ongoing darkspawn kill count competition, though only Zevran will admit it.

Luthe would love to challenge Leliana in target-shooting, but knows it would be a waste of arrows.  He’s probably arm-wrestled Zevran and Alistair at least once each when they stop in taverns.  

5.  Which companion teaches your hero something new?

Kenina really... didn’t pay attention to how elves were treated before she got to know Merrill.  She feels pretty rotten about it, in retrospect; she tries really hard to be unselfish, and yet she had this enormous blind spot.

Signy learned how to slow down and examine a situation from Varric, who is much more considered and observant about people than she is.  She’s something of a blunt instrument by nature - doesn’t prevaricate, doesn’t do stealth, etc.  Varric models a more cautious, nuanced approach.

Basil refuses to learn anything.  That would be work.

[sinsbymanka]

The Viscount’s Muse (NSFW, Smut Ahoy)

Post DAI - Maria Cadash finds the Viscount’s smut and gets... inspired. This can also be found at AO3! Smut is under the cut. Thank you @tuffypelly for the inspiration!

“Sod it all.” Maria mumbled under her breath, collapsing in Varric’s desk chair. It groaned as if it too thought the situation hopeless. 

“My lady?” The steward asked blandly, stopping his long recitation of matters needing her attention. 

“Sorry, keep going.” She waved him on, glaring at her husband’s desk. “The Comte de Launcet wants what again?” 

The steward continued his droning and Maria listened with only half an ear. Varric’s latest serial, The Murderous Magpie, had been more of a hit that anyone could have dreamed. His next Hard in Hightown, according to all the critics and a rabid fan base. Who couldn’t love a daring, rakish heroine from the streets framed for countless murders of mighty nobles by a shadowy faction with nefarious motives? 

It was transparently based on Bea Cadash of course, but beyond their little circle, nobody else had made the connection. Bea herself actually picked up a copy, read the whole damn thing,  then wrote a real honest-to-goodness letter critiquing it in detail. Maria herself usually got mere notes, laced with profanity, from Bea. A letter was nearly unheard of. 

So, of course, both Varric’s editor and publisher were breathing down his damn neck for the next chapter. Because her husband, of course, didn’t have enough things spinning on his many plates. Ruling the city, managing both their affairs with the guild, raising their daughter, making sure the little operation trying to track Solas down at the Gallows didn’t collapse while Maria vanished into the crossroads for months…

She’d been gone too long the last time she left. Poor Varric must have been drowning in it all. She swallowed the thought guiltily and brushed aside the neat stacks of papers on his desk impatiently. She promised she’d read it before he sent it off but she couldn’t sodding find it. She was about ready to push it to tomorrow when she seized upon a neat stack of Varric’s handwritten notes in a drawer.

She lifted them triumphantly and let her eyes scan the page. 

Mariele’s plump lips opened in greedy anticipation, silver eyes flashing dangerously beneath the black lace of her mask. Viktor already felt himself swelling to attention under her hungry, predatory gaze. She looked as if she’d swallow him whole. A lesser man would fall to her whims immediately… 

Oh for the love of Andraste and all their bleeding ancestors, Varric must have finally given into Cassandra’s urging to write the next chapter of Swords and Shields. Set in Orlais, by the sound of it. Amused, Maria flipped to the next page. 

Her nimble fingers undid his trousers before he could even protest and the bard dropped to her knees in a rustle of pale silk. The moonlight in the garden turned her skin to pearl and marble, turned her hair to flickering crimson flame. She released his heavy manhood into the night, wrapping slender fingers around it and letting her pink tongue dart out over those tempting, kiss swollen lips. 

Viktor couldn’t help himself. He dropped his hand to the bare shoulders exposed by the wispy gown, traced his thumb up the pale, white scars accenting her silken skin. 

“Mariele…” He shuddered under her expert fingers. “Sweet Andraste…” 

“Oh,” The beautiful creature purred. “But I’m so much sweeter.” 

Crimson hair. Silver eyes. Scars climbing up her shoulder. Mariele and Viktor. She wondered if she’d make it through the rest of the draft to find out Mariele only had one blighted arm after losing the other to freak elven magic shenanigans. 

“My lady?” The steward asked, taking in her sudden, frozen posture. “Is everything quite alright?” 

“Of course.” She answered mechanically. “Tell the Comte we can’t assist him at this time. Where is the Viscount at the moment?”

“Meeting with the shipbuilders guild, my lady. Then luncheon with some merchants from Antiva, contract negotiations with the city of Markham, and then you’ve both accepted an invitation to a dinner hosted by one of the Merchant Guild’s…” 

Perfect. She’d been considering cheerfully murdering him, witnesses be damned, but a Merchant’s Guild dinner would be far, far worse than death. “We haven’t sent our regrets about not attending yet?” 

“I believe your plan was to feign an emergency.” The steward remarked wryly. “Fire in the kitchens was next in your rotation of excuses.” 

“We’ll save that for the next one. Please send a note to my husband stating we’ll be attending the guild dinner. I’ll meet him there.”

“Are… are you certain?” The steward asked, agog. Maria shuffled all the papers in the drawer into a neat stack and leaned back in Varric’s chair. She lifted her eyes to the steward and raised one eyebrow. 

“Did I stutter?” She asked sweetly, the tone dripping honey and venom. 

“No! No, ma’am.” He added, gulping nervously. 

“And can you ask the Hawkes if they’ll keep my daughter for the evening? I think we’ll be returning late.” Maria lifted the first paper to her eyes in clear dismissal and watched with a rather large amount of amusement as the steward scuttled away. 

Varric, Varric, Varric… she thought with no small degree of hidden fondness. If this had made it to his publisher, she’d shave his chest hair off herself, but deep down she knew it hadn’t. He’d been naughty, though. That wasn’t in doubt. 

He’d missed her. So he’d written smutty literature starring them. She could already tell it was absolutely awful. And glorious. She couldn’t wait to tell Cass. 

xx

At first, Varric thought his wife had been kidnapped and the note sent under duress. After all, the only person who hated guild dinners as much as he did had to be Maria. After he’d managed to ascertain that, yes, she did indeed order the steward to send it, he’d assumed it was a joke.

Until he went searching for her and saw his finery laid out neatly on the bedspread, a command if he ever saw one. After that, he desperately tried to track her down, but as usual if Maria didn’t want to be found, nobody could find her. The only one who could, their precocious daughter, had already been shuffled to Hawke’s to spend the night. That, of course, meant Maria was indeed deadly serious about attending the guild dinner. 

With absolutely no other explanation offered, of course, because she was the most maddening woman he’d ever met. 

He took his time making it over to the quarter, showing up rather later than fashionable. Shocked, skeptical expressions latched onto him as soon as he entered the hall. Followed, immediately, by a bronto’s charge of dwarves in his direction. Complaints. Flattery. Threats. Varric reached for a glass of wine, immediately wished it was something stronger. He was going to absolutely murder Maria for putting him through this. Particularly since she was nowhere to be found. Clearly, she needed a distraction for something and decided this was the best one she could offer up. 

“The price of parchment is outrageous!” A dwarf growled, spittle catching at his beard as he worked himself into a proper frothing rage. “The tariffs at the harbor are bleeding us all dry. If you can’t allow free trade, I’ll…” 

“Surely the young mistress is getting a bit old to be unbetrothed.” A woman with elaborate, heavy braids sighed. “It isn’t good for a girl’s reputation to…” 

Their Sunshine was barely five and not for sale regardless. For the love of…

“There you are.” 

Oh thank fucking Andraste. Maria’s good arm slipped into the crook of his easily, her lips curved up in wicked, sinful amusement. “Having fun?” She asked, far too sweetly. 

He shot her a pained glare even as her mere presence caused everyone to wisely take one step back. Despite the elegant gown and the pretty braids in her hair, Maria’s every move screamed lethal grace. No guild seat or crown could ever quite make her reputable in the eyes of the very worst of Kirkwall. 

And tonight, apparently, Maria had no plans for appearing even slightly respectable. Her gown was nearly the same color as her hair, blazing ruby red among the dull, drab colors of the guild. It dipped scandalously low, displaying her cleavage with delicious perfection. The thin straps fell off her slender shoulders in wisps of chiffon. The silk bodice curved and clung to her wicked figure like a glove. 

Varric’s mouth went dry as he took her in and he nearly forgot how annoyed he was. Nearly. 

He dropped his lips to her ear and bit back the smug satsifaction at the nearly imperceptible shiver his breath sent through her. “This is not my idea of a good time, Princess.” 

She laughed, low and soft, the ripples sending heat right into his belly. “Come dance with me then.” She challenged, tossing her head back proudly. 

Anything to get away from this crowd of vultures, besides, he never could tell her no. “As my lady demands.” He smoothly slipped his other arm around her waist, admiring the way the silk warmed with the heat of her skin underneath it. The crowd around them parted with muttered, muted disappointment pierced with disapproving glares. 

The ballroom floor itself was full of nothing but awkward, gawking teenagers. After all, dancing was for the young. And humans, of course. Certainly not for respected members of the guild and their stolid, unimpressed wives. The ones Maria outshone without any effort. 

The youths scattered before them, ducklings before swans. Varric took Maria’s hand and stepped back, bowed over it, then placed a searing kiss on the back of her palm. Because he wanted to, (dammit he never could resist that red dress) he pressed another even more desperate one on her fingertips. 

Her lips tipped up, amused in spite of herself, and then she slipped into the space between his arms like she was meant to be there, like it was made only for her. Her hand rested lightly within his and she pressed her delectable breasts against the silk of his tunic. “There’s a disappointing number of buttons done up on this shirt, Varric.” She whined quietly. 

“Hey, you picked it. Thought you were trying to tell me to show some decorum.”

“Never.” She sighed happily. “How can I possibly flaunt you when you’re hiding your best assets?” 

He chuckled, squeezed her fingers within his and dropped his voice low. “For fucks sake, Maria, why are we here?” 

“We were invited.” She replied, gray eyes widening innocently in her face. “Ages ago, remember?” 

“I tend to block out those invitations. Makes them easier to ignore.” Varric’s fingers traced the stiff boning of the gown at the flare of her waist. “You’re not going native on me, are you?” 

