#the inquisitor at least had the whole herald of andraste thing going for them

[zoya-nazyalenskys]

my biggest critique of veilguard is why is rook the hero of the story? like literally why are all these people even listening to rook who is literally nothing but some rando? how can the organisations of minrathous/treviso (especially minrathous that has that giant magic palace in the sky) not fight off a single dragon but rook, one singular person with absolutely zero special abilities, can?

[dragonbabes]

Imagine Solas and Lavellan accidentally bumping into each other during those eight years between Trespasser and Veilguard.

Just so you know, I wanted this to be like two paragraphs max. Wanted to sprinkle a little angst dust on your head, but ended up pouring the whole jar (sorry, but also not sorry?) I hope you enjoy spiraling with me… <3

She sits on a fine couch tucked in a corner, behind sheer curtains that obscure her from most of the prying eyes trying to catch a glimpse of the elvish woman that wielded the very power of the fade; or the hand that had housed it. She isn’t blind to the disappointment that flitters across faces when her hand is found void of any milky glow, and only a shiny white gold prosthetic clinking against her glass of wine.

Wine. She hates it. Most the time. She’ll drink it at events, if only to make the night pass by a little smoother. The wine, however bitter it is, makes every minute packed with questions poking and prodding at her most painful scars sound a little less like stone grating against itself. Usually, Dorian sticks close to her side to fend off the especially insensitive and the racist assholes that like to hover around her as flies hang around shit.

Lavellan grew up among trees and flowers and sweet silence. The petticoats, snide remarks, and hidden meanings that stink up the air here gives her a headache. It's hot, it's crowded, and she feels like a tiger chained and locked in a cage. Despite hiding - or trying to, at least - Lavellan still catches people looking her way and then whispering behind their hand. Someone is always talking here. The one thing that she and Solas disagreed on is the 'pleasure' of court intrigue. The court makes her feel like a pretty little piece to be won by the highest bidder. When she attends, she’s surrounded by men with one drink too many in their bellies, saying things like—

“I’ve lost you to your thoughts again, Herald.” His words roll off his tongue thickly; he’s Orlesian, that much she’s gathered from his accent. He, who is a scholar and wiseman, ever searching for answers of the fade. And she — oh, joy — is an object of curiosity to him (those were his exact words). “I’ve heard such talk always clams you up. These are the things the others who have sought you have said. You are from the Free Marches, a Dalish, so I imagine you are hesitant to leave your people.” Lavellan hides her snort with her glass by taking another drink. Is he going to pretend that she hadn’t left her clan to travel across Thedas and attend the Conclave? Has this scholar yet asked himself, 'How can she fear leaving her people, yet be here, in Tevinter, at this ball?'

Her eyes, now housing unnatural specks of green that really fascinates the pompous magisters roving about, trail away from the human, along with her thoughts, to meet with the eyes of an elven servant just entering the room.

In his hands is a tray of balanced glasses of champagne — a drink much kinder to her tastebuds — that shine the same shade of gold as the servants' widening eyes. She blinks at the panic that washes through them. He spins around (not losing a drop of the champagne, she notes), shoves at the other servant entering just behind him - who bears a tray of yummy little sandwiches in their hand - back into the shroud of the hall and begins hissing at them.

Her gaze falls down to her hands, clasping her drink in her lap. Since the events of the Inquisition, she’s been held above most everyone. Revered as untouchable, someone to be worshipped. To be bowed to. Even by her own people.

She is lonely.

“Surely, I cannot be so unworthy of your company, Inquisitor.” The man concludes his rant at her side. A rant full of reasons of why she should stay at his estate and become his mistress, to put it bluntly. It's all wrapped up in passionate and poetic words he wants to use to tie her up. Like a dog, not like a lover. For she is an elf, she is a trophy to be won! The Inquisitor! Herald of Andraste, she has been touched by the Maker and sent to them. For them. But... She is an elf, and they'll do everything they can to gloss over it. Sometimes she wonders, hundreds - thousands, maybe - of years from now, will she still be remembered as the elven woman she is? Or will they remake her into what they want?

“My lord, my silence is not an insult to your character.” Lavellan watches as the elven servants fully enter the room now, the taller one behind now with a covered face and lowered eyes. Curious... They move around the room, offering refreshments with lowered heads and sagged shoulders; it makes her tongue thick in her mouth. She trails their movements. “I am flattered by your… Fascination with me.”

Glass empty, she sets it down and turns her hand over, eying the pretty designs etched into the prosthetic. Dagna designed it for her, with the help of Dorian; she wasn't surprised when they gave it to her to be blinded by the sunlight reflecting off the gold, but she was also surprised to love it so much. A simple thing, with the eye of the inquisition on her palm - where the mark was - and vines with small, intricate leaves twisting out from it... “The magic I wielded is a curious phenomenon, no?”

“Absolutely! No one has had such a close connection to the fade! Imagine what we could achieve with your ability, and my intelligence.” She grinds her teeth, jaw flexing; of course, she’s not intelligent enough to understand it on her own.

The vines, Dorian explained, wasn't just because she's Dalish or loves botany, but rather because she 'has a habit of making even the most desolate places blossom.' She closes her palm and holds it over her heart. This human next to her is ignorant to that; she shouldn't let it bother her...

“I’m sure it would’ve been extraordinary.” She lowly replies, her irritation barely covered by the smile she forces into her lips, “Unfortunately, I cannot wield it anymore.”

“Ah, yes, your adversary.” The man leans back in his chair, one arm resting on the couch behind her. Lavellan slowly inches away. “What was his name?” The lord taps his chin as he hums to himself. Lavellan doesn’t bother to offer him the answer, though it’s blanketed over her tongue, drying her mouth and casting her eyes out the window. “The Dread Wolf?” The elven servants stop in front of them.

“My lord.” He offers out the tray to them and lowers his honeyed eyes. Lavellan watches him steadily, the taught lines between her brow melting off her unnaturally sharp features. “Inquisitor.” He dares a glance at her, and she takes that second to smile at him. The lord grabs a glass and continues. As if they don’t exist.

“That is how your people refer to him, yes? The Dread Wolf. Fen’Harel.” There’s cheer flashing through the lord's eyes. He takes a taste of his drink and swishes it around his mouth with a smile barely contained. Her eyes sharpen, but she forces herself to look away before the look kills him. It would’ve, she imagines, and she’s almost ashamed to say it would bring her joy. Just a tad. But that’s not very Inquisitorial of her…

“Thank you.” She quietly says as she removes the last glass from the tray. “Yes, my lord. That’s what they call him.” He cackles, head thrown back, and drawing the rooms attention. Lavellan doesn’t share his elation.

“To think that you had one of your own gods under your nose for the better part of the year!” He puts his hand to his stomach and laughs some more. The Inquisitor rolls her eyes and takes a large gulp of her champagne. “And you never noticed, m’lady? That your feared Dread Wolf dined at the same table as you?” Lavellan’s hand tightens over her drink.

“His name…” Lavellan flinches at the break in her voice and takes a deep breath to steady herself. There’s a burning to her eye. One that tells her she may be one drink too deep herself. She downs what's left in her glass and clears her throat. “His name is Solas.” She flicks her eyes, newly hardened, back to the lord. “And he was there to help. Just like the rest of us. He is a good man… I had no reason to doubt him. Ever.”

“You sound rather affectionate in your address.” He comments.

“Yes.” Her words are quiet as a smile ghosts over her lips. “So, you will understand me when I say I cannot accept your offer.”

“Come, I can change your mind. You can merely visit for a while, things may progress naturally.”

“They will not, my lord.”

“You cannot know that.” He leans in closer to her, drawing a nervous laugh from her.

“I know myself well enough. It will not happen.”

“Surely you will not waste yourself on-“

“Would you like a treat, my lord?” The unmasked servants question is sudden and frantic at first but falling quiet toward the end. Lavellan raises her eye at the nervous shift of his feet, and glances to his friend behind him; what has them so on edge? She catches grey-blue eyes for merely a second before they’re obscured by his brunette hair as he bowed and offered the tray with steady hands. Familiarity instantly breathes down her neck at the shade of blue she saw. Then it begins to burn in her gut.

She cannot seem to escape him no matter where she is...

It’s quiet, Lavellan realizes, and she begins to blink herself back to the present. All humor leaves the lord as he finally turns to acknowledge the two standing before them. His eyes have somehow become a darker shade of black, and his lips turned down with a silent snarl. Lavellan shudders at the sudden change, goosebumps rising into her arms. She watches the look in his eye sharpen into a knife, and her heart jumps into a throat. Inhuman. He’s inhuman, she thinks.

“You can see that the Inquisitor and I are having a conversation, yet you would interrupt us?” Lavellan straightens. This will go badly, and quickly. She places her hand atop the lords, and levels him with a stare that she had been masking all night; pupils blown a little wide, hard, and a slight sense of bloodlust. It was men like this that took her clan from her. She can barely conceal the shake numbing her limbs.

She has to reel it in. For Dorian's sake.

“He has done nothing wrong, my lord. Please, there is no need to use such a tone.” His hand grasps back at her own, and he plants a slobbery kiss to the back of it. Horror parts her lips.

“You jump even to the defense of those who are below you. You are exquisite.” Her skin runs cold, as if she stepped out into a winter night with no cloak. Below her? Below her?

“You would sit next to me on this couch and say such a thing?”

“Ah, Inquisitor. You must be upset with my scolding. Forgive me for such unsightly behavior. I do not make a habit of disciplining the help in front of my guests, be sure. But sometimes you must act immediately, to teach them that some behaviors simply will not be tole-“

“Enough. You misunderstand me.” Her voice is low. Her tone is that of the Inquisitor, not Lavellan, and it makes her heart shiver and ache a little. “They are my people.” Her words are, despite being quiet, heavy, hard, and final. “They are not below me. They are my people.” Gods, she’s had too much to drink. She should hold her tongue. Dorian will have another mess to clean up if she loses her cool again. “Do not think that I have been blind to the disrespect you pay to me and my people. You think you have hidden them so cleverly them behind your little compliments. You have crossed the line. You disgust me, and you will never lay a finger on me, my lord.”