“Dressed like this?” Maria asked, laughing as Varric spun her under his arm. He caught her securely and she pressed even more firmly against him, a predatory smile dancing on her lips. “The Guild wouldn’t even know what to do with me.” 

They never did. Fools, every single one of them. “You were awfully late arriving. Suspiciously late.” He pointed out.

“I was on time, actually.” She purred, delighted with herself. “You were the late one, serah. I took advantage of your appearance to extricate myself from a rather lascivious Master Dace and explore all the hidden little nooks and crannies in the garden.”

He groaned and dropped his face into the coiled braids framing her face. She smelled like honey, cloves, cinnamon. A unique and beguiling scent that clung to her no matter what. “So you sacrificed me to snoop around for something.” 

“In a manner of speaking.” She agreed, nuzzling into his neck, her breath warm against his jaw. “I read something very interesting today and this was the only way to get to the bottom of it while ensuring the guilty party squirmed a little.” 

“Nobody’s listening, Princess.” He chuckled and jabbed his chin at the empty dance floor and the disapproving crowd miles away. “Don’t spare the salacious details. I demand to be entertained if I’ve got to be shoved into this bucket of rats.” 

Maria hummed lightly under her breath, her smile wicked and sharp as diamonds out of the corner of his eye. The music stopped, but he tugged her more tightly to his form and waited for the next song to strum up. As soon as it, Maria lifted her lips to his ear. “I’ll try to remember what I read. You’ll have to make allowances if it’s not verbatim. It got me rather… hot under the collar.” 

Was it his imagination, or was there a slight, breathy undertone to that statement? It of course could mean that she’d been furious by whatever she’d discovered, some nasty little guild secret. Maria’s temper meant there was a pretty good chance he’d be needing to have blood cleaned up off of some surface… 

But when she purred the words, he pictured a rather different kind of heat. One well suited to the red dress she wore. 

“I was in the study upstairs.” Maria recounted quietly, little puffs of air against his overheated skin. “Looking for that next chapter of your serial, the one that definitely isn’t based on my sister. I never did find it.” 

“That’s because it’s on the desk in the library.” He supplied less than helpfully. 

“Good to know.” She laughed. “Instead… well, I’ll just tell you what I found at your desk.” 

He made a mental note that he needed to remind the messengers, again, that guild correspondence went right into the rubbish bin. “All ears, Princess.” 

“Let me think…” Maria trailed off, her thumb lightly tracing his palm as they glided smoothly, thoughtlessly, together. Easily in tune with each other, just the way they always were. “It started…”

He waited, eager and amused at her drawing it out. It had to be damn good if she was taking such care to tell the story. 

His amusement vanished almost instantly as the words began to pour from her lips, hot and filthy in her sultry, smoky voice. 

“Mariele had many a man in her time as a bard, surely. A woman of her exquisite beauty didn’t lack for lovers on cold, lonely nights. But Viktor was no fumbling knight. It had been years since he left his sinful, boisterous exploits behind him, but his deft, practiced fingers remembered exactly how to turn a beautiful woman into a puddle of pure, uncomplicated need…” 

Shit. Shit, shit, shit. 

“Forget the steps, Varric?” His wife teased dangerously as Varric very nearly stumbled to a stop in the middle of their dance. She took over leading, eyes sparkling with danger. “Your sinful, boisterous exploits a thing of the past?” 

He was a dead man walking. She’d brought him here to torture him before she shot him. Probably with his own crossbow. “I can explain.” He protested weakly. 

“I’m not done.” Maria’s imperious voice brooked no argument. “I forget the next part. But I clearly remember this bit…” 

He groaned, tried to beg her to stop, but she didn’t heed him at all. “Viktor nearly forgot what it felt like to have a nubile young lady on her knees, but Mariele could hardly be called a lady, particularly with his steel between her perfect, plump lips. ‘Is this what you wanted?’ Viktor asked, twisting his fingers in the crimson braids she wore. The only answer was Mariele’s pleased, throaty moan…” 

Maria twitched her hips to the side threateningly and Varric pressed hard up against her to hide the effect her words were having on his own cock. His filth spilling from her lips was… sweet Maker, he hadn’t known he could want her more than he usually did. “Maria…” 

“My favorite part went…” Maria paused and brought her lips closer to his ear until he could feel their feather light touch as she whispered. “Viktor ripped the delicate silk covering her glistening mound, too crazed by her teasing grin and wicked silver eyes to do anything but plunge his sword into her snug sheathe and…” 

His breath whooshed out, leaving him dizzy. His hands dug into the silk covering her hips and he struggled to think past the liquid arousal running through his blood. “How dead am I?” He asked weakly. He could feel her wicked grin against his neck. 

“What happened to no kissing and telling, Varric?” She asked lightly. “Does Cassandra really need to know about the birthmark on my…” 

“Fuck, it wasn’t for…” Varric couldn’t think. Her perfume was too heady, her eyes sparking, mouth curled up dangerously just the way he loved best, and he couldn’t stop thinking about his cock in her mouth, her warm wet heat… 

“It was just for you?” Maria’s words sent shivers up his spine and she untangled her hand from his to twist her fingers through his loose hair. “Your dirty little secret when I’m gone? Dreaming up what Mariele and Viktor get up to in elaborate Orlesian gardens…” 

“Yes.” He confessed as she rolled shamelessly against him. He could barely hear the music over the pure, screeching need thrumming in his veins. He missed her, Maker he missed her when she was gone. All he could do was spill out the things he wanted to do to her while he waited for her to come back and warm his heart, share their bed, send his entire life into chaos and…

She pulled away and beamed into his face, flushing prettily pink under her freckles. She traced her fingers from his neck, over his jaw, down his chest and hummed thoughtfully under her breath while her eyes sparkled with mirth and… 

Lust. An inferno of roaring lust. 

Maybe she’d kill him, but it would be the best kind of death. 

She twisted her fingers with his again and turned, hiding his bulging cock strategically with her skirts while she dragged him off the wooden dance floor. Varric chuckled breathlessly as he followed her right through the crowd. Several guild members attempted to approach, but thought better of it as the Viscount and his wife slipped into the evening air of the gardens. He couldn’t see her face, but he’d seen Maria march into enough battles to know exactly what it looked like. 

He wouldn’t get in her damn way either when she was a woman with one thing on her mind. 

Thank the damn Maker that one thing was him. 

She shoved him into a dark nook, one she’d clearly scoped out for this purpose alone. It was hidden by a tall hedge and the soaring walls of the mansion behind them. As soon as the shadows enveloped them, Varric reached for her like a man starving, pressed her hard against the stones looming above them. “Minx.” He growled against her lips. “You’re a menace, Maria. You brought me here just to…” 

She brought her one arm up to her generous bosom and pulled something from the bodice, something dark and…

Lace. A lace mask just like the one in his filthy smut. Varric’s cock doubled in size and he reached out with unsteady fingers to pluck it from hers. Her grin was as smug and self-satisfied as a cat who’d eaten a canary, but his imagination was already on fire. “Turn around, baby.” He directed softly. 

“Is Viktor rather bossy, then?” She asked, but she turned and he gently fit the mask over her eyes, tying it with a simple knot over her braids. He dropped his hand to gently run his knuckles down the line of her neck, lower over the dip of her spine. He dropped his mouth to kiss down her right shoulder, tracing the scars that were left there, the remaining marks of the anchor that nearly…

Nearly, he reminded himself. But she survived, she was here, and she was warm, willing, pliant under his large hands when they settled over her waist. She tipped her head to the side to look over her shoulder at him, silver eyes shining in the moonlight, framed to the best effect by the black lace just like he knew they would be. 

She fluttered her lashes, the perfect imitation of an Orlesian coquette, and smoothly turned, dropping to her knees in one sinuous motion. His stomach knotted itself as her fingers reached to undo his laces with one efficient tug. 

“And what information am I trying to seduce out of you, my lord?” She asked in an almost flawless Orlesian accent, ruined only by the hint of her reckless laugh under the surface. “I couldn’t quite glean…”

“I’ve got to admit, Princess.” He saw stars, fought to keep his voice even, as her nimble fingers circled his cock. “The plot was secondary.” 

“Oh really?” She stroked him with her one hand, nothing but a light, teasing touch. “You know, some people read for the plot and skip these steamy scenes.” 

Those people must not have a damn pulse, but before he could retort, her lips opened and the sheer anticipation made him groan, thoughts fleeing as his mind was erased by warm, wet, sweet, sweet bliss and…

“Shit.” He swore, one hand steadying himself on the stone above her, the other twisting in her elaborate braids. He watched her mouth stretch around his girth obscenely, her eyes flicking from the task at hand to meet his and hold them as she worked to take his cock into her mouth inch by torturously slow inch. 

The sight alone was almost enough to make him cum. He ran his thumb over her cheek, voice unsteady, praise falling from it effortlessly. “You’re so beautiful. I love my cock in your mouth, baby. Sweet Andraste, Maria…” 

She laughed, a little bubble of it that brought something warm and bright to life in his chest. She pulled back, cock slipping from her swollen lips, eyes wicked and teasing. “She may be sweet.” She answered pertly. “But I’m sweeter.” 

His cheesy line from his smutty story. He laughed as well, but it tapered off into another long moan as she resumed her work. She slid him almost to the hilt inside her mouth, fingers wrapping around the last inch or so she couldn’t quite fit, slicking him with her saliva as she began to bob her head. 

“Maker I miss this when you’re away.” He continued, watching with worshipful zeal as she licked and sucked. His voice trembled with lust and awe. “It’s all I can think about at night. All I want. It isn’t enough to imagine your lips around me, isn’t enough to think of warm and wet your sweet cunt gets…”

She moaned around his length and the vibrations had him seeing stars. He curled his hand against the stone into a fist and watched her, the great rise and fall of her chest, her shining eyes on his framed by the sexy black lace. She sucked eagerly and his heart thumped unsteadily, liquid heat pooling in his groin. He tugged gently at her braids. “I want you. I want all of you, Maria baby please…” 

The wicked glint in her eyes resurfaced and she hummed around his length. Varric’s hips bucked in spite of himself and he tried, valiantly, to fight the urge to do it again and again until he spilled down her throat. She was ruthlessly driving him insane, playing into his fantasies, his desires, and he couldn’t…

She squirmed, shifting on her knees, and Varric knew she had to be as affected as he was, knew she had to be as needy and desperate. Perhaps more, in fact, since she’d been planning this little encounter all damn day without his knowledge. If Varric thought this would happen every time they came to one of these dinners… 

“Did you touch yourself?” He asked in a low growl. “Reading all that smut, knowing how bad I wanted you, what I wanted to do to you? How hot under the collar did it make you, Princess?” 

He could just picture her on their bed, legs spread, ass in the air and fingers dancing between her legs while she brought herself off to his words. 

She pulled off of him with an obscene plop, her lips shimmering with saliva, his cock shining the same way. She smirked up at him, that crooked little smile that belonged only to him. “Maybe a little.” 

Too far gone to be gentle, he grabbed her by the upper arms and hauled her to her feet, shoving her roughly back against the hard stone. Her fingers grabbed for the fasteners of his tunic, undoing them, sending at least one of them snapping, a button falling to the ground as she whimpered, his mouth devouring hers. She nipped his lip in sweet revenge and he began to pull up her skirts, rucking them around her hips and lifting her by her spread thighs. 

“Yes.” She keened, nails gouging his shoulder as she arched her back, pressing the creamy tops of her breasts to his greedy mouth. He wanted them out of the bodice, wanted her naked and in their bed begging for him as a fair turnabout for this little trick, but first…

First, he was going to fuck her thoroughly against this wall. 

His fingers felt the sopping wet lace of her smalls and tore through them in a moment, the shredded fabric falling in pieces to the grass. She laughed again, but he captured it with his mouth and her arm twisted around his neck, holding him to her as he thrust smoothly inside her. 

Her cunt clenched down on him, muscles rippling with his sudden entrance, but her thighs curved around his waist, scrabbling for purchase, the hard heels of her boots urging him on as they pressed against the small of his back. 

“Tease.” He growled, moving from her lips to nip lightly at her exposed throat as he started a bruising pace, making sure to thrust right into the spot he knew she loved so much. “Wanton little…” 

“You love it.” She bit the lobe of his ear. “And you deserve it. Writing that terrible, amazing smutty…” 

One particularly brutal thrust made her words drop away into a pure, animal moan of need, one that changed into his name as he tightened his grip on her ass. “Strong criticism from someone who wanted to reenact it.” 

She giggled, caught out, pressing an almost sugary kiss to his jaw. “I had a thing for Viktor.” 

Be still his heart. This woman. This amazing, wonderful, insane woman of his. He captured her lips with his own again, tenderly this time, even as his furious pace continued and Maria shuddered in his arms, muscles tightening, body going rigid. 

“Wait.” He muttered against her lips, liquid heat pooling in his spine. “Wait, baby. Wait for me, please Maria…” 

“Varric…” She half sobbed his name in desperation, but that was all it took. His movements became stiff, wooden, his cock swelling inside her. This tipped her over the edge and she half wailed her approval, milking him of his seed and burying her head into his shoulders, trembling against him. He thrust deep one final time and pressed his lips against her temple, mind going hazy at the edges as he spent inside her welcoming body. 

He lowered Maria back to the ground, both of them leaning against each other, too drained to stand. The garden was quiet. No sound but their ragged breathing. Varric wondered exactly how many of the Merchant’s Guild illustrious members had heard them. At least, he thought smugly, it had been a fine performance. 

And since they’d made a brief appearance at an event, they were free and clear of the guild for months.

“Do you think they’ll finally kick us both out?” Maria asked quietly with a satisfied giggle. 

Varric huffed weakly in return. “Doubtful. They’d never risk making us so damn happy. Poor Sunshine’s gonna inherit both those seats and spend the rest of her days cursing us both.” 

Varric bent to retrieve the scraps of lace on the ground, but she stopped him. “Don’t.” She ordered, eyes shimmering with mischief. “Leave them. I want to hear about their reaction tomorrow.” 

He laughed and settled on doing his trousers back up while she leaned against him, unsteady as a drunk. He kissed her forehead sweetly and wrapped his arm around her waist. 

“I unlocked the gate back here.” Maria snuggled into his shoulder. “And I told the kitchen staff to leave the side entrance open.” 

“You think of everything.” Varric murmured, smoothing her gown back over her hips. 

“Not everything.” Maria smirked in the moonlight, rightfully smug. “This was, after all, your idea.” 

Varric softened, pulling her tightly to his side as they wandered down the pristine garden paths in the darkness.  “But you, as always, are my muse.”

[loquaciousquark]

6th Guardian. Chilly, but with a bite just sharp enough to make it unpleasant as well as uncomfortable

There’s a twitchy new elf in town. Showed up last night to ambush an ambush, as Varric’s friend we were supposed to meet is apparently become an ex-friend, or an ex-anything, really. That was unkind of me, but I do find myself intolerably snippy when someone I don’t know a) saves my life so that I owe them a favor, and b) looks better than me doing it.

They were Crows, too, which I rather thought had been dealt with ever since Isabela’s friend Zevran came through and charmed the pants off all of us. Well, off Isabela, certainly. Well, except she doesn’t wear--never mind. I suppose when one is famous enough to have made enemies of both effective heads of state in one’s town one ought not to be surprised when someone else comes a-killing down the lane.

You know, I said I wanted to vacation in Orlais, but this isn’t quite the way I’d meant it. The Heart of the Many is what she’s after, this Tallis, some fantastic jewel (pah!), and the villainous Duke Prosper (really!) keeps it clutched in his Orlesian...clutches. Leave me be, journal, I’m tired and Fenris slept at his own place tonight, so I’m woeful lonely even with the dog curled on the side of the bed where he belongs.

Now Toby looks betrayed. He can’t even read! How should he know what I’m writing, aside from the fact he’s the oldest friend I’ve got & he knows everything I’m thinking in one glance? Hardly fair, is it?

Anyway, Tallis thinks we ought to come a-crashing to this gala he’s hosting at Chateau Haine in Orlais. A hunt, I think. I used to hunt in Lothering, but if I had to wager I’d suspect they’ll be using slightly different methods than my rope snares and broken traps. And different game than my hare & pheasant. Or perhaps they won’t! Who knows?

I wasn’t going to do it except that Anders is planning a particular midnight event that same week and he wants me publicly away of the city for an alibi. He thinks I don’t know what he’s planning, but I’m the one who got Aveline to turn a blind eye to any ships fleeing the harbor in dead of night with too many passengers than should be aboard. He’d realize it, too, if he weren’t so determined to only see what Justice lets him. Sebastian & Varric have said they’ll keep an eye on him, though, if I do end up going on this fool’s errand, which I suppose is as much as I could hope for. They won’t help him with the escape, but they’ll keep him alive. As alive as he’ll ever be, lately.

Tallis says I should pack something fancy for the evening assemblies at the chateau. Something that’ll make me fit in like the nobility I am. I told her I had a set of old leathers that only had a few pints of blood still caked in the creases, but I don’t think she thought it was funny. Her loss!

11th Guardian. On the road! Still chilly, with the fields tipped with frost this morning and a cold mist floating over all the hedgerows before the sun burned it away

I should never have thought it, journal, but Fenris and Aveline both have agreed to come along with me! I was certain he’d be as thrilled at the idea as Aveline when Isabela pulls out the sixth Angel of Death in a hand, but he only lifted an eyebrow and said, “I enjoy following you,” as if he didn’t know how wibbly he makes me every time he suggests the thought. He brought the beautiful black leather set he wore the evening I became Champion. I packed a sleeveless lavender overtunic and a simple white blouse I can wear over trou & boots, because if experience has taught me nothing else I know I should anticipate running for my life at least once during this venture. Aveline won’t show me, but I’d bet ten sovs on the copper it’s that blue gown she wore the night of the Satinalia feast Mother hosted a few years back.

You must forgive me, journal, if the hand is shakier than usual. The road to Chateau Haine is paved not with gold but with boulders as uneven as Carver’s temper when he’s tired.

Also, Fenris is dozing on my shoulder (an accident, I know, because if he could see the knowing looks Tallis keeps throwing our way he’d ghost straight out of the carriage), and I’d rather cut the hand off than disturb his nap.

We’re due to arrive tomorrow, which is the first night of the duke’s week-long hunting party. I expect to be thrown out by dawn.

Later, just after dinner - grouse, capers, mashed potatoes, mediocre white wine. Pretty pattern on the flatware, though

Evening at the Auberge de Tuyé, an old inn unremarkable in every way save its magnificent brick chimney and the fact that it marks our first evening within Orlais’s borders.

The only interesting events so far are that I nearly fell into the pig trough from stiff knees getting out of the carriage (a fine testament to the skills for which I’ve been hired), the elf waitress was almost uncomfortably deferent at dinner over our travel finery, and when the innkeeper gave Fenris the key to our room without a second glance, I got the most peculiar feeling in my chest that still hasn’t abated.

Got stronger, even, as I watched him read the numbers plated on the doors and find ours easily, without hesitation; stronger again as I watched him direct the inn’s boys with our valises as they brought them to the rooms with every comfortable ease. By the time he sat on the side of the bed and tugged off his boots, then ran his fingers through his hair to shake out the travel dust, my heart might have burst from how dear he’s become to me.

He saw me looking and his face changed, and it wasn’t until he asked (with no small alarm) if I meant to cry that I realized how much must have shown on my own. 

How easy it was to cross the room we share and kiss him directly on his mouth. How simple a thing, after every agony of Kirkwall & Tevinter put together, to cup his cheeks in my hands and feel his breath hitch as he smiled up at me.

Flames and pyre, but may I never take another moment for granted with him. Ever, ever, ever.

Very late or very early, not sure which

He’s exhausted & therefore snoring. I am rereading the last lines I wrote over and over again in this remarkably feeble moonlight to remind me why I don’t smother him with a pillow this very instant.

If he doesn’t stop soon I’m going to go kip on Av’s floor and not give two shits if Tallis thinks the less of me for it.

12th Guardian, near midnight. Cold

It was the blue gown, ha! We made it to Prosper’s estate just before dinner. More extravagant than anything in Kirkwall, even the Viscount’s festivals; fire dances and swans made of ice and servants proffering canapes at every turn. Fifi de Launcet & her entire hideous family are here. Dulci’s already sneered at me twice. I thought about asking after Emile, but I’ve fond-enough memories of his foolishness I didn’t want to poison them with his relations.