The lord is silent. So are the servants. She removes her tight grip from his hand and scoots herself to the other side of the couch. “Leave me. Before I lose the rest of my patience and become the savage you expect me to be.”

Joy, her first taste of it tonight, blankets over her chest at the wide-eyed, open-mouthed look that's taken up his paling face. Without a word, he scurries away. The Inquisitor steadies herself with a deep breath.

“I’m sorry to provoke him. I know my place.” Lavellan’s brow pinches, and her attention is back on the two before her. The other servant remains with his head bowed and tray outstretched.

“Thank you.” She gingerly removes a sandwich. “You must not apologize to me. And,” her eyes trace the lines of his pale face, and the messy curl of his blond locks… She stops herself. He knows his place, he says… But she fears he doesn’t. He is not below the nobles here, not below the human servants, but how can she convince him. In a room full of people that see him as a mouse scurrying between their boots. “Truly, you’ve nothing to apologize for.”

A sense of shame burrows in her cheeks as she looks away from them. She should help them. There won't be any consquences to her, but the lord will run and tattle, and these two will still be to blame. She should help them escape. But… How? Perhaps Dorian will know.

“You’re as kind as they say.” He bows his head to her, and she shifts in her seat. “We are in your debt.” Her eyes dart to the other elf, but his eyes remain downturned.

“Is your friend okay?” She asks. He jumps as his attention returns to the quiet form at his side.

“Oh, yes. He’s mute.”

“Oh?” She takes in the tall, masked man before her. “Why do you wear…” She catches herself, “Why the mask?”

“He has a nasty scar. Wouldn’t want to offend you, my lady.” Her brows pinch, but a laugh plays on her lips.

“People say I’m kind, yet you fear showing me your scars?” She looks to the other, wishing he’d bring his eyes to hers, but he doesn’t. She wants to see that blue again. “Well… I take no offense to yours. I’ve my own to hide as well.” She addresses him, and his eyes return to meet her own. Again, her stomach churns and her heart flutters. She wishes she could see Solas again, to know if she truly remembers his face, or how he looked at her. If the blue of his eye truly is so similar to the ones staring back at her.

Lavellan takes in the straight brow above the masked elf's eye and returns to searching the depths of them. They seem to suck her in, and she's helpless to pull herself away; they felt like wells full of an emotion she couldn’t place. She leans forward before she can think better of it. Why is her heart stirring so much? She felt she could drown in the warmth radiating out of those blue orbs.

Why is he looking at her like that? As if she were the only thing in this room? As if he knew her, as if he understood-

“Lady Inquisitor?” The servant asks quickly, another nervous shift in his stance.

“Ah, sorry.” A sheepish smile plays on her lips as she leans back against the couch. “Your eyes are quite beautiful. They remind me of a friend.” Her own gaze falls, returning to watch the city splayed out before her, and dulls to a melancholy glisten. “Thank you for the sandwich. Take care.” They bow to her, and stalk off.

She’s foolish. She wanted him back so badly she can see him in any set of pretty blue eyes, it seems. Her eyes redden, tears building until they threatened to fall, and all the drinks she’s had begins to burn in her stomach. She’d like to leave soon.

She hates the court. He loved it.

And that’s all she can think about when she comes to these things.

XXX

She hates the court.

Why is she even here?

Where is Dorian? Why would he ever leave her side in a place like this?

Those are the sort of things whirring around Solas’ head. He stares severely at the marble floor and takes deep breaths to ground the uproar within him. His body is buzzing, like every nerve within him is coming to life simply by being so near her. Years have passed, yet she is as beautiful as ever. More so.

Perched on a couch just behind the shifting curtains, the mage casts her several glances as they work their way around the room, and shudders each time she’s revealed to him. Beautiful. Ethereal. Her hair shifting with the breeze, tapping against her jaw, and plump, painted lips caressing the curve of her wine glass.

She hates wine.

He just needs information of who the idol was sold to. It’s a simple mission that any agent could carry out. Therin wasted no time trying to dissuade him. He even suggested Solas take a walk in Treviso, visit a cafe, and take a day to himself. But the mage didn't want to wander, he wanted to focus. There's a reason he insisted to come himself...

That reason is on the couch a few paces behind him. Solas hadn’t wanted to be haunted with the thought of her, torturing himself over the words she would say to him if she knew that he is one step closer to finishing the ritual… A ritual that would ruin the world she fought and bled for…

Therin insisted that he doesn’t follow him in, but she’d already seen Solas following him and she would have questions; the observant, smart, curious creature she is. So here he is, heart hammering so hard in his chest the closer he steps to her that he worries he might pass out.

When her voice finally reaches his ear, he almost let's out an audible whimper, but manages to strangle it with a quiet cough. How he missed hearing her voice. If he could, he’d give everything to spend another night pouring over books with her in the Skyhold library. What wouldn’t he do to hear her voice free of the weight of his betrayal and back to the warm, lilting cadence she used only with him.

“The Dread Wolf?” Solas stills at that name. The lord who is draped across the couch with Lavellan, leaning closer to her, as she leans farther away, hums with amusement. "Fen'Harel..." Solas can barely breathe, this close to her; yet unable to speak to her, to touch or hold her…

It’s nearly more painful to him to be unknown to her, as he is now, than to bare himself before her again.

His tongue swells after he steps past the curtain and beholds her entirely. Clad in a detailed dress clinging to her waist, pushing up her breasts, and resting happily on her wide hips. Solas burns her image into his mind, noting every little detail of her that has changed. His eyes linger on the golden hand that reaches out and plucks a drink from Therin's tray.

He could fall to his knees now and beg her forgiveness. She could tell him he is nothing and he would be grateful she even allowed him to kneel before her… His chest constricts painfully.

“Thank you.” Her voice is warm, softened. “Yes, my lord. That’s what they call him.” Her civility is forced, he can hear it in the flatness of her words. The human begins to cackle, and Solas’ eyes narrow dangerously onto him.

“To think that you had one of your own gods under your nose for the better part of the year!” The mage's hands tighten over the silver tray until they are white knuckled. He would laugh at Lavellan? The woman who saved his sorry ass from the tyranny of Corypheus? “And you never noticed, m’lady? That your feared Dread Wolf dined at the same table as you?”

And he would ignore vhenan's clear discomfort? The shade cast over her eye, the frown on her lips, and her hand tightening over her glass. The expression on her face, sure to fall unnoticed by everyone else, is one of desolation while she looks out to the city. He wanted to reach out and touch her temple, relieve her of what he knows is banging around in her chest; the exact thing that is trying to claw its own way out of his chest and to her. Solas’ mind is narrowing, his willpower dwindling; he’d damn all of his efforts soon if he didn’t leave. He needs to back away or he will blow their cover. The elf manages a weak step backwards.

“His name…” Her voice breaks, and he does the same. Her eyes are slightly irritated, a redness climbing up into her cheeks, and he can see her collecting herself with deep breaths. She’s always been in control of herself. He admires her for it. “His name is Solas.” She brings her eyes back to the lord, keeping them steadily on the shifting fool. “And he was there to help. Just like the restof us. He is a good man… I had no reason to doubt him. Ever.”

Solas’ heart falls into his stomach, where it begins to churn into a nausea that threatened to bring him to his knees. Her words are lodged in his chest.

“You sound rather affectionate in your address.”

“Yes.” It comes from her in a whisper. It comes with a smile. “So you will understand me when I say I cannot accept your offer.” Offer? His eyes flick back up to the two on the couch, trying to decipher the look shared between the two.

“Come, I can change your mind. You can merely visit for a while, things may progress naturally.” Is he asking her to, what, marry him? Be his mistress? Her unease and his insistence leads Solas to believe it’s exactly that; likely the latter, considering. There’s a pang in his chest.

Of course others will want her. Look at her. More than that, she is good. She’s kind, strong, intelligent- he could go on forever. She is everything. What creature could not crave her?

“They will not, my lord.”

“You cannot know that.” The bastard begins to lean closer to vhenan. The panic that shuddered over her expression is enough to send the elven god over the edge. She moves away with a nervous laugh. Solas stiffens, and he hears a sharp breath from Therin; the agent could tell when the Dread Wolf was getting prickly.

“I know myself well enough. It will not happen.” Solas’ eyes are smoldering.

“Surely you will not waste yourself on-“ That’s it. He can take it no more. He takes a step forward, the tray beginning to loosen in his hands.

“Would you like a treat, my lord?” Therin’s voice calls him back to himself. The mage swallows thickly. His eyes instinctively return to Lavellan. She locks him in his place with her gaze, every muscle in his body tensing, and his heart flopping from his stomach up into his throat. He could not get control over himself.

His eyes lower, and he holds out the tray. She would know his voice if he made even a noise, that he was sure of. So he’s silent in his regard to her and the piece of shit next to her. There’s an uncomfortable silence, but Solas doesn’t bother to ascertain why it’s fallen over the four of them.

“You can see that the Inquisitor and I are having a conversation, yet you would interrupt us?” Solas clenches his jaw. Would that the lord knew what beast was barely keeping himself in check a feet away… What would his words be if he knew that the Dread Wolf — the wolf that loved the woman he is so blatantly propositioning — had his fangs positioned at his throat; how Solas salivates at the thought of crushing the man’s windpipe.

“He has done nothing wrong, my lord. Please, there is no need to use such a tone.” The Dread Wolf’s blue eyes cool even further as he watches her hand fall atop the humans. Her skin has paled, her eyes darting between Therin and the lord with a disarming smile trying to stick on her lips.

“You jump even to the defense of those who are below you. You are exquisite.” She is exquis-

He will kill him. Before Solas leaves this ball tonight, he’ll see this man’s heart removed from his chest. The lord thinks he deserves to press his lips to her skin? Skin that Solas himself did not have the pleasure of tasting? This little human believes himself worthy of vhenan? His vhenan?