One of the guards thought Fenris was my manservant and tried to hustle him away from the glitterati, which lasted all of three seconds before the guard a) realized Fenris’s jacket cost more than his entire set of armor, and b) looked at Fenris’s face and read the death there if he didn’t release his arm that instant. More dangerous than that pet wyvern Prosper keeps to alarm his guests. Maker, I need to learn that trick.

Aveline mostly kept hawk’s eyes on Tallis all night. For the second day of a week-long hunt the festivities seemed over-grand to me, but Tallis hardly batted an eye as she danced in and out of the crowds, listening for any mention of the jewel and what I suppose are Prosper’s dubious motives for pilfering it. Nothing tonight, she said, though there’s plenty of time yet.

Haven’t met Prosper himself, as it happens. Apparently he’s still negotiating certain hunt-related errata or somesuch. I can’t bring myself to care at the moment, as I’m in a bed with white satin sheets, covers embroidered in gilt thread, and a shirtless elf insistently nibbling his way across my shoulder, please the Maker I’ll put down the pen, fine!

14th Guardian. Warmer today but not by much, clear skies to see doom from miles away

Short entry, as we’re to be guests of honor at the feast tonight--got the wyvern today! & an alpha, for that matter, and my left arm’s burned to the Void to prove it. Got wrist-deep in wyvern dung & Fenris laughed at me (prior to the burning), watched Tallis make a fool of herself (roughly contemporary to the burning), and nearly killed but didn’t an Orlesian baron who attempted to poach our rightly-earned victory from under our noses (post-burning, and some of his details are frankly lost by me attempting to beat my own arm off to get away from the spitting poison). Asked Aveline after if she missed being part of these fancy companies and she said as yet she hadn’t seen anything worth missing. Ha!

Regardless, Tallis wants to use the party Prosper’s throwing for us as cover to sneak inside the chateau & find the Heart. I feel as though the guests of honor vanishing mid-feast might be noticeable, but then again, I’ve snuck out more than once at these things and haven’t been caught yet. Perhaps tonight will be more of the same.

Tallis told us we ought to be prepared to do whatever it takes to get hold of the key we’ll need to reach the innards of the chateau. I told her I drew the line at my clothes coming off at any hands not tattooed in lyrium and Fenris coughed into his wine. Tallis only rolled her eyes and said she’d be happy to do the seducing if it came to that, and Aveline sighed and said she wished Isabela had come along as well. She’d have enjoyed every minute of this, the wench.

(Sidebar, before I forget--Bann Teagan is here as well. That’s who Aveline’s been spending most of her time with when absolutely forced to make small talk, & I must remember to ask him how Lothering is doing before we go. His outlook was not so sunny last time we spoke, but I have hopes.)

Agh, I’ve more to say and no time! Later, later!

Who knows what time it is

Tallis is a Qunari spy, Prosper knew we were coming, and it was all a trap. This prison cell is so old the stone has graffiti from over an age ago.

And yet, funnily enough, I’ve been to worse parties.

I’m annoyed with Tallis & writing here to ignore her. The guard outside the cell keeps rattling the bars with his pommel and asking if we’re hungry yet. I can’t say I care for his leer, though it’s better than the way Cyril de Montfort eyed me like a hock of (despairing) ham earlier. His hands are larger than Fenris’s and much colder, and when they came ‘round my waist I could feel him searching for a hem to slide under. Thank the Bride I can be fucking glib when I wish to be, & that Cyril’s fool enough to think midnight being more romantic was a good enough reason to let me go.

I think I could burn these bars to slag but I don’t know how many guards are down the hall, and I don’t know where my father’s staff is. I also don’t know where Aveline & Fenris are, which worries me more than anything.

Tallis looks miserable I’m so angry with her. Damn it. Damn me. If she’d been straightforward from the start I’d have been so much more inclined to help her with this piffle.

It must have been at least two hours by now. My left arm is killing me since Aveline has my salve. I’ve forgiven Tallis solely out of boredom

She says if we don’t stop Salit hundreds of innocent people will die. The guard suggests that if we don’t stop chit-chatting like a pair of magpies he’ll shut our mouths himself. I don’t care for this one’s attitude, honestly

Later, briefly

We’ve only stopped a moment to rest, so this must be extremely short. Fenris & Aveline found us in the prison--Tallis had made them stay behind as we crept through the chateau to avoid attention. Fenris tore out the guard’s heart as Tallis picked our lock & then he took hold of me so tight I could barely breathe, and it was the first time since the inn I felt quite myself again.

Prosper has these creatures fighting for him. Harlequins, he calls them. They fight like demons & wear masks to boot, and there’s something very skittish in the way they move. I don’t like it, though I will admit they die like anything else.

We’re deep in the caverns under the chateau. We did manage to loot the high holy fire out of Prosper’s vaults before we left, which has made me feel loads better, but we’re not out of the woods yet. Or caves, as it happens. Aveline’s shield broke in the last fight & she twisted her elbow badly; we’re giving her a moment to bind it before we continue on. I’ll heal what I can when she’s finished, but Fenris thinks I should save my strength for battle. Tallis agrees with him, which is even more irksome.

Aveline’s done with the splint. More later.

(I hope)

17th Guardian. Warmer still today, or is that just the wyvern spit

There is, it seems, a later, though it was a close thing. Prosper and his wyvern are both dead, as are Salit & the plans to steal the Qunari agents’ identities. Tallis has mucked off to who-knows-where, though not without hocking a great fat ruby at my head in thanks and exchanging a few flirts that had Fenris rolling his eyes so far back in his head he probably saw the Maker Himself. We’re in the carriage now, on the way back to the Auberge for our last stop before returning home to Kirkwall tomorrow. I’ve had to borrow clothes from Aveline’s bags, as the green slime Prosper used to guide his wyvern’s little nosie right to me has stunk my leathers to high heaven. They’re wrapped three layers deep in a trunk lashed to the roof of the carriage and I can still smell them.

Maker, I don’t even remember where I left off. We made it out of the caves eventually, though not before I found Fenris a necklace that used to belong to some Fog Warriors & he kissed me hard in one of the little rocky nooks right before the exit into daylight. Aveline was already outside, and Tallis didn’t seem to care much -- not that it would have mattered if she had, as there was enough lingering fear in his voice I shouldn’t have stopped if Andraste had come down herself to ask.

The next hours are a blur. We fought our way up the hills and down them again, mostly against Tal-Vashoth & these horrid little nesty creatures called ghasts, and then Baron Arlange must have been very determined to die as he came out at us, again, and this time there wasn’t a duke to intervene on his behalf.

Flames, I’m starving, and the dried jerky Aveline so thoughtfully brought for us on this last journey is not taking away the edge. We’ve still over an hour before we reach the inn; thank goodness this is distracting enough. I’d rather be napping, honestly, but Fenris has taken the seat across to lounge its full width, and since he was nearly gutted by the wyvern in the last fight I suppose I can’t begrudge it overmuch. Aveline’s solid enough, but her shoulder’s hard as a rock. A good thing--strong! Rock-strong. Mountain-strong. Don’t give me that look.

Anyway, we eventually fought our way back to the chateau, whereupon we discovered our intrepid Salit dispensing his little scroll directly into the duke’s grasping ...grasp. Tallis got the scroll back via a bit of trickery--good enough--but then Prosper saw the rest of us and it was all “you’ve seen too much” and “now you must die” and blah, blah, blah, here’s my raging seasick wyvern to spit up on you while I rain fiery exploding arrows from the sky, worst Tuesday ever.

In the end, though, both the wyvern and his rider went off the cliff backing the chateau’s courtyard, Tallis got her secrets returned, and Fenris got the munificent honor of lying flat on his back on the pavingstones for another quarter-hour until I could get his side closed up again. Aveline was marvelous this whole time--held all the remaining, goggling guests at bay while Tallis invented an excellent cover story (I assume, as I wasn’t there to hear it, but we also remained un-mauled by Prosper’s guards further, so it must have had some success). Leliana came out from the house too, that Nightingale from that evening at the Chantry a few months back, and as much as she obviously knew we were lying she backed up everything Tallis said and more. Tallis clearly didn’t thrill at her presence (is she truly a spy? She shows her emotions far too easily--said the tar-black pot to the kettle, I know, I know), but thanked her for the help, later, and didn’t make a single acerbic comment when Leliana and I began talking about the Lothering chantry over dinner.

(I’d forgotten she used to run the handbell choir there for a while. I was only a ringer for half a season, since there weren’t enough bells & Bethany wanted it more than I did, but I have so many fond memories of watching her on the little dais before the altar, dressed in Chantry rose & gold, her hair ruthlessly pinned back as she watched Leliana for their cues.

Leliana says she remembers her, is sorry for the loss of a sweet girl. She’s a far better liar than I’ll ever be, but I’d like to believe her.)

As it is, by the time Lord Cyril arrived to find his father dead & his house in utter disarray, most of the carcasses had been ceremonially tossed to the rocks below. Leliana and I managed to persuade him Leopold had eaten something poor and lost his mind, and in the fracas took the duke over the edge with him--true enough, given the circumstances, but as Cyril seemed both wholly unaware of his father’s attempt to ally with the Tal-Vashoth and wholly unsuspicious of our motives (aided, perhaps, by the fact that I still had blood up to my ears), he accepted our truth readily enough and turned all his attention to legal matters and the rest of his guests instead. I nearly got away without any more of his attentions, too, but at the last moment he caught me by the hand, kissed my cheek with very cold lips, and gravely told me as alluring as I might be, he thought it would be unseemly to pursue a summer romance given the circumstances. Of course, said I ad nauseum, until at last he let me go and I was able to get Fenris inside to our room where he might rest. Fenris, who is infinitely warmer even when complaining about the Kirkwall cold.

Hm. In retrospect, that may have been the fever. Ah, well.

We’ve pulled up to the picket gate before the Auberge, so I will end this here.

18th Guardian. Very cold dawn, clear pink skies

Writing this at breakfast. Fenris is still asleep and Aveline strongly discourages dialogue before she has had her second cup of coffee, so I speak to an ever-willing audience in you instead.