The lord even pays no mind to the look of terror that breaks through her mask for a second. He would ignore her rejections, belittle her, and touch her so carelessly? Death is almost too good for him.

“You would sit next to me on this couch and say such a thing?”

“Ah, Inquisitor. Forgive me for such unsightly behavior. I do not make a habit of disciplining the help in front of my guests, be sure. But sometimes you must act immediately, to teach them that some behaviors simply will not be tole-“

“Enough. You misunderstand me.” Lavellan’s voice is unnaturally hard and low. He imagines he’d die right then and there if she were to ever addresses him with such a cold voice. Solas waits impatiently for the lord to do the same. “They are my people.” She keeps her voice low so that the others in the room wouldn’t catch whiff of the commotion. “They are not below me. They are my people.” She has not changed so much, it seems. To endure the insults he wrapped up in his compliments, until they were directed at others. Often, she didn’t bother to defend herself from the sharp words of others, but the moment she heard someone mumble under their breath after him — or anyone, really — she was nearly feral. He would pull her away with a smile playing on his lips, and wrap his hand around her waist, plant a gentle kiss to the top of her head.

“It’s ok, vhenan.” He’d say. “Their words do not bother me.”

“But they bother me!” She’d cry back with this same look in her eyes. A direct stare, sparkling with ire, and a promise to fulfill every warning coming off her lips. His hands threatened to tremble knowing that they could not soothe her as they did before...

“Do not think that I have been blind to the disrespect you pay to me and my people. You think you have so cleverly hidden them behind your compliments. You have crossed the line. You disgust me, and you will never lay a finger on me, my lord.”

What is it raging about in his chest? Dying jealousy clashing with his ire, now being smothered by a cool wave of pride.

“Leave me. Before I loose the rest of my patience and become the savage you expect me to be.” The lord scurries away. Lavellan’s chest rises with a deep breath, and falls with her steadying exhale.

“I’m sorry to provoke him. I know my place.”

“Thank you. You must not apologize to me. And,” She bites her lip as she catches her words. His eyes return to her as soon as he feels her gaze slip to her hands. The crease between her brow, and the worry of her lip; she has something she wants to tell them… She returns with only a warm smile and, “Truly, you’ve nothing to apologize for.”

“You’re as kind as they say.” Lavellan shuffles as Therin bows his head to her, and Solas does the same. “We are in your debt.”

“Is your friend okay?” He’s suffocating under her gaze. He’s nearly forgotten how thrilling her attention was.

“Oh, yes. He’s mute.” She hums back a response, and asks about his mask. Maybe he should’ve just turned around and let Therin handle it all. Of course she’d be suspicious of the one elven servant wearing a mask. “He has a nasty scar. Wouldn’t want to offend you, my lady.” She laughs.

Gods his knees are weak. A smile blossoms into his own lips before he can think. Then his brow pinches; he’s smiling, while feeling like he might throw up, or worse, start sobbing in her lap.

“People say I’m kind yet you fear showing me your scars? Well… I take no offense to yours. I’ve my own to hide as well.” In a moment of weakness — pure stupidity —, despite the whispers in his mind that doing it is a terrible mistake, he trails his eyes up to her own. He is all too aware of the love she has for him.

She will know him. Even if it’s just from a short meeting of their eyes. What’s worse is he almost wants her to recognize him.

If she did, what would she do? His eyes search hers for an answer. Would she allow him to apologize? Would she forgive him? Would she run into his arms? Or would she give him that same icy stare that she gave the lord? Could there be even the slightest hope that someday he could hold her again?

But hope is all he’s ever seen in her eyes. This time is no different. He sucks in an audible breath as vhenan leans forward; he sees the familiarity sparking in her beautiful eye, in the part of her lips.

“Lady Inquisitor?” Solas lowers his gaze as her attention is pulled away from him again. He lets out the breath he didn’t realize he was holding.

“Ah, sorry.” She gives a short smile. “Your eyes are quite beautiful. They remind me of a friend.” The world is spinning, until he catches sight of how her eyes have fallen. “Thank you for the sandwich. Take care.”

He bows again, trying to somehow say “I love you eternally, vhenan” with the gesture, but he knows it won’t reach her. He knows it by the far off look taking over the shine in her eye.

His own heart shudders as he gives her one last glance from the shadows of the hall, pulling his mask down and revealing the heavy frown over his lips. The redness of her eye a warning of the tears brimming them, is a cool reminder to the chaos that she’d stirred up in his chest.

All those smoldering emotions that had been warring in his chest, cooled by his pride, are now extinguished with his regret. Regret that he’s ever made her wear such an expression. Regret that he cannot kiss it off of her.

“Let’s continue.” Solas says with a hardened jaw and furrowed brow, turning and walking away with his hands clasped behind his back. “Oh, and try to figure out that lords name.”

“You cant be serious!” Therin exclaims. Solas merely turns to him with a raised brow. “Right… On it.”

[britcision]

Okay it’s time for the primer for the Four Heralds AU cuz I’ve got so much to post and some of it only involves the heralds tangentially so other people might read it.

SO!

As the title suggests, there are four heralds of Andraste:

Tavi Adaar - a qunari mage woman, she/her pronouns, bisexual, mostly blind (late stage retinitis pigmentosa), 23

Corin Cadash - a nonbinary dwarf warrior and blacksmith, they/them pronouns, sex positive asexual, ADHD and arthritic as hell, 42

Lluciano Lavellan - an elf rogue, he/him pronouns, femboy, omnisexual twink, seizures both of the motor and absence variety, AuDHD cranked up to eleven, 25

Séamus Trevelyan - a human warrior, trans man, he/him pronouns, gay as hell, chronic insomnia and hard of hearing (binaural, moderately severe), 37

Only Séamus was actually supposed to be at the Conclave, but Lavellan is our game protagonist and victim of most major plot events

(A different group from Adaar’s mercenary troupe were supposed to be sent, but got waylaid on the road so Adaar’s group subbed in since they had the shortest travel time

Lavellan was actually specifically told to stay as far away from the Conclave as possible with his scouting, walked over a single hill, and said “hmm where was I not supposed to go again oh well can’t be important” and went to check out the Conclave

(He was hiding from the other actual Lavellan spy when he came across Justinia and Corypheus)

And Cadash is a menace to society, entirely stealth free, chronic pain bitch who is about as subtle as a sledgehammer, but an unforeseen flu ravaged the local branch of the Carta and since dwarves very rarely get sick, none of them knew what to do about it

Corin, being a blacksmith, at least had a semilogical reason to be carting a large load of lyrium, and no one who talked to them for five minutes would believe they were capable of being a spy, which was close enough at the last minute

Trevelyan is the oldest son of the Trevelyan family in the Free Marches, who hoped he would eventually become a templar right up until this whole “rebellion” thing made it a bit unsexy

He’s a knight instead, and actually prefers living and training with the knights to being at home so he did get himself one whole non-nepotism promotion

Most of his friends and all of his subordinates went to the Conclave with him to keep the peace and be a bit more impartial. Oops.)

This whole thing mainly started with me looking at Cole and going “you know what would be funny and extremely counterproductive? An Inquisitor with ADHD hanging out with Cole”

So now we have four beautiful, disabled, queer heralds because why stop at one?

(Tavi has also been fucking around with time magic, mostly around Slow spells, and it got weird with what Corypheus was doing and accidentally replicated the anchor they were all playing Keep Away with

Lluciano got hit in the face with at least one, he didn’t used to have the green face tattoos but so many Dalish do that no one has asked and he hasn’t noticed yet

None of them are at full power, but they’re not quite even quarters and can combine when focusing on the same rift to speed things up

Corypheus only needs one)

The full herald rundown will be linked here when it exists!

Fic (by me) and art (by @ekwolfwood) will be added in reblogs

Lluciano and Corin are staring in most of it so far, by dint of Luci being the main character and Corin being A Problem On Purpose slightly harder than the other heralds

[queen-scribbles]

1-4 from the Inky/romanced companion asks for whoever strikes your fancy :)

Gonna go with Levyn(/cough Jowan /cough) and Josie

1.What was your Inquisitor’s first impression of their partner? What was their partner’s first impression of them?

That she was a breath of fresh air, and the first person he'd met since stumbling out of the Fade who seemed to care about him, not just what he'd allegedly done or the Mark of his hand. Josie definitely picked up that he was nervous, even if she didn't fully piece together why. He seemed way more genuine? down to earth? than someone from a noble bloodline, even a mage.

2. How did the Inquisitor’s title as “Herald of Andraste” affect their relationship with their partner? Was there any conflict between them due to it?

It puts a level of... ceremony in there that they can either hide behind to force them into acting proper, or use as an excuse to spend time together (which both did, even before confessing their feelings :3). No conflict due to the title, no.

3. When did your Inquisitor develop feelings for their partner? When did they realize they had feelings for them?

Levyn's feelings for Josephine started to show up pretty early, bc she's Josephine, she's wonderful. He realized early, too, but tried to push them down at first bc he thinks she Deserves Better. But after that conversation in Skyhold where he let her vent for two hours about things like this 😍😍 the whole time, he had to admit at least to himself he was a goner.

4. How did your Inquisitor’s relationship begin with their partner? A casual fling? Tentative commitment?

It began slowly, shyly, and with him (anonymously)leaving little sketches for her to brighten her day. He's a pretty good artist, so he'd just do quick little doodles of flowers or a windmill or whatever he thought would make her smile and leave them semi-hidden for her to find. When they finally admit their feelings, he also tells her about leaving those. She's very touched and they spend a long time talking about what inspired different ones, or places he saw the things he's drawn etc.

DA:I Romance Asks

[crossdressingdeath]

I feel like one of the main problems with Inquisitions cast is that they feel like they’re friends with each other, not with you. like obviously part of that is game design/time management: they can only write/voice so many lines and account for so many player choices for each of the companions but like. Come on BioWare. I think Quiz should’ve been able to interact more in banter. As it is they’re mostly a silent participant, unless it’s about them (any of the romance banter basically).

It certainly helps to drive home the feeling of loneliness/separation a Quiz would be feeling but at what cost.

Additionally pre-Skyhold, before you can do any of the personal quests, feels super lonely, especially before you get most of the companions. You have what. Cassandra, Solas and Varric? (not to dis any of them but like. they aren’t 3 of the most open people to talk to and become friends with) Haven is a little town with a lot of people in it but it feels very empty, especially since so many of those people wanted to dead days/weeks prior… + the fact that Quiz may feel like they’re being forced into joining the Inquisition. just a recipe for bad mental health

I do really like Quiz having some opportunities to interject in banter, especially since DAO and DA2 really don't give you that chance? I've been keeping Varric and Dorian in my party in order to eventually trigger the banter where they start betting on Quiz's chances... with odds of three to one in Corypheus's favour. And you can either get upset at Dorian for betting against you or take the bet. (Also side note Varric refers to Quiz as "our beloved Inquisitor" and that pleases me immensely.) But yeah, a lot of the time it does feel a bit like soldiers chatting in the back ranks while their commander leads them to the next destination.

But I think the biggest problem with DAI's writing is the way the vast majority of your companions think of you as the Herald of Andraste and treat you more like a religious figurehead and boss than a friend. I know I bring this up a lot, but Varric ending his friendship cutscene by openly saying he finds it easy to forget that Quiz is a person like that's fine and normal even though his entire deal is "Hey, remember that Hawke's a person and my friend and not just some walking, talking statue that does Heroics" really is a whole thing.

And yeah, Haven would be incredibly isolating for Quiz. Varric at least asks how they're holding up with the whole prisoner to religious figure speedrun situation, but other than that you're basically just... expected to deal with it. Especially bad for any Quiz who isn't Andrastian and is getting a fun first taste of how they're going to be expected to play a good little Andrastian for at least the next three years whether they like it or not. But even when the characters actually ask if you're okay there's never really a nice strong no. Like... maybe when your LI asks how you're holding up at the end of WEaWH there should be a "I just had to risk my life for a bunch of Orlesians who've spent the whole evening talking shit about me to my face for being a mage/elf/dwarf/Vashoth as part of my duties in a role my advisors threatened me into to begin with and I'm genuinely starting to wonder if saving the world is worth all this" option, for example. But the absolute most you ever get is "I don't know if I did enough for these ungrateful bastards who treat me like shit". I guess at least you can swear about it in Trespasser...

[shivunin]

11. Slander written about your OC (Salshira Lavellan)

The brief note originally placed atop this letter reads: These are the rumors I spoke of, Inquisitor. How would you like me to respond? Beneath is a missive written on fine parchment in violet ink; the margins are heavily annotated in a less ornate hand:

Madame Ambassador, 

I must, in no unequivocal terms, caution you against your current association with not only the heretical Inquisition but the duplicitous viper so often called the Herald of Andraste. 

(Ooh, viper; I must tell Dorian at once that I got called viper first. He’ll be terribly jealous)

My lady Montilyet, the woman was presented to fine society these past months and has not only suborned the natural rule of the nobility, but incited the most respectable of society to behave as,

(Natural rule, is it? If it were natural, wouldn’t it need less upkeep?)

 forgive the strength of my language, moonstruck fools. Why, I have heard that she is personally the 

(Moonstruck fools! Andraste preserve us from such foul language.)

cause of at least three divorces amongst the nobility and no fewer than six of the youths I know have thrown aside far better prospects in favor of attempting to pledge their troth to the Herald. 

(If they have, Josie, I certainly had nothing to do with it. If I find one more handkerchief stuffed into my belt after dinner I swear I’ll scream, you have my most solemn promise on that)

I hesitate to throw such accusations about, but—there have been whispers about the way she uses her magic, my lady. Whispers that it her—shall we call it allure?—is not entirely due to her genial manner.

(Shall we call it allure? And goodness, she says a lot for someone who says she’s done talking. You should show this to Cullen, Josie—his ears will go bright red, just you watch)

 I shall not say more—but suffice it to say that I personally have access to several brave former templars should the need arise. 

(Josie, do not, under any circumstances, give this letter to Cullen. He will take that bit as a threat.)

How serious I have been in this message—let me assure you that your efforts in this venture have been seen and admired. Should you need a new task with which to busy yourself after the matter is concluded, I am certain my connections and yours together would prove most advantageous.

(To busy yourself? Josephine, you are the most competent person in the whole of the Inquisition. If it were up to the rest of us, every noble in Thedas would be dead. As funny as that would be, the economy would be a shambles and it would be a chore to get anything done. Busy yourself…as if this were a charming hobby. I should like to take offense on your behalf.)

 Give my regards to your aunt, and consider carefully all that I have shared. 

Most Sincerely, 

Comtesse Plaisance Cousineau

A note written emphatically at the bottom in a meticulously neat, blocky hand:

Josephine, get me those names. Let us see if we might recruit them for our cause instead; better that than have a second private army of templars in the hands of another adversary. 

And inform the Inquisitor that my ears did no such thing.

[melisusthewee]

OC Interview: Quinn Trevelyan

This took... a while. But it was such an interesting meme! Thank you so much @noire-pandora @morganlefaye79 @cleverblackcat and @darethshirl for tagging me! I almost sort of gave up on this and went back to my Warden as she would be much more open and candid about things, but when have I ever done the easier task?

For context, we will say that this interview was organized by Ambassador Montilyet once the Inquisition had comfortably established itself in Skyhold and its reputation had begun to grow, generating curiosity and interest among several circles across the south. Its subject found the whole idea questionable at best, but Josephine has her ways of wearing the Inquisitor down.

Introduction

Can you introduce yourself?

"Formally? Are you sure you want to write all of this down? Lord Inquisitor Quinn Julius [he grimaces] Barrington Trevelyan... His Most Holy... Herald of Andraste... etc etc. Look, just put down 'Quinn.' That's good enough."

What is your gender identity, orientation, and relationship status?

"I - what? I'm a man. And everything else is no one's business but my own. Unless this is a proposition. In which case - hang on, are you still writing?!"

Where and when were you born?

"Ostwick, 9:08 Dragon. If you want more details on the event, you'll have to go and write to my mother. Except please don't, as I don't want to read about it."

What is your weapon of choice and fighting style?

"I've used a bow since I was eight years old and I assure you I am even better than everyone says. You can go and check the competition board if you like. I'm surprised they haven't barred me from taking part yet... probably because I'm the one in charge. [he winks]

"There's an art to it. Everyone looks at a bow and thinks they can handle it just like everyone thinks they can pick up a sword and flail around until they hit something. But longbows aren't like you're plucking the strings on a harp. The average broadsword is what - two pounds? Compare that to the average draw weight of eighty-one pounds. You have to be strong, accurate, and careful. If the string's too taut, your aim will be off at best... at worst, it will snap and you'll lose an eye.

"As for style? Put down deadly. Yes, just like that. You didn't really think I'd give away all my secrets, did you?"

And finally, are you happy?

"Why wouldn't I be?"

Family and Friends

What is your family like? What is your relationship like with them?

[there is an extremely long silence]

"They're Trevelyans. There are a lot of them, they're wealthy, chances are that someone somewhere knows at least one of them. And they are all - well almost all of them - are all the way in Ostwick and I am here. And that's the best thing for all of us.

"...Yes, I did say almost. One of my brothers is - or was - a templar, and the Order's sort of not really around anymore so he stuck around with the Inquisition. Can you also interview him? Sure, if you want to. He's never had an interesting thing to say in his entire life though, so you're going to be disappointed. I'm the one with the looks and the personality."

Have you ever run away from home?

"There was one time when I considered becoming a bard - not the Orlesian sort - and just slipping away during one of the Grand Tourneys. I imagine no one would have noticed. But even I knew that was a very foolish idea as I didn't know how to play any instruments."

Would you want to get married or have children?

"No. Marriage is so... limiting. Why tie yourself down to one person? The idea is so dull."

Do you secretly hate any of your friends?

"What is the point of hating anyone secretly?"

What friend knows everything about you?

"No one. And anyone who claims otherwise is lying. Trust me."

Asked by fans

Can you read and write? Did you go to school?

"My father's the Bann of Ostwick. Do you really think they would have let me grow up without tutors? Life certainly would have been more fun that way, but no... I had lessons. I will admit that reading and writing is useful and important, but I'm not sure how important it was to learn to sing the Chant in its original Orlesian... unless you're trying to seduce someone who is very into that."

The scariest prediction you made that later came true?

"Hold on, did someone claim I was a fortune-teller? I'm Andraste's Herald, but she's the prophet, not me. I'm not making predictions about anything. I don't do that. Please don't start telling people that I do."

Do you have mental or physical problems?

"My back aches when it rains... old war wound and all. [he laughs] No, I've never been in a war... well, maybe depending on how you look at the current situation this might be my first. But I'm perfectly healthy. Make sure you put in that I was bright-eyed, alert, firm-chested..." [he continued but the transcript did not, despite his insistence to the contrary]

What's your main goal right now?

"Well, that's a complicated thing to answer. We're here to set things right. I'm here to keep the world from falling apart, and it isn't easy, and not everyone is amenable to stability. But I'm going to do it anyway."

Choices

Drink or eat?

"I don't think that's really an either/or choice."

Cats or dogs?

"If this is being published in Ferelden then I feel I should answer dogs. But I'm fond of cats too. Well, maybe fond isn't the right word. I am... amenable to both animals. There are a few cats around Skyhold that we keep as mousers, and only one of them is particularly mean. The rest are all right, and fond of chin scratches."

Optimist or pessimist?

"If you assume the worst then you can only ever be pleasantly surprised."

Sassy or sarcastic?

"Is there a difference? There is? Huh..."

Have You Ever:

Been caught sneaking out?

"Yes. So then I got better at it. And as long as I was back in my bed by sunrise, no one was the wiser. Oh, I'm certain this isn't new information to my parents. Trust me, nothing you write down about me is going to cause any greater scandal than all the times the city guard had to escort me back to my family's estate."

Broken a bone?