Fenris’s fever has broken and his side looks much better, thank goodness, though he’s disgustingly tired and prone to snippy complaints at the least discomfort. I’m of the opinion a few good nights’ sleeps & a few really good sleepless nights will get him back to his old self, but I doubt he’ll feel truly well until we’re in Kirkwall again. He’s also annoyed my arm is taking so long to heal, though I haven’t told him it’s because I’ve been using all my strength to get him whole, first. He wouldn’t thank me for the knowing, and I don’t need his high dudgeon prolonging his healing even more.

Damn all of this mess. Despite everything I do like Tallis, and despite everything I feel badly for Cyril. The only person I don’t regret killing there is Prosper, and that’s half because I got to be very clever as he died. Maker, bring me quickly back to Kirkwall, where at least I know I don’t know who’s right and who’s evil.

Ah, Fenris is up at last. His eyes are clearer than they’ve been since the weekend, so he must be feeling better. And here comes the starry-eyed waitress to bring him his breakfast, right on cue. I ought to marry him as soon as possible to ensure I’m forever included in this excellent service too.

Late evening, in the estate at last, home sweet home (or as much as it can be, anyway, though Toby’s done a wonderful job at trying to crawl through my whole self in welcome)

Asked Fenris tonight if he would have minded a summer romance with Lord Cyril. Said immediately Cyril wasn’t his taste--not nearly alluring enough, even covered in wyvern spit, and went right back to his quail. Cheeky, said I, though I know I was smiling.

Orana keeps walking out of the laundry room with scented kerchiefs pressed to her nose. The leathers may be a lost cause. Damn!

25th Guardian. Warm winds from the north today, though the morning broke cool

Varric is already drafting a series on the Chateau Haine escapades. Jewel Heart, he’s titling it (tentatively), in spite of my numerous and vociferous objections. I say it ought to be an adventure, not a romance; he says it can be both. Hmph.

Varric, when you read this (and don’t flatter your chest hair, we both know where you get your source material, and we both know Isabela’s helping), for Andraste’s sake, come up with a better title. Heart of the Many, maybe. Mark of the Assassin. Something!

14th Drakonis. Warm but very wet -- the puddles are steaming

He uses the word “alluring” forty-seven times in the rough copy. I’m going to burn his press to cinders.

16th Drakonis. Still raining

Fenris likes it.

I may never win again, but at least he makes me enjoy the losing. And Varric -- oh, who cares, you’ll do what you like regardless. Just make sure he’s in his black leathers at least once, and I’ll be satisfied.

And for the record, I demand the first print copy to be autographed for me. Consider it payment for services rendered, for my arm’s gone and scarred and if I haven’t you to tell me how wonderful I was in the scarring, how else will I know it was worth it?

(You know I love you. Don’t ever stop.)

[pikapeppa]

Last Line Meme

Tagged by @wardsarefunctioning - thank you, lethallan!

A little excerpt from the next chapter of Lovers In A Dangerous Time, i.e. FenHawke and the Inquisition.

***********

“I think we’re the lucky ones to have you around, Dorian,” Bull said. “It’s been real educational watching you swan around the place in your fancy robes. What happens when they get dirty and you can’t send them away for cleaning?”

Dorian lifted his chin in a dignified manner. “I have them dyed black, of course. A good black dye can hide any number of sins.”

“Sins, huh?” Bull leaned forward and slowly smiled. “What kind of sins did you have in mind?”

Dorian and Cassandra scoffed in disgust, and Sera snickered. Then Varric elbowed Fenris. “Almost feels like being back home in Kirkwall, doesn’t it?” he murmured.

Fenris smirked faintly. “Do you mean the banter, or the fact that we just narrowly averted a terrible crisis?”

*****************

I JUST REALLY WANT THE INQUISTION CREW TO JOKE AROUND LIKE THE DA2 FAM DOES, OK??

Tagging forward to @blondepomeranian @galadrieljones @athenril-of-kirkwall @iarollane @charlatron @aban-asaara @oops-gingermoment @faerieavalon (darling friend, I never tag you in anything, and that is a crime I need to fix!!!) and anyone else who wants to play!

[sky-scribbles]

The Shape of the Soul - II

Continuation of my Dragon Age daemon AU, this time for the DA2 companions (barring Varric, because in this AU, dwarves don’t have daemons.) Inspired by this post, which is incredible and should be read. For those of you who’ve already seen this on DeviantArt, I’ve done some rewriting because I wrote this a while ago and I felt like it could do with some tweaking.

Origins/Awakening version here.

~

Carver Hawke

They know him, the people of Lothering. Brianna makes them know him.

She refuses to take a form that isn’t fearless. Lion, great bear, boar, wolf, bronto – whatever his older sibling’s daemon becomes, Brianna becomes something larger and stronger, and Carver’s chest swells with pride. She’ll bring him out from his family’s shadow. She’ll become a creature no one could look away from, prove that he’s more than just the little Hawke.

When she lets him down, when she settles into the form of a black and gold Anderfels shepherd dog, he feels like pounding the walls of the world and screaming. She feels his resentment, and flattens her ears and bares her teeth. And Carver knows there’s something wrong if you’re fighting with your daemon, that you should never be angry with your own soul, but he is, he’s angry, so angry.

It’s not just pride. It’s not just that he hoped for a daemon who’d make sure he could never be overlooked. His anger isn’t because he thinks Brianna got it wrong. It’s because he’s afraid she got it right. Dogs are servants’ daemons. Dogs belong to footmen and farmers and labourers, people who slink in the shadows of others, and whenever he looks at Brianna he feels despair well up inside him because that can’t be his life.

So he refuses to be a dog. He marches away to Ostagar.

And there, in the soldiers’ camp, the knot of doubt and anguish in his stomach unravels. Because Brianna romps and play-tussles with the other soldiers’ daemons, and his comrades-in-arms grin as Carver thumps her flanks and ruffles her ears, saying he should be proud of her, that having a dog-daemon is a good sign. Smart, they say, loyal, Fereldan to the bone. That night, he sleeps with an arm draped over his daemon and a smile draped over his face. The resentment he felt when she settled feels so distant it might as well have never been. He's not little Hawke here. He’s Hawke, and Brianna is his daemon.

Then Loghain retreats when the beacon is lit, and everything is gone.

Kirkwall. Brianna slinks at Carver’s heels, not because she’s a servant’s daemon, but because of Bethany. She bristles now when anyone but Carver goes near her, raises her hackles and snaps, and he doesn’t try to calm her. He’s little Hawke again now, and he’s snarling on the inside too.

Then one day, he’s wearing armour again, just like he was at Ostagar, and there are brothers-in-arms around him whose daemons play-fight with Brianna until her barks and snarls turn into yapping laughs. He walks tall, proud of the emblem on his breastplate, and prouder still of Brianna, because dogs mean loyalty and Carver plans to give all the loyalty he has. First to his new order. Then to his sibling, when the city goes up in flames and he understands at last why his daemon is a dog.

Dogs aren’t about serving. They’re about helping. Years later, on the way to Weisshaupt to find his disaster of a sibling, he passes one of the Anders shepherds, and stops to ask him about his dogs. And the shepherd looks at Brianna, smiles with understanding. The Anderfels shepherd, he says, needs a purpose, or it’ll snap and snarl at everything. They won’t take to many, but the ones who raise them and stick with them, they’ll die to protect. Except they won’t die, because they know how to fight, and by the Maker, but do they fight hard.

 ‘Well,’ Brianna says, as they walk away. ‘Looks like I got it right after all.’

Carver stops walking, drops to his knees, and throws his arms around her.

~

Bethany Hawke

Night comes after day, dwarves don't dream, and mages’ daemons are birds. These are facts of life, things that no one can fight or change. Bethany thinks often about the Circles, about how their halls and passages must be like aviaries of caged birds, and her throat tightens. And yet they might be beautiful. All the bright feathers. 'And all the singing,' Eliron whispers, and Bethany smiles.

He doesn’t like to become a bird too often, though. It feels like tempting fate. He spends most of his time as deer, and Bethany prays to the maker to let him settle as one. Just let him not be a bird. Then that jeering boy from the neighbouring farm gets into a fight with Carver, and somehow she hurls him away from her brother and halfway across the street without laying a hand on him. They run home, Father shouts for them to pack their bags, the family runs again. And Eliron panics. He flickers through every bird Bethany knows and plenty she doesn’t, trying on shape after shape, refusing to take any form that doesn’t have wings and feathers.

Be an eagle, Carver tells him, be a swan or an albatross, but Bethany knows that’s not what Eliron’s going to be. Eliron knows it too, because he never listens to Carver. He favours small things, things with round black eyes and plain feathers, things that can become invisible just by staying still. He moves around the house in cautious hops and short bursts of flight - a wren, a dunnock, a treecreeper - until he realises that what he loves most, what they both love most of all, is to hear him fill the house with song. From then on, it’s nightingales and blackbirds, robins and larks.

At last, Eliron settles as a song thrush.

He’s plain to look at, if you don’t look closely, if you just take in the brown feathers and don’t notice the beautiful cream and dark flecks on his chest. He’s small enough that he can just about hide in a pocket if he’s afraid, and he often does, because the Templars stare long and hard at anyone with a bird-daemon. She could look at them wrong, and that would be all the excuse they’d need to cut her down, just because her soul has wings. Like hawks on a songbird.

She looks at the Gallows sometimes, from across the water. She looks at it and thinks about how people keep thrushes as pets. They can live in a cage. They’ll sing their hearts out, with bars between them and the hawks and cats.  Maybe it would be easier, to let them clip her wings, so she can sing.

But after the expedition – when everything’s said and done and there’s no going back, no matter how much she and her sibling might hate it – she realises something. She and Eliron – they have a secret, and it’s the reason Eliron became the kind of thrush he did, not the plainer-feathered yet more beautiful-voiced cousin. A nightingale will sing to make you weep, but you’ll never see it, where it shrinks deep into the woods. A thrush, though… a thrush is something else.

A thrush learns. A thrush steps out into the open. A thrush knows how to crack a snail’s shell with just a few quick, hard strikes against stone.  Bethany knows how to strike like that, when she’s got something worth fighting for, knows how to step out into the light of day with lightning at the tips of her fingers. Put her in a cage, and she’ll survive, but she was always meant to be free, because a thrush is more than a brown-and-cream bird with a pretty song, a thrush is a wild bird and a thrush has skill and smarts and pluck.