"I had my cheek broken in a tavern fight once. Cracked the skull right around my eye right about... here. [he taps his cheek just below his eye] It swelled up terribly and my father made me live with it for two entire days before he finally summoned a healer from the Circle to set it right. He thought it would teach me an important lesson, and in some way it did... just not the lesson he was hoping for." [he grins]

Did you get flowers?

"No, I can't say I ever have. [a pause] I'm going to be inundated with bouquets now, aren't I?"

Ghosting someone?

"Ah. Um. Well. Look, mornings are made of regret, so I don't intend to stick around for them."

You pretended to laugh at a joke you did not get?

"If I don't get the joke then it means it isn't a very good one and the person telling it shouldn't probably know that."

Oh lord, this took me forever... I hope this was amusing if not interesting though!

Tagging: @inquisitoracorn @rosella-writes @1000generations and anyone else who wants to do this and has yet to be tagged!

[the-eldritch-it-gay]

If you don’t mind, and whenever you’re able to, I’d love to hear your thoughts on the whole of inquisition especially the whole forcing your character to take on the role of being the herald of andraste. Provided this isn’t a weird or too much ask!

It’s not too much, I appreciate any excuse to be able to yell about the problems I have with the games.

I hate it! I mean, I already wasn’t expecting much when I was going into the game but god the vibes of playing DAI (especially as an elf, though any non-human inq has it rought). My first playthrough was an a Lavellan (my Inq Badr al-Din Lavellan) and I opted for elf because: I think elves are neat, I can relate to many of the experiences an elf in DA endures (racism, complete ignorance about culture/faith and constant disrespect of culture/faith, I related my hijab to Vallaslin [post about that, angry meta post ref’d in that post]), and while none of the games have been kind to elves, Dragon Age: Inquisition really took the cake on being the worst. Just, personally, the colonialism vibes are just off the chart for me and it’s super uncomfortable. And even aside from that, the pc being forced (I suppose you could go along with it, but I’ve never done that) to be a Herald of Andraste is just…. Yikes.

The TL;DR is: I hate it, it’s incredibly upsetting to me, as is the whole game, honestly.

But if you want a more in depth look at my thoughts, you’re in luck because I wrote quite a bit about this (this whole thing is 1.3k words or so). Also as a preface, I’m going to be looking at Inquisition from the point of an Elven Inquisitor, as it was my first playthrough and the most upsetting. Also apologies for any language issues or if things seem disjointed, I’m trying my best. [Also yes, this post is okay to reblog]

While every game needs a Hero pc, regardless of Origin (at least in Inquisition in Origins, DA2 you have absolutely no choice in your Hawke’s history or race but that won’t stop me from using mods to have an Elven Hawke), so I knew my character was going to be some sort of leader, but making the PC an Inquisitor? I’ve always had a negative association with words relating to inquisition, what, with you know, Catholicism and myself being a Muslim. But not only are you a leader of an Inquisition, which historically in the real world was a Catholic institution to combat “heresy” (the Spanish and Portuguese Inquisitions primarily targeting Jewish and Muslim people by forcing them to convert to Catholocism under threat of death!), but the PC is also labeled as a Herald of Andraste, regardless of their own faith. Even though the PC wasn’t actually saved by Andraste and given the anchor from her, they still have to spend the game where people across Thedas see them as such.

The game really gives of Bad Vibes from the moment the talk of an Inquisition starts, whether it be Cassandra’s disapproval if you try to say you’re not the Herald of Andraste. Right from the get go you get ignored and no matter what you say, you will still be the Herald. There’s also the matter (which blends into the being labeled Inquisitor) that if you ask Cassandra is she’s starting a holy war, her answer is less than reassuring. I believe her response is something along the lines of “There’s already a war, whether or not you want to be a part of it. As to if it’s holy, time will tell”. And like any fucked up interaction in the game, there’s no option to say “Hey, what the fuck??”.

While I often struggle with empathy, I have no issue feeling how horrifying and heartbreaking it would be if I were in Lavellan’s shoes. You leave your clan for an important mission, things go to shit, you wake up in prison and everyone wants you dead. But wait! Not everyone, some people have decided you are the Herald of the Prophetess of the religious organization responsible for the continued oppression, slaughter, and erasure of your people and their culture. You end up not being killed because of this, and then are given no other option to join an inquisition, of which you are eventually labeled inquisitor, whether you like it or not. I literally don’t like to think about it, it’s such a legitimately upsetting thing to think about. I suppose metaphorically, if I, a non-white Muslim, was labeled as some figure in Christianity and the Catholic Church picked (forced) me to lead an Inquisition, it wouldn’t be too far off from essentially what a Lavellan goes through, no?

I think what is especially upsetting, is as we see in the Jaws of Hakkon, the previous Inquisitor was also a Dalish elf, though his race and culture were completely erased from the Chantry’s history (the Jaws of Hakkon is a whole other think I hate for many reasons, namely stuff with assimilation, also having the Inquisitor of old be a Dalish elf is certainly… a choice. I’ll admit I know little of the timeline in DA and the history of things, but just by the pure nature of what an inquisition is I can’t imagine it was a good thing in any way. An inquisition lead by a minority is still an inquisition. I dunno my feelings are complicated). So Lavellan can probably feel that their race and culture will be erased, their name might live on but it might be used to justify violence. I always when playing get this sickening feeling that I (my character) has been forced to joined the side of their oppressor, and it brings my heart and soul much pain.

I said at the beginning, none of the games have been great with elves (or let’s be real, any non-human race or culture). When I first played Dragon Age: Origins, I remember I humouresly said in the live-reaction messages to my friend “I already experience racism, I don’t need a video game to supplement that” and “Do white people know they can write a story with conflict that doesn’t involve racism?”. I played through it and grimaced my way through microaggressions my character had to endure, the sexism, the slavery. I white knuckled it through the sexual assault and r*pe in the city elf origin and Cullen’s upsetting feelings towards f!Surana. In DA2 I winced at how much slavery was involved (my father told me one, “You shouldn’t gamify racial atrocities” and honestly he not wrong), at the way mages were abused and still framed as just as bad as their abusers, and people that were pro-mage framed as crazy. I struggled through the Chantry Explosion and MotA. But at the end of the day, I could still think the games were fun, at least Origins (DA2 gets dicey and the game mechanics aren’t as fun, but I like the characters and some of the game).

Dragon Age: Inquisition, however, takes the “uncomfortable to play” knob and turns it up to 100. Sure the graphics are shiny and it can be fun to trapeze around the Hinterlands and the Storm Coast gathering elfroot and riding a Hart or a War Nug, and WEWH is kinda fun when you know how it works (otherwise it's a nightmare). But the name says it all, Inquisition. I didn’t have high hopes for a game named after such a horrendous event in history (though also I know a lot of people don’t know too much about Inquisitions in history).

I really could analyze a lot of Dragon Age: Inquisition and the choices the Inquisitor makes, but when looking at tought or dubious choices in the game, I can’t ignore the fact that the entirety of the game and it’s choices were written by (white) people who choice to make this story. (This also comes up when I was talking about how uncomfortable some companion dialogue made me, people pointed out the character making the dialogue didn’t know better, but the writer of that dialogue did, ya sabes? but back to the issue at hand.) They chose to have all the racism, they chose to have it be an Inquisition, they chose to have Elven gods to be revealed as just sadistic magister slavers, to have elves slaughter and holy ground desecrated (some thoughts about that trope here). Every microaggression or macro aggression was written because someone wanted to include it, every reference and parallel to Inquisitions was because they wanted to include it. The lack of basic respect and sensitivity for the cultures and peoples that have faced atrocities as racism, colonialism, genocide, slavery, and Inquisitions and the ripples that affect people in even the smallest of ways is truly upsetting and speaks volumes.

[strangesmallbard]

would you consider writing nalwren/cass?

cw: descriptions of violence, implied medical racism

"So this is home, then, yeah? Ham-shiral?"

"Halamshiral," Nalwren corrects, even though she knows Sera is mostly trying to forget the scorched pile of bones they abandoned on the ramparts, all the magic necessary to finish the job. "And no, that's farther up north."

"Right, well." She kicks a rock, sends it flying into a fallen tree trunk, equally scorched. "All that talk about the Dales this, and the Dales that, and it's not even worth two pissing pots."

"Maybe one pissing pot," Nalwren says evenly. There's a lump burrowing its way up her throat, knotted and cool like the shackles she wore in Haven. She's cold everywhere, no matter that she hasn't needed to use a freezing spell all day.

"Ha!" 

Sera kicks another rock. It fells a nearby stump—not that there was much of anything left to fell in the Path of Flame.

"Please do not agitate the environment today,” Cassandra says. “We must remain neutral in this war."

"Oh, psh. Do Dalish trees care about big people politics?" Something shadowed crosses her face. "Not really Dalish. Whatever."

The Dales. This is the Dales, a home she still needs a map to traverse, but precious nonetheless. Perhaps if she thinks it hard enough, she'll be able to forget the smoke-haze lingering in her nose and mouth. Forget the way her fingertips splintered along her staff every time they come across yet another plaque commemorating the regimented slaughter of her people. Forget Sera's spite. The dip of Cassandra's brow, how easily her hand can hold the whole curve of Nalwren's shoulder. How Nalwren wanted to turn her face away from the pit and press her forehead against Cassandra's breastplate. 

Dirthara-ma, Nala. Desha's barking laugh—forget that too. You and your shemlen! We better get out the longest bedroll for the girl you try to bring home.

Some of the bodies were Elvhen.

She can't get their eye sockets in particular, wider than their counterparts, out of her mind. She personally invested gold in books for Skyhold about Elvhen anatomy, human books by human hands that mention their “attributes” as if they were each golden halla, to be felled like Sera's trees. But she had to know — more importantly, Skyhold's healers had to know. More elves survive in the dwelling of the Inquisition now than anywhere else in Thedas, at least according to Josephine's latest reports.

"Inquisitor," Cassandra says from behind, yanking her attentions back. By the Dread Wolf, she loves the way Cassandra lilts all the syllables of her real name. She wants to hear it now from her lips, ask for it as a boon. She never wants to see another human again. “The sun will be setting soon. If we want to make it back to camp beforehand, we must move with more haste."

Nalwren turns around to face her party of two. Dirt and sweat mingle across Cassandra's cheekbones, her jaw, more sweat presses strands of hair to her forehead. The sun is indeed setting—and it's doing very good things for the flecks of green-gold in her irises. She won't say a word, but Nalwren knows by the taught line of her shoulders that she is fighting exhaustion. Sera is still kicking rocks. She looks angrier every time she does it.

She does not know what she's going to say before the words stumble their way out of her mouth like toddling children. "The clan encampment is closer."

"No way!" Sera calls. She saunters over, face and hair covered in dust from the ramparts. "They looked at me funny, real funny. Like I have two big heads instead of just two big ears—and they're ones to friggin' talk."

They could be yours too. "We're too few now to secure the area. The Veil is still very thin here and I would prefer it if Dorian's pierced shoulder were the last injury today."

"Okay, Solas.”

"It would be marginally safer," Cassandra concedes. She always concedes, before she disagrees. That crease in her brow returns. "But the situation with the Dalish might be too...delicate as of now. We cannot assume they will help us."

The shackles turn to icy sludge. Turn hot as the day. "I am Dalish, Cassandra. We can assume.”

Silence paints the air between them with heavy strokes. Cassandra waits, that magnificent brow taut and aimed for the skies. Most likely to see if she will finish saying her piece. Nalwren plays back her words and finds them redundant. Unhelpful. Thedas may praise her diplomacy in so much loaded phrasing—oh, the Inquisitor is so curiously genteel!—but a knife is still a knife. Andraste's Herald, Defeater of Corypheus, the Hand Against Worse Hands, will never pray at her feet.

It's such a tired conversation. She is tired. Suddenly she wants to return to Camp, if only to curl up alone with Swords and Shields. Which Cassandra leant her. "I only mean to point out—"

"—That we have you to play the peace-keeper, right?" Sera grouses. Her face is screwed up like she smelled something bad, but that's not it at all. It's the Shadowed Thing again. She points at Nalwren with the arrow. “Make nice so they won't drive us out when the Seeker says one too many Maker's Breath and the knife-ear disrespects real elves."

"Sera, please," she snaps. She steadies her tongue. Feels shame burst regardless. "You know that is not what I meant."

"It's what you were thinking, though. That's what—"

"I think," Cassandra interrupts, unwisely. "That perhaps we should turn our attention to that Shade cresting over the hill right now."

She's right. The Mark tingles a moment later, glows that bright, blinding green. Nalwren reaches for her staff at the same moment Cassandra unsheathes her sword, still bleeding from the last battle, and steels herself into an image fit for a love poem forged in war. After a heated stare in her direction, Sera nocks her arrow in one fluid moment. She really is such a skilled hunter. Nalwren must tell her again, if they ever talk again.

But now, of course: they are fighting. Blazing forward, burning away those beings of Rage and Deceit and yes, a Terror. That is what the Inquisition has come here to do in the Dales, after all. Burn all the bad away, no matter what direction it comes from. Raise the Mark up high and suture the world.

Ha. If only.

[tartcherryscones]

"If you ever truly existed!"

TLDR; @Bioware's Dragon Age writers: If you even truly exist, maybe give Omnism a look, because the way most religions are treated in Dragon Age is kind of depressing.

My fellow fans, you ever think about Corypheus' death scene and psychically shoot a frosty glare at the Bioware team that does Dragon Age? I do. "What was that sudden chill?" one writer asks, shivering. "It's April in Edmonton: the high today is 40," another says. "No, it was that lesbian in Texas! She's at it again!" a third replies, banging a fist on their desk. And then they send me a polite email asking me to stop, because they're Canadian, but I don't because they deserve it.

Seriously, that line where he's like, "Oh noes! I'm having a crisis of faith! Was Dumat ever real? Like, really real???" just makes me cringe. Look, this isn't a hidden god kind of situation. Dumat is real, okay? Like 100% real. I mean, he's dead, but he's still real. You can have faith in Dumat like you can have faith in butter.

No one ever questions the reality of butter; it's so real it has manifested on your plate. The Congregation for the Causes of Saints isn't going to bother checking if butter really happened, because they know it did. Butter leaves no room for doubt. You can have absolute faith in it. You can spread it on toast, you can sauté vegetables with it, you can put a little on a tiny plate to spoil your cat. Now, you don't have to like butter. Arguments about butter are common as milk. You might think that butter is bad for your cholesterol, or that cows deserve better than to be kept in miserable conditions to make butter, or that Bill Gates has put microchips in your butter, but your faith in the reality of butter is more solid even than butter. Maybe as solid as frozen butter even. No one is questioning butter... Until apparently Corypheus does for some unknowable reason. Get this man some coffee and toast, for pity's sake! He must have had a really rough night.

See, the Old Gods were worshiped not because people believed in something their priests said, but because of something the Old Gods said. Namely, "Sup, peasants! We're gods!" Truth of the matter asserted aside, there were definitely dream dragons chatting to people in the Fade! Furthermore, they were out there rewarding followers, punishing backsliders, and doing loop-de-loops in the Fade-sky. They might even have massacred Barindur! And Corypheus knows that because he has talked to Dumat before!

Before he decided to go full-time b-movie horror villain, his day job was as the freaking High Priest of Dumat. He presumably had the privilege of talking to Dumat more than anyone else did. He was the primary conduit of influence for the worshipers of Dumat to their god.

"No, not like this! I have walked the halls of the Golden City! I have crossed the ages!"

Now, Corypheus might have been upset at not being able to find his gods in the Golden City when he rolled up like an unholy Ms. Frizzle in his elf-blood-powered Magic School Bus, but he has surely since figured out where they really were. Somebody must have told him about the fucking Blights, okay? He knows that the Old Gods were actually underground by the final confrontation with the Inquisitor.

So what is up with this line?

"Dumat, ancient ones, I beseech you! If you exist, if you ever truly existed, aid me now!"

Why are you talking like this, Cory baby? Are you okay? Sweetie, he's gone. Dumat is dead, sweetie. He died a long time ago. Literally everyone else in the whole world knows that. Dumat was the first Old God tainted and killed. The Grey Wardens killed him. You know, those guys you mind-controlled? Yeah, those guys. They could tell you all about it. Their order was actually created to kill Dumat. Dumat's tainting actually touched off the First Blight, which was a somewhat important historical event. Maybe look it up in any history book, or in the Chant of Light, or, better yet, just ask anybody; it's kind of a big deal.

To me, Corypheus' line just smacks of the writers trying to pit one religion against another for the benefit of the Christiany one. I don't like it. Firstly because this is badly done, narratively speaking. Corypheus doesn't even worship the Old Gods anymore and having Corypheus react as if his faith in them is being tested here strikes me as OOC.

Let's not forget that Corypheus had started a new religion with himself as a living god. This is not that uncommon in the real world and people who do this (i.e. cult leaders) don't tend to renounce that stance. By appealing to Dumat, Corypheus is admitting his own weakness and admitting the superiority of Dumat over himself. Corypheus' whole schtick was that he was better than everybody else!

And of course it's anti-non-monotheist because that is Bioware's pattern. Elvhen gods? Aristocrats who hunt people for sport. Modern elven gods? Misremembered historical figures. Avvar gods? Swole spirits. Ancient Tevinter gods? Singing dragons who lied about what part of town they live in. The dwarves' Titans/Stone? Singing crystals that give you a really bad trip, bind you to the hivemind, and make you wander away into the darkness, never to be seen again.

But the Maker? He is a hidden god, so nobody knows, except you should infer that He does exist because He can bring Leliana back from the dead, make and fulfil prophecies concerning what no-good demon-worshipers will say in their final moments (see:Corypheus and Andraste 7:19 "They shall cry out to their false gods and find silence."), and give the Herald just enough luck to survive anything. To do otherwise would seem to be taking a particularly un-meta stance.

Look, Bioware, I get it, you're Christians not polytheists. But seriously, you don't have to shit on everyone else's religions to prove that your favorite one is worthy. You set up all these lovey mythologies! Let some of them be true! Also, it makes things feel kind of bleak and disappointing when you focus so much on proving all the polytheists (and only the polytheists) wrong. For me, it strips some of the wonder away.

Religion is the most magical part of our world. It literally involves willing something (inner strength/gods/spirits of nature/souls of the dead/etc.) to change something about the world. That's magic! It might involve a third party (generally), but it's still magic! It might involve sacrifices of candles, burning incense sticks, donating money, giving up meat, saying special words, reading a special book, drawing sacred circles, or burning entrails in a sort of trade for service, but it's still magic, just like in Thedas! A prayer is not different from a spell. In Thedas, prayers to purify one's soul and prayers to set one's enemies on fire both work. At least, the latter demonstrably does.

Ultimately, you take a little bit more of the magic out of Thedas every time you prove another religion wrong there. You are reducing the fantastical in your fantasy. Please stop it.

[crackinglamb]

gimme 10-13 of the kiss prompts. give

All right, Bugs, you asked for it. 😘

Stolen Kisses

~1900 words, rated M for non-explicit smut

Read it here on AO3.

---

Solas was not a publicly demonstrative lover. He rarely did more than hold her hand as they traipsed across Thedas from one mission to another, be it a rift or a piece of lost lore of his people, or some clue to further their fight against Corypheus. Sometimes, after a battle, after the blood, dirt and exhaustion, he would hold her face in his hands, looking her over with both eyes and magic for more hidden injury. On the rarest of rare occasions, he would press a kiss to her forehead where anyone might see him do it. And when she said rare, what she meant was once. He had done it once. That brush with death had laid bare for both of them just how fleeting and fragile her mortal life was. Those moments of clarity were not to be squandered, even if it meant crossing his disciplined principles.