That’s Bethany’s secret.

Oh, she’s afraid. But she’s also a thrush. Which means that at heart, she is bold.

~

Aveline Vallen

Her father, of course, wanted her daemon to be a lion. Strong, proud, loyal, and, most importantly, Orlesian. He was about as determined for her to have a lion as Aveline and Audric were determined for her not to have one.

‘Too grand,’ Aveline complains, after her father raises the idea for the fiftieth time.

Audric, in the shape of a mabari just to prove a point, nods. ‘Too stately.’

‘Walking around Ferelden with some great golden cat beside me? That’d mark me out as foreign even more than my name.’

‘And they’re lazy, the males. Sleeping in the sun all day, taking first bite of whatever the females catch.’

Both their jaws clench. That’s injustice, that is, and they want no part in that.

So it’s with some relief that Aveline realises one day that he’s stopped changing. He’s loping at her side in the form of a stocky reddish-coloured bullmastiff and isn’t showing any signs of abandoning that form any time soon. ‘Perfect,’ Aveline says, and Audric gives his tail the tiniest wag. A bullmastiff is as Fereldan as a lion would have been Orlesian. Very tough, very straightforward, and very, very Aveline.

Even without the lion, her father gets her into the king’s service. It’s all right, they tell each other. Audric’s a more natural daemon for a knight than you might expect. A dog-daemon means loyalty, and it means respect from any true Ferelden. The lips that curl at the sound of her name tend to go still again when they see Audric, because he’s about as Fereldan as a lion would have been Orlesian. And it’s only right for her soul to be Fereldan – she speaks with its accent, knows its ways, falls in love with one of its men.

But then suddenly all of that is behind them, and Wesley is dead, and she’s in Kirkwall with a family of ragged refugees.

The guard becomes Aveline’s new pack, because a dog’s nothing without one. She knows some of her comrades-in-arms wonder why she’s always wandering off with Hawke, and why she challenges the Captain’s orders when the cost could be her career. She knows why they wouldn’t expect it, because Audric’s quiet for a dog. The guards never thought the woman whose soul is this watchful, stoic creature would be the one to raise her hackles or show her teeth.

You can’t give the same command again and again to a bullmastiff, though. Not unless you want it to stop listening and start looking for more. Aveline and Audric know that, and that’s why they question things, find the scent of corruption and follow the trail until they’ve flushed out the source.

That’s what marks them out. All dogs are loyal followers. But there are only a very few who can be leaders.

~

Anders

Anders wakes from his Harrowing with his mind aching and his heart pounding and his sheets cold and wet from sweat. He almost lashes out when something touches his shoulder, but it’s Karl, just Karl, thank the Maker, and without thinking twice about it - damn the consequences, just this once – pulls his lover to him and holds him close. And Karl smile against his shoulder, clings to him for a moment, then whispers, ‘I think you should take a look at Themis.’

So Anders does, his heart beating even faster. She’s been ridiculously late to settle - he likes to joke that it’s out of spite, that she refuses to take a shape while the Templars are trying to define what they are. But everyone knows that when a mage’s daemon settles late, it’ll often happen after the Harrowing. So he looks, and there she is, his Themis, his soul, perched on the end of his bed, bobbing her long tail up and down to show off its beautiful blue-green sheen.

He stares, then grins.

‘Maker,’ he says. ‘The senior enchanters are going to love this.’

He can’t count the number of times someone tuts or mutters ‘of course,’ when they see the shape she’s chosen, when they realise that the Circle’s resident troublemaker has a magpie for a daemon. Anders, though, has no complaints. All crows are clever, and Themis has his flair, his flash, his wit, his love of hoarding. Little trinkets, shiny things, useless things, any things that he can squirrel away beneath his bunk, just for the joy of having something in the world that belongs to him.

Then they take Karl away. So he starts testing his wings for the first time in years, desperate to break the cage, and he sees the darker side of a magpie-daemon. He doesn’t remember much about his home, no matter how stubbornly he clings to the images, but one flash of memory is of his father hurling a stone at a black-and-white bird. He can’t hear the voice in his mind, only remembers it saying that the bird would have got at the hens’ eggs, even the new-hatched chicks if it could. He remembers thinking that surely only a few magpies do that, and not very often. And it’s the same with mages who try to be free. They summon demons, people say. Only a few, Anders wants to scream. Not very often. And not me.

Magpies are hunted, hated. The whole world is against them.

It sank in long ago, the cruel irony of the rule that mages’ daemons are always birds. People love to cage birds, to watch them sit behind bars and sing, but a bird is a creature of the sky and that is where it belongs. You'll never hear a magpie sing for anyone. Anders certainly doesn't plan on doing so. So when Justice makes his offer, he says yes.

And after – after the world becomes as black and white as Themis's feathers – there’s an odd distance between them. He’s not the same man he was when Themis settled, and she doesn’t quite fit as she used to. He and Justice are one now, after all, and no spirit has a daemon. But Anders still loves her, of course he loves her, because he will always be a magpie at heart. You can tell it just to look at him – feathered shoulders and dark eyes that don’t miss a thing. He may hunt for escape routes and messages from the underground now, not for trinkets, but he’s still a scavenger.

He watches her sometimes, a lone magpie flashing around his clinic, and the old rhyme runs through his head. 'One for sorrow,' he says, and Themis shakes her head. 'You're me,' she says. 'You're a magpie too. It's two for joy.' She was always the bright-eyed part of him, the part that laughed and bobbed her tail. She's the part of him that hopes. So he allows himself to believe her. The thought that there might just be a chance at joy… it’s what keeps him fighting.

~

Fenris

‘Little wolf,’ Danarius called him, but Danarius was wrong.

A wolf is a creature of packs. A wolf is bright eyes and obedience. A wolf craves company and a wolf knows its place. Fenris is not a wolf. Fenris is power and pride, even if that pride is bruised and raw from its shackles, and anyone who looks at Tenebris can see it. He doesn’t know whether she settled before he got the brands or whether the lyrium changed her, somehow, just as it changed him. All he knows is that for as long as he can remember, she’s been like this, a sleek, beautiful, black-furred creature of the northern rainforests.

Danarius should have known they’d break free. No one could ever tame a panther.

He kept her on a chain, of course, and clasped a spiked collar around her neck. He made her clean his boots with her tongue, rested his feet on her back, stroked the glossy fur of her head whenever one of his rivals came to visit. Look, said that hand that buried itself in the black pelt. See what powerful beasts I have at my command.

His touch on her was like knives in Fenris’s gut. But he stood silent, still, head bowed. His master owned his body. His soul was held in his master’s hands.

Danarius would force them apart, make them sleep in separate rooms, forbid them to speak to each other, even touch. In his anger, he would beat them both, and Fenris would feel Tenebris’s pain jolt through his own body, and he’d think vaguely through a fog of anguish that it was wrong, seeing a creature of strength and grace cowed like this. The thought would flicker for a moment, and then be gone.

When they finally run, it’s the first time Fenris has ever felt close to his soul.

Living in Kirkwall is not only about learning to live with freedom. It’s about learning who he is. For the first time, Tenebris is not an oversized cat, she is a piece of the wild, and so is he. They spend long nights curled up beside the fire in the mansion, talking as they never have before. Fenris curses himself for never realising that he always had an ally in her, then stops and curses Danarius instead for forcing him to feel separate from her. Slowly, the barriers break down, and he’s willing to touch his own soul at last, to run his hands through her velvet fur, and she’s willing to lie alongside him at night with her pelt brushing his skin.

When the accursed mage starts up his ranting about freedom again, Fenris finds himself listening for once. Because the mage mentions Tranquility. About how no one deserves to have their daemon severed, their bond with their soul taken away.

Fenris glances down at Tenebris, at this creature who would always, eventually, slip or break any collar you placed around her neck, because she’s a panther, not a cat. He feels his heart swell, and for the first time in his life, he finds himself understanding what Anders means. 'No one will cage us,' Tenebris growls. 'No one will seperate us.' And she bares her teeth, teeth that can bite right through a man's skull, just as Fenris's hand can slam through a chest. He doesn't doubt that she is right.

~

Merrill

Merrill always did do things a little differently.

Many Dalish have jays as daemons, even those who aren’t mages, but they’re all the normal creamy-brown jays, creatures that can melt into the woods, go unseen if they want to. There’s no missing Belavahna. She’s so obviously foreign, her feathers vibrant, exotic, tropical, the blue of shallow waters in warm oceans. No Fereldan bird looks like she does.

The other Dalish frown and shake their heads at the sight. When your daemon stands out as much as her, it means you’re different in some way, and people are always ready to think that different means dangerous. But Belavahna – she’s not dangerous. Merrill knows she isn’t. A jay will give you a nice firm peck if you try to hurt it (and serve you right), but they aren't cruel. Jays are bright, inquisitive eyes, and cheerful voices that rarely still. Jays are curiosity and cleverness.

Jays like to keep things, too. They stash nuts and seeds away, keep them hidden, keep them safe. Merrill feels like she's doing the same, as she gathers the shards of the Eluvian, pieces it back together, and lugs it around with her everywhere she goes. ‘Like a magpie gathering things that glitter,’ the clan say, but Merrill bites her lip and carries on. Bela’s always been the bolder part of Merrill, though, the stronger part, so she looks their clanmates in the eye defiantly, and later, she presses her head against Merrill’s face, the brush of her feathers a soothing comfort.

‘You’re not keeping these things out of greed,’ she says. 'That’s not what jays do. Jays keep things because they’re too precious to be lost.'

They stand out even more in the Alienage than they did with the clan. A Dalish girl with a tattooed face and her vivid azure and cream bird-daemon will always attract stares and turn heads, nowhere more so than where everyone else’s daemons are so... faded. When Merrill looks at the other elves’ patchy-furred dogs and mice and squirrels, the only word that comes to mind is defeated.

She could never fit in with these people, when her soul is so very, very different to theirs. So she’s on her own, and that’s the hardest part, because jays really don’t like to be alone.

But there’s brightness in this life too. There’s Hawke. And there’s Varric and Isabela and the others, and card games in the Hawke estate and feeling like she’s not so alone after all. And there’s browsing the bookshelves in Hawke’s house, and stumbling on one about Free Marches birds. It’s the book that tells her that Bela’s a scrub jay. It’s the book that tell her a lot of things about her daemon and thus about herself.

She reads. She reads about how scrub jays pick the ticks and fleas from deer and cattle, helping them in ways so small they might not even notice. She reads about how they’re frowned on, called thieves. ‘Well, that’s a little unfair,’ Bela says. ‘They need to eat.’

Yes, they do. Just like Merrill needs to fix the Eluvian. You don’t stop doing something you need to do because other people have the wrong idea about it.

But the most important thing she learns is that scrub jays watch. They watch each other, and they remember. They don’t forget where they hide their stashes, not ever. They move their caches when another bird sees them hide it. They hold on to the past and they plan for the future, looking behind so they can find a way ahead, because behind those quick darting eyes and the cheerful chattering voices are minds that never, never forget.

And it’s a Keeper’s job – Merrill’s job – to remember. Even the dangerous things.

~

Isabela

Mages have birds. But they’re not the only ones. Isabela’s never shot lightning from her fingers her whole life, though she can think of plenty of circumstances in which it would be… interesting to be able to do so. She has a bird all the same, and it means something very different. It means freedom.

When Delmar settles, Isabela’s mother clenches her jaw and mutters something about even harder to get you married properly now. The birds-are-mages association isn’t too much of an obstacle, not in Rivain, but Delmar is… Delmar. He’s no sleek, beautiful creature, no elegant peacock to adorn a rich man’s house. He’s big and brown, webbed feet and a short beak ending in a little dagger-hook, and he doesn’t keep quiet when he’s got something to say. He fills the house with his sharp, laughing call, and of course, Luis hates him.

Zevran, however, finds him hilarious.

‘A skua for a daemon,’ he says, tossing her a knife. ‘That being the case, you should find skewering me fairly easy, no?’ And Isabela laughs for what feels like the first time since she set eyes on Luis, and as she matches Zevran’s blades with her blades and his puns with her puns, she finally feels like she deserves Delmar. Like her soul is winged for a reason.

When at last Isabela breaks free, she lets Delmar lead the way. They know where to go. The sea has always called them, because the skua is a migrant, a wanderer, travelling for thousands of miles over open water. Delmar’s webs and sail-like wings were made for voyages. So was Isabela. But not for her the tame merchant life, because the skua is marked out from the aimlessly squabbling gulls and the fragile terns and the stately albatrosses by one thing. It is not only a traveller, but a thief.

On days when the spray’s flung into her face by the wind and the ship’s skimming across the waves as if it’s as eager to meet the horizon as Isabela is, she loves nothing more than to watch Delmar taking to the sky, flying to the very edge of their bond. Sometimes there’ll be some hapless seabird, a gull or a gannet, that manages to grasp a fish in its bill only to have a huge brown bird with a bill like a knife descend like a thunderbolt, grasp its wing to make it stall and fall to the sea below, snatching the fish from it beak with vicious deftness. Isabela pities the other birds of the sea when there’s a skua in the air, just as she pities the poor merchant who sees the Siren’s Call descending, flags fluttering, the pirate captain standing grinning at the prow, her pirate daemon on her shoulder.

When the arrows start flying and the swords start swinging, Isabela knows her place – right in the thick of things, with blades at the ready. And Delmar circles above, dive-bombing the enemy, beating his wings in the face of the bandit (who misses the blow he aimed at Merrill) and pecking at the face of the Tal-Vashoth (who would have had Varric if Delmar hadn’t been there) and scratching and clawing and fighting, fighting, fighting.

Because here’s the thing: nothing takes on a skua. Nothing but an eagle or a killer whale will ever be bold enough. Go near its nest, threaten its fledglings, and it won’t stop fighting you until you’re fleeing or dead.

Hawke and the others are like a bunch of clueless fledglings much of the time, and Isabela and Delmar are in agreement that if anyone tries to harm them, they will gouge out their Maker-damned eyes.

[a-shakespearean-in-paris]

Ballerina Lydia? :D

Was a sugar plum fairy in the Nutcracker as a little girl, and made friends with another girl in the corps de ballet named Rosalie. 

 Rosalie had a brother names Cullen who used to make fun of the ballet. Lydia really, really disliked Cullen. 

Years later Cullen has moved from Ferelden to Kirkwall. Rosalie and his siblings surprise visit him, and when they have a free day, Rosalie takes Cullen to the ballet. 

Lydia is there, and she’s playing Odette in Swan Lake. Her black swan is fantastic. 

Rosalie meets Lydia after the show and they bond again. 

She and Cullen still kinda don’t like each other, but eventually the enemies to lovers troop plays on and they fall in love :) 

[rufeepeach]

Popular Fic

Tagged by @thescholarlystrumpet​ and @rowofstars​!

I’m only doing fics where I’m the sole author because this gets wildly distorted with other authors involved!

What are your five most popular works by kudos? (in descending order)

1) Inheritance - OUAT, Rumbelle - Kudos: 515

Five years after leaving town to see the world, a death in the family forces Belle French back to Storybrooke to deal with the estate. Never intending to stay very long, she nevertheless soon finds herself drawn back into old friendships, old dreams, and an old love that’s not as finished as once she had hoped. Belle might be back in her hometown, but after five years away from the wreckage she left behind, is it possible to ever really come home?

I mean, I’d hope this’d be my most popular work - it took a year to write and is the length of a long novel! It’s also easily my most complete and coherent longfic, since it was meticulously planned, written, and edited as a whole before a single chapter got posted. I guess more chapters also just meant more chances for people to find it?

2) If I Didn't Know Better (but damn it, I do) - MCU, Darcy/Loki - Kudos: 503

In which Loki's illusions seem to malfunction when a particular supposedly-powerless brunette happens by, and Darcy is more than willing to use her taser.

I have no idea. Someone prompted TaserTricks and back in the days at the height of Hiddleston-mania this seemed like a good idea. I think MCU is such a big fandom that any moderately-readable work - especially with an Explicit rating - will have a larger audience than for something a little smaller like Rumbelle. I’m pretty pleased with the characterisation though, especially since my interest in the MCU - even back then, before I stopped caring entirely - was fairweather at best.

3) A Hundred Years or More - Maleficent - Kudos: 454

"I promise, no harm shall come to you whilst I live" - Maleficent never kisses Aurora, believing she has already done more harm than good, and instead resigns herself to watching over the sleeping princess for the rest of her days.

I made myself cry with this one. Probably my favourite thing I’ve ever written, it’s everything I hope to someday accomplish with an original work, tracking Maleficent’s eighty-four years watching over a comatose, unageing Aurora, as various characters grow old and die, and the world moves on, and Maleficent finds some peace. It’s very soft and very sad and I love it so much!

4) Harmless - OUAT, Rumbelle - Kudos: 333

Belle arrives, bruised and bleeding, on the doorstep of a lame spinner and his son. On the run from the war and its causes, her short stopover becomes something else entirely.

One of my earliest fics for Rumbelle fandom, although it took me years to complete in the end. This one was the first ever winner for best woobie!rumple in 2013′s TEAs! I wish now that I hadn’t rushed the ending so much, but by that point it was three years old and I needed it to be finished. This one’s probably the one I’d most like to go back and heavily edit or remix someday. Still, I reread it recently and it’s not half bad!

5) Stranger - OUAT, Rumbelle - Kudos: 289

Belle remembers everything about her old life, and finally gains freedom from her asylum prison. But Rumpelstiltskin is nowhere to be found: in his place is an oblivious pawnbroker who is as cursed as everyone else in Storybrooke.

A long-time favourite of mine among my Rumbelle fics, this one’s a trooper since it received only moderate attention on Tumblr when I posted it, but it seems to have steadily climbed the ranks on AO3? I’m glad this odd little fic is getting some love now :)

What are your five least popular works by kudos? (in ascending order)

(Okay so this is weird, because my AO3 is so unrepresentative of when I posted things? So for these I’m picking and choosing because a lot of my AO3 lowest page is just my old imported Castle, Community, and Glee fics and I’d rather not... drag those up... so I’m only counting fics posted after I left LJ. Also I’m not including bits of series that just got dumped on there when I realised I’d forgotten to cross-post years after the fact. Come at me.)

1) In Trouble - OUAT, Swanfire - Kudos: 18

Emma Swan knows Neal is trouble from the moment she meets him, but he’s also everything she’s been looking for.

This one is surprising because it got such a good reception on Tumblr when I posted it, so I guess this is a result of importing it to AO3 super late, and the lack of SF-shippers? Idk bro. I like this one a lot?

2) Falling In The Space Between - Dragon Age: Inquisition, Hawke/Varric - Kudos: 20

Varric visits Hawke in Skyhold the night after Adamant, and they discuss heroes, stories, and how the world suddenly got so much bigger and more difficult since Kirkwall.

I had feelings while playing DA:I. Sue me. This one’s a short, introspective character piece, and it’s hella sad.

3) Life in Black and White - OUAT, Snowing - Kudos: 21

Snow White was raised to hold onto goodness at all times, no matter the costs. No matter the damage she leaves in her wake.

Snow White character assassination piece, mostly focusing on how black and white morality, and her privileging of her own family above all else, has led to massive destruction in the name of ‘goodness’. I can totally see why no one read this, but again it got a better reception on Tumblr?

4) Seven Beaches - OUAT, Rumbelle - Kudos: 23

Seven times Belle and Rumpelstiltskin visited the beach.

Ah, 2012. Back before it was drilled into me that songfic is always wrong and bad. On the other hand this is kinda pretty? On the third hand I was eighteen and it shows, because dear God, varying your sentence length is always right and good. Hundreds of short sentences glued together does not equal poetry. I seem to remember rave reviews at the time but then we had like ten authors back then so who knows.

5) Disassociation - OUAT, Rumbelle - Kudos: 24

The man on the floor is not Belle’s husband.

Another short fic solely written because I had feelings, set immediately after the Town Line scene at the end of 4A. It’s dark, miserable, and very much written in that post-episode rush before things settle. Again, I get why no one would seek this out now.