Imogen understood this about him. She didn't hold it against him. He was a trickster, a rebel. He had outwitted millennia of enemies. He had learned the hard way why one needed to keep their loved ones secret. It was a habit as ingrained into him as his effortless ability to misdirect, to lie by omission, to manipulate events and perceptions. She didn't hold those things against him either. They'd kept him alive, and she needed him that way every bit as much as he needed her since she'd absorbed the Anchor into her hand.

They were an odd pair, to say the least. Elf and human. Mage and archer. Quite literally two worlds collided. Few outside Imogen's trusted inner circle even knew of their intimacy. Fewer still knew how deep it went. Their time together felt stolen, concealed from prying eyes and wagging tongues with utmost care. On the road it was easier, with night watch shifts and too few tents to go around so they had to double up regardless.

In Skyhold it was a choreographed dance. Slipping in unseen after darkness blanketed the fortress, gone again by morning. Therein lay the difficulty in keeping things secret. Imogen had never really been one to lounge around in bed for hours. She was an energetic person who liked to get up and get her day started. But Solas liked his sleep. She compared him waking and leaving the Fade to one who was leaving behind a homeland, no matter that he would see it again when the sun set on the day. She often teased him about it, to which he countered that he gave her little reason to complain about sleeping in with him.

Well, he wasn't wrong on that score. She'd admit it.

Because when they were alone...oh, when they were alone...

---

Imogen woke to the touch of lips against her collarbone, a brush so light it was barely there. She lay there with her eyes closed and tipped her head further back on her pillow. He wasn't truly awake yet, she could tell from the laxity in his arms around her, the smoothness of his brow under her chin, the slow rhythm of his breath in the hollow of her throat. Still, he took advantage of their position, and her tacit invitation. He pressed closer, feathering butterfly light kisses up the column of her neck, across the slope of her jaw and over her cheek. She started to smile when he reached her nose, trailing soft and slow and tender down the length of it until he tilted his head, and she automatically did too.

They weren't lined up perfectly, the corner of his mouth was under hers, his landed in the space between her nose and lips. She felt him smile, even as she let her own grow wide, giddy with the silliness of missing a kiss because they were fuzzy with sleep and not looking. She puckered her lips against his anyway, crooked as they were, making the smallest smacking noise when she pulled away. His hands slid up her back to cradle her as he dragged his lower lip against her mouth until he was just right. Then he plundered.

He was always like this, it seemed. The first touch was tentative, almost wary. The second was raw. As if he'd given himself permission to take what she offered. It never failed to fill her with sparks of joy deep in her body. The Dread Wolf take you. It gave a whole new meaning to the curse, one that she'd teased him with on many occasions. And to her delight, he never failed to deliver on it.

She hitched her leg over his hip, hooking her calf behind his backside. One of his hands stayed between her shoulder blades, while the other smoothed down ribs and waist and the curve of her leg wrapped around him. He rolled onto his back, bringing her with him. She was now straddling him and their eyes were open, his storm gray ones meeting her hazel shot blue. She was balanced on her elbows over his face, pressed against him from breast to thigh.

“Good morning,” she murmured, leaning in to nip at his mouth again.

“On dhea, arasha.”

She rocked on him, her spine loose and fluid with arousal. The frequency of waking up this way made her ready with barely more than a single touch, and the glint in his eye told her that he knew it. He pressed up and she tilted down and they both gasped as he filled her. The steady rocking of their bodies became a rise and fall, languid and easy. It was her turn to leave sipping kisses along his cheekbone, following the sharp line of it to where it met his ear. With a grin, she caught his earlobe between her teeth. He lifted into her with a jerk and a hiss and she let go as she gasped at how full of him she was.

Then she giggled at him. “What is that saying? Take the Dread Wolf by the ear...?”

Solas growled in his throat and his hands clamped onto her butt, fingers digging into her with bruising strength. “Careful, arasha. You'll get more than you bargained for.”

“Oh, will I?” she taunted, dropping close once more to run the tip of her tongue along the edge of his ear to the point. Just before she bit him, she whispered, “I can't wait.”

The bed in her chamber was large, large enough that when he rolled them over, they didn't fall off the edge. Not that she was able to pay much attention to that, since he hooked his arms under her knees and thrust into her so deep she saw stars. He chuckled at her loud cry, dipping his head to capture her lips again as she thrashed in his grip. No more slow seduction, he was intent on making her shatter now.

And he did.

There was an undeniable urgency in how they slid against each other, muscles taut and straining as they each urged the other on to completion. He let go of her legs to thread his fingers into her hair, the coiling curls wrapping around his wrists as he held her in place. Her legs were crossed over his back, giving her leverage to lift into his hard thrusts. It built, so fast and so high that she had no choice but to fall over the edge of her climax with a shout, muffled by his mouth sealed over hers, his tongue pressed between her teeth. He followed her, groaning against her as she cradled him, their bodies shivering with aftershocks.

“You and morning sex,” she laughed when they finally pulled apart.

“I could always stop.” He lifted his head from her chest where he had fallen and smirked at her. He placed another kiss on her lips and began to sit up.

Imogen clutched at his arms before he got out of reach. They tumbled back together in the mess of sheets and pillows. “Don't you fucking dare.”

They laughed together as they tussled, sneaking in fresh kisses and touches until they both heard the morning bells of the Chantry chapel. She pushed her riot of hair out of her face and grinned at him, swooping in to plant one final lingering kiss on him. He helped her sit up and untangle herself from the covers. Then he leaned back against the headboard and watched her wash and dress, turning from Imogen to Inquisitor.

“And what duty calls today?” he asked, beginning his own slide away from lover to associate.

“The usual,” she replied, tugging on boots and belts and gloves to hide the Anchor from those who wanted nothing more than an intrusive gawk at the Herald of Andraste. “Meetings and paperwork. You?”

He was silent as he sat in the rumpled bed. Imogen glanced over her shoulder and raised an eyebrow at him. He finally met her gaze with an almost sheepish expression. “I should check on my...”

“Agents?” she grinned. He nodded. “Solas, my love, don't act like I don't know you have them. C'mon now. I'm not that much of an idiot.”

He snorted in answer. She brushed back her hair and tied it into a haphazard ponytail, then skirted around the side of the bed to cup his face. She leaned in and kissed him one last time in farewell, brisk and chaste.

“I'll see you later?”

“Of course, arasha.”

Then she bounced down the stairs of the chamber to the Great Hall. How her lover would escape the confines of her room was his own business.

The day passed, her meetings and small tasks taking her from wing to wing of the fortress. It was hours before she skipped through the rotunda to see that he hadn't returned from wherever he met his unknown forces. She didn't ask, didn't pry into his network. They were ultimately after the same goal, the pair of them. But she needed plausible deniability as long as she was the Inquisitor, and so Fen'Harel was a separate man from Solas in the day to day, as far as she was concerned.

It was nearly suppertime before they circled back into each other's orbit. In the darkened recesses behind the kitchen, where Imogen was putting away the newest bottles of her collection, Solas snagged her from the shadows and kissed her breathless against the rough cobblestone walls. Her arms wrapped around his neck, breathing in the scent of fresh air and sunshine. Wherever he'd been, it was not within Skyhold.

“Did you miss me or something?” she asked when he finally let her go.

“Of course not,” he said, a sly little grin crooking one side of his mouth. She scowled at him and mockingly smacked her palm against his chest.

“Liar.”

He kissed her again, slower and hotter. There was a tempest brewing under his skin, she could feel it, nearly taste it. He pulled away to rest his forehead on hers, neither of them letting the other go.

“Was your day successful, arasha?” he asked in a low grumble.

“It was.”

“Is it over?”

She grinned. “Yup.”

His eyes met hers, molten silver in the dim light that spilled between the storeroom and the kitchen. “Shall I have you again?”

“Oh yes,” she breathed, holding him tighter.

[dirthavarens]

lmao found this in my drafts about mirani and you know what? yeah can someone get my girl a fuckin juice box? 

I realized a LOT about Trespasser Era Mirani. This woman is a mess. The Inquisition took everything from her. 

She started out as a Dalish Elven researcher. That’s how she presented herself before the Conclave. She was a researcher first, mage second. The fact that she even was a mage was just purely happenstance. It assisted in her journeys into the Fade, in her research and understanding of the ancient elves and even early Tevinter. She dedicated blood, sweat, and tears into discovery. 

And then the Conclave happened and her whole world flipped. She saw it as a way to put distance between the Clan and herself as they never really got on well. She was never First and she was never going to be First. Her clan tolerated her abilities because of what another said. Her vallaslin was given to her more as a reminder of where she was ranked, not how she dictated her life. She was already an outcast, but she had family and friends among them. She loved her Clan even if they hated her. Everything she did, everything she found, she just wanted to show and teach.

Then she became the Herald of Andraste and that left such a disgustingly bitter taste in her mouth. She was not Andrastian, had no desire for the connection to be made. Over and over and over she was talked over and disregarded as who she wanted to be. Solas helped. He would speak to her late into the night at Haven and in the Hinterlands. He filled her head with all of the stories she wished she could see. For the first time she let her heart open willingly. Despite feeling for others and as others, her empathetic heart gave little time for her to know her own true feelings. 

Solas helped. Cole helped. Dorian helped. Even Cassandra helped. 

She became Inquisitor because there was no one else who would rise to the task. Mirani did what was necessary, always what was necessary. In it, she lost her identity. Bull helped with drinks, Sera with shenanigans, Varric with exaggerated tales. Yet, she always found herself in the rotunda, humming sweetly with a book in her hands as Solas would paint. 

And then Clan Lavellan fell. Because of her. Because of her decisions. Because of what she did. There would be no life for her to return to after the Inquisition.

Her faith, which had already been shaky, had been torn from her as well. With every bit of discovery, she began to hold animosity towards those she once saw as the most powerful mages to ever roam Thedas. 

Then came the Temple of Mythal. Clan dead, faith ruined, and then ancient Elvhenan stood before her. They looked upon her as though she was nothing and she had never felt smaller. Or at least she thought she couldn’t feel smaller. She learned that wasn’t the case as she was left alone bare-faced in a wyvern den. Crestwood was always cold at night, but she didn’t know how cold it could truly be. 