No idea who’s done this yet, but I’ll tag @mariequitecontrarie, @amuseoffyre, @toseehowthestoryends, @ladybookwormwithteeth, and @worryinglyinnocent

[kogiopsis]

@ladyknightradiant was looking over my shoulder when I reblogged those OC Codex prompts, and gave me the following:

#6 for Tohora Mahariel, #8 for Signy Hawke, #17 for an OC of my choice, and #1 for an Inquisitor of my choice.

Answers under the cut.

From Denerim’s Rebirth:  A History of the Fifth Blight by Sister Theohild:

Many common citizens of Denerim remembered Warden Mahariel, though they were often shocked to realize that the Hero herself had picked their pockets in the market.  In the Alienage, however, the tone of those I spoke to was markedly different.  The city elves did not quite revere her, but to a one they spoke fiercely in her defense whenever criticisms were raised.  Her swift and brutal dispatch of the Tevinter slavers was often praised, but I also spoke to many elves who mentioned small moments of incidental kindness, quite out of keeping with the sullen thief described by those outside the alienage.

“I told her I was a veteran of Ostagar, and she gave me twenty gold pieces.  Just like that, like it was nothing!  So I got one of my friends, and he told her a story too, and stripe me if she didn’t hand him a jingling pouch without hardly blinking.  The third time, we came around with more of our boys, and I was certain sure she’d send us packing, but she didn’t.  You could see in her squinty green eyes that she knew, too - knew we were lying.  Didn’t care, though.  And it didn’t feel like charity, neither; not like we owed her or anything.  It just felt like... we were her people, even though we weren’t.

“I saw her one more time, after the Archdemon and all that.  The alienage was mostly destroyed but the venadahl was still there, a little singed but alive.  She shows up one morning, barely daylight, and walks right up to the tree and presses her hands and her forehead against it.  I couldn’t hear if she said anything, or if she just stood there breathing.  Them Dalish, nature’s important to them, right?  Living here, sometimes it feels like our bit of nature doesn’t count compared to what they have, but it did to Mahariel.  Elves were elves and trees were trees, no matter what shems said.  I’ll never forget that.”

A rumpled page with notes made in messy handwriting.  Some of the ink is smeared and water-damaged.  Found underneath a torn shirt discarded in a corner of Anders’ clinic in Lowtown.

11 Kingsway, 9:35 Dragon

Patient:  S. Hawke

Initial observations:  split lip, contusions on face and arms, possible bite marks (?) on shoulder.  Wincing when breathing suggests injury to ribs.  Patient insisted injuries were received during “a bar fight”.  When I remarked on copious amounts of dried blood on her clothing, she objected that I should “see the other guy.”

Treatment notes:  cleaned and bandaged all open wounds with antiseptic.  Patient complained that this hurt; informed her that she should avoid bar fights if so.  Contusions deemed minor and of no concern.  Healed one bite mark which had broken skin, to avoid infection.

While I was probing her ribs to determine damage, asked patient about this bar fight.  Patient explained that her lover’s honor (Capt. I) had been insulted.  When I pointed out that Capt. I would not have cared, patient shrugged and then hissed in pain.  Said that she cared, even if Capt. didn’t, and asked that I not mention it.

One rib bruised, two minor fractured.  Applied healing spells.  Concentration nearly disrupted when patient asked me when I last slept.  Informed her I didn’t know and continued treatment.  Patient suggested (jokingly) that she could knock me out so I could get some rest.  Refused this offer.  Patient suggested (less jokingly) that I could stay at her home to sleep.  Refused this as well.  Patient departed shortly thereafter.

Overheard in a salon in Val Royaux, shortly after Leksa Mountain-heart was officially named Inquisitor.

“If this Avvar savage is all the Maker can send us to seal the sky, then we truly are forsaken by Him.  Blood and damnation, she’s half a demon herself already!”

“I wouldn’t wager all the stories of her are true.  The tales of possession are likely pure slander - though it would make for an intriguing scandal.”

“Even if she’s not possessed, those shamans of hers were.”

“But you must admit, they got the job done.”

“The templars could have done just as well, and with less stinking furs and pagan chanting.”

“Oh, I don’t know.  Can you truly imagine the loyal members of the Order following a woman with her face painted like a skull, glowing hand or not?”

“They’d do what they must, as they always do.  Or the Inquisition could have conscripted Fiona’s rebels - at least their magic is normal.”

“Is any magic truly normal, my dear?”

“Perhaps not anymore.  I draw the line at the worship of bears, however.”

“One must always know one’s limits.”

An excerpt from Portraits of an Inquisition by M. Petro Mosser.

During the crisis-rich time of the Inquisition itself, very little was known about Inquisitor Kepi Lavellan.  Those who were most interested in her background - namely, agents of a variety of international powers - found it rather difficult to infiltrate a Dalish clan, particularly one already faced with external threats from the ill-fated Duke Antoine of Wycome.  Rumor has it that agents of Fen’Harel made contact with the clan, but this is difficult to substantiate, as Fen’Harel himself was then a boon companion of the Inquisitor and any information he later put to use may have been gained thusly.

The one illumination of Lady Lavellan’s history came in the form of her sister, a young woman called Perinelle, or just Nell.  Though she and Lavellan appeared to share little, if any, blood, many observers noted the relaxed familiarity of their interactions, and not a few spies viewed this sibling bond as a significant possible weakness*.  

A small number of assassins did make attempts on Nell’s life, but were unsuccessful - to put it mildly.  In this we see one of many contradictions that make up Lady Lavellan’s younger sister:  she was sweet and unassuming of manner, but deadly in a fight; she befriended new people easily, but never flinched at taking a life; she spoke Elven with an Anders accent; and though by all accounts she was even smaller than an average elf, she took up with and eventually married the Qunari spy known as The Iron Bull, and later raised three mixed Qunari-elven children with him.

The larger family gatherings, it must be supposed, would have been quite fascinating to behold.  Lady Lavellan and her partners; Perinelle, her towering husband, and their brood; the mercenaries known as Bull’s Chargers; the remainder of the Dalish Clan Lavellan; and likely even Yvette Montilyet, Ambassador Montilyet’s younger sister, who by all accounts reveled in the unusual company.

Despite its unusual size and ragtag composition, they were a loyal and private group, and even now we have little in the way of an insider’s perspective.  Until one of Perinelle’s children chooses to reveal more, we know only that there was great love there as well as great strength - and truly, what better harbor could the Maker have given his Herald?

(*As related in Divine Victoria’s Ravens, Sister Oleta’s history of the Most Holy’s work as a spymaster and assassin.)

[kogiopsis]

some of my Main Babes in HLTA, lookin’ badass.

It turns out the Brown Briala mod also changes the skintone of other NPCs - Clarel, a few of the Wardens, and Scout Harding are the ones I’ve noticed so far. 

[kogiopsis]

YOU SENT ME THREE SO I GET TO SEND YOU ONE MORE 2 for Signy. Challenge mode: the letter is from Malcolm.

2.   a letter written by your OC’s family member.  

I’m going with the in-game Bethany dialogue placing Malcom’s death during the Blight, because I can’t find anything about how he died if it was years earlier.

(A letter addressed to Signy Hawke, King Cailan’s warcamp at Ostagar, crumpled by the side of the road leading north out of Lothering.)

My dear Siggy,

You rolled your eyes at that, I’m sure, but even a woman grown and gone off to kill darkspawn is a little girl to her father; that’s a fact.  You can punch me in the arm for that when you come home.  I look forward to it, and Carver won’t mind seeing me go ass over teakettle either.

I’m proud of you, little bird.  I know I don’t say it nearly enough, but I am.  You’ve got the strength and the confidence that it takes to make it in this world, and for everything else there’s always that enormous sword.  

Now, bear with me now, because I need to give you some fatherly advice.  You know how to fight, but you don’t know how to go to war, and those are two different things.  War is... chaotic beyond imagining.  It’s terrifying.  I soiled myself in my first battle, and I’m not ashamed of it.  Fear will keep you alert.  Alertness will keep you alive.  Speaking of alertness, don’t forget that you’re not alone.  You have comrades in arms to guard your flank, and you’ll keep each other alive.  Be brave, Siggy, but not stupid.  There’s no such thing as an honorable death.

You’ll be home before you know it.

- Papa.

(P.S.  Keep a close eye on your bedroll.  Soldiers like a good prank, and you never know what nasty surprises will be waiting for you at the end of the day.)

[kogiopsis]

Hawke Thoughts

so I realized today that I missed Fenris’s Act 2 companion quest completely, and now his Act 3 won’t trigger at all (which figures, as one follows the other).  And this... makes it very likely, since there are only a handful of quests left for Signy and I don’t want him along on some of them (Merrill’s personal, for example) that I’ll never get his approval high enough to sway him at the end.

Which means Signy will have to fight and kill her white-haired warrior twin.

....and from a characterization standpoint I really like this.

Initially when I was planning a second DA2 run I intended it to be for a Hawke whose life I would just absolutely ruin, and then leave in the Fade.  Then Megan played it and fell in love with Isabela and I decided I had to try that, and plans changed, because I didn’t want to break Isabela’s heart.  I still don’t, and I”ll have Stroud as my alternative for the Fade, so... down goes the mustache.

but I really really want to break Signy down, and I feel like having to kill Fenris is in some ways narratively perfect.  She doesn’t like him - he was rude to her sister and her girlfriend, and she doesn’t need him because he has the same skillset she does, so she mostly ... doesn’t bother.  He’s a casual acquaintance she hangs out with from time to time.

But she’s the Champion, in the end, and there’s no such thing as ‘casual’ with a legendary hero.  Fenris is her wake-up call that everything she’s done for herself and what she thinks to be the good of her city has dragged other people along too.  Had she never tried to befriend Fenris in the first place, he wouldn’t have been at the Gallows that day.  Had he not been caught in her wake, he could have simply fled the conflict and made a new life for himself.

Killing Fenris is (if it happens) the ultimate disproportionate consequence to her actions, and it’ll drive her in really interesting directions.  Mostly directions full of guilt.

[kogiopsis]

I’m not sure if I’ll ever need a Signy/Isabela tag but if I did it would be ‘an unstoppable force meets an untameable sea’

[kogiopsis]

I got to the first romance scene with Isabela and honestly the “You’re not afraid of getting hurt, you’re afraid of hurting someone else” line hurt me.

[kogiopsis]

god DA2 combat is so.  satisfying.