And then he left entirely. She had Cole, Dorian, Cassandra, but none could keep her mind occupied the way he could. Leliana had asked if resources should be allocated to finding him. She said no. 

She was surrounded by friends and colleagues, but she was entirely alone. The only home she had was Skyhold. Its stone walls became her armor, its libraries and studies became her mind. 

Two years of politics, two years of cleaning up the mess left behind. She did all she could. Served endlessly, ran herself ragged, lost herself to “Inquisitor Lavellan.” 

Mirani Lavellan died at the Conclave. She died again in the Arbor Wilds. And once more at the summoning of the Exalted Council. 

Inquisitor, Inquisitor. Herald, Herald. Inquisitor. My lady. Of course, your grace. 

The titles haunted her, echoing in her sleep, eating at her until she couldn’t stand to look at her barefaced reflection in the mirror. The magic at her hand felt like a curse. Every single goddamn thing felt like a curse. 

Maybe Athara had been right. Maybe the Dread Wolf did catch her scent. Maybe he had wrapped his jaws around her neck and clamped down. After all, if Mythal was real...

She brought this misfortune on herself, she had to have. 

And then Fen’Harel became a reality. Cole, who was once so reluctant to speak of Solas, allowed his name to flow freely from his lips. Ever present, ever pushing...the hot breath of the Dread Wolf clouded her thoughts until clarity rang. 

The paintings. The first seemed impossible. The second coincidental. The third...she knew. She filed all of the pieces together and in that moment she knew what and who. Mirani just wanted to know why.

Then the pain from the mark was unbearable. She couldn’t think anymore, couldn’t plan. She wanted it to stop. She wanted everything to stop, to find a moment where she could simply be Mirani Lavellan again. And it was then that she made her decision. 

She would stop the Qunari and she would destroy both herself and the mark in the process. 

Like, can someone get my poor girl a fucking juicebox? 

[queen-scribbles]

Full of Surprises

Here we go, first Inquisition Commander!Fenris AU fic. :D I’d like to thank @lethendralis-paints for introducing me to the idea, and promise there will be Fenris POV in later pieces; this one just wound up sticking with the Inquisitor’s for basic set-up. ;)

---

Kerith Adaar was a hard woman to rattle.

 The nature of her business called for a certain level of implacability; being able to roll with new information or circumstances as if you’d planned for them from the start. These were the most bizarre “new circumstances” she’d ever found herself in--sickly green hole ripped in the sky vomiting demon, sealed by the same green now shimmering under her skin--and she’d managed to keep her head through it all. Adapt. Like she always did.

Which made it almost hilarious that the thing to throw her off when demons, murder accusations, and the wreckage left of the Temple of Sacred Ashes couldn’t do it, was an elf. 

In her defense, this was not just any elf. If his appearance--snowy hair and dull white tattoos that trailed down his throat to vanish under his armor--wasn’t enough to justify her surprise, there was also the fact he was an elf. In a position of obvious authority. In an organization begun under the auspices of the Chantry. The Vala-kos had done enough jobs for Chantry-affiliated persons, Kerith was well acquainted with how many of them viewed... others. 

She managed to curb her curiosity through the ensuing conversation among her new advisors--spymaster and ambassador, both human, and the elven commander. Best to remain focused on the more important issues; how things stood after the Chantry denounced them, spirited debate over what they should do next and who they should ally with to close the Breach for good. Given their shaky standing in the eyes of all available options, it was decided all they could really do was meet with the one person currently willing to speak to them; a Chantry Mother working out in the Hinterlands. There were already scouts in the area attempting to make contact, Kerith could depart as soon as she received word of where, precisely, to go.

With that decision made, they all went their own ways, to attend their own business. Kerith shivered slightly as she stepped out of the chantry’s warmth, weaving sideways to avoid collision with a huffy nobleman in the doorway. He grunted something rude under his breath but she ignored him in favor of pulling her coat a little closer. Her time spent in Ferelden had not accustomed her to cold as much as she would have liked.

Kerith made her way through the village, secured supplies for the pending trip to the Hinterlands, and conversed with some of her new allies as she wandered before finding herself down at the training ground, not entirely by accident. She leaned against a post meant to hold a training dummy and watched her--well, their, this wasn’t just about her--apparent military commander lead what remained of the Inquisition’s forces through rapid-fire drills. He’d armed himself with a greatsword after leaving their council meeting, and wielded it with grace that spoke of hard-earned skill. Just one more angle to the enigma he presented.

“You have good form, Commander,” Kerith commented when there was a pause.

He flicked a glance in her direction, barked for the recruits to take a break, and then joined her. “Fenris,” he reminded her. “As I said before, the title is unnecessary. Did you need something, Herald?”

Kerith shook her head as she pushed away from the post. “Just getting to know people. And it’s Kerith; this ‘Herald’ business is unnecessary as well. I’m not that special.”

“Are you certain?” Fenris asked with a dry chuckle. He nodded toward the soldiers he’d been training. They were all staring at them--her--and a few whispering to their fellows. “They seem to think you are.”

“Wonder if that’s due more to what I am” --she tapped one of her broken-off horns--”or who I am, the Herald of Andraste, who glows and can close the little demon-spewing holes in the sky.”

“Hopefully the larger one as well, if all goes to plan,” he said, inclining his chin toward the greenish shadow that marred the clouds about them.

“Hopefully,” Kerith nodded. The Mark pulsed faintly, in time with the Breach, and she curled her hand into a fist. “And hopefully soon.”

“Indeed, I believe that would please everyone.” Fenris loosely crossed his arms and arched a brow. “But you said you wanted to talk.” One side of his mouth curved briefly higher. “I suspect you have a specific topic in mind?”

“You would be correct. A couple actually, if you’ve the time.” She ran a hand over her hair, capturing one of the narrow dark grey braids to absently weave between her fingers as she continued. “How did you wind up here?”

“I walked,” he deadpanned. “Or rode, when it better suited.”

Kerith rolled her eyes but laughed. “Enlightening. Though I meant more how did an elf get named military commander for a Chantry organization?”

He shook his head. “It isn’t.”

“I know it’s--we’ve--been denounced as heretical now, but that is how it started, isn’t it?”

Fenris gave another small shake of his head. “It was begun by Cassandra and Nightingale.”

Kerith snorted, picked at the end of her braid. “I’m pretty sure, as the Right and Left Hands of the Divine, Cassandra and Leliana are considered part of the Chantry. Or at least were; that may have changed with the whole ‘founding a heretical movement’ thing.”

“But they did not begin the Inquisition to be an arm of the Chantry; it was in answer to a threat. While they would have welcomed the Chantry’s support, this”--he paused to gesture at Haven and their set-up--”was their intention regardless.”

“With or without approval,” she murmured as she tipped her head in easy concession. “Still, folk like us are hardly the typical first choice of Chantry types, you must admit, no matter how well-suited. Especially for positions of authority.” She flexed her Marked hand and muttered, “Not that they got much choice with me...”

Fenris chuckled. “Kerith, you’ve spoken to Cassandra, have you not?”

She nodded. “Only a little beyond the council, but yes.”

He fixed her with a dryly amused stare. “Does she seem the sort to care in the slightest if her actions are typical in pursuit of her goals?”

Kerith laughed. “Can’t say she does. And I see you’re just as skilled with words as you are that sword.” Tattooed, eloquent, combat-trained... She shook her head with a rueful smile and muttered under her breath in qunlat, “Where did she find you?”

“Antiva,” Fenris answered in common with a faint smirk at the surprise Kerith didn’t try to hide. “Hard on the heels of a particularly nasty band of slavers. She made an excellent case, and I could leave my pursuit in... very capable hands. Ones I trusted to get the job done. So I left with her, and we returned only a few days before the Conclave was due to start.”

“Mm.” Kerith pursed her lips. It was a straight forward story, if notably light on details. But she could pry for those later. “You speak qunlat?”

“Yes.” He cocked his head, studying her. “I must admit to being equally surprised you do. From what Nightingale had found, you were raised Vashoth?” He waited for her nod of confirmation. “I would not have expected that to be something passed along to you, under those circumstances. Most who leave the Qun wish to abandon it entirely.”

She smiled thinly. “Some parts of your heritage you just can’t avoid.” Others you don’t want to. “But it came in handy once I was looking for work of my own. Vala-kos were the only ones who’d have me, and some of them don’t speak much common. But we all know qunlat.” She scuffed a foot through the snow, then arched a brow at Fenris. “Where’d you learn it?”

He averted his gaze out over the lake. “I... spent some time in Seheron. It’s always useful to know the local tongues of anywhere you find yourself staying long.”

“It is,” Kerith agreed. “Seheron also where you learned to fight like that?”

“One place of many,” Fenris replied with a small shrug, his crossed arms tightening fractionally.

She was well-versed enough in body language to pick up this was not a favored topic, at least not for public discussion. “I learned from many places as well,” she said, her hand drifting toward the hilt of one dagger. She let a beat of silence pass before changing the subject. “You really think the templars are the better option for dealing with that?” She jerked her chin toward the Breach.

“I do,” Fenris said with a nod, the tension that had stiffened his spine starting to bleed away.

“Cassandra and Leliana made a good case for seeing if the mages can’t give the Mark more power,” Kerith said, part idle comment, part seeing his response.

He shook his head. “Better to attempt suppressing the Breach itself than tempt mages with more power.”

There was a vehemence behind the words that made her raise a brow, but she decided against pulling that thread just yet in favor of staying on track. “You believe they can? To the extent we’d need?”

“In sufficient number, yes,” Fenris replied, rolling his shoulders.

“That’s the trick, isn’t it?” Kerith chuckled ruefully. “It’s hard to find sufficient number of anything right now.”

He answered her chuckle with one of his own. “That’s what we have you for, isn’t it, Herald?”

She rolled her eyes and laughed. “Well played, Commander. I’ll do my best to drum up a sufficient number of allies, whichever course we pursue.” She looked up at the Breach again, bit her lip in thought. “It’s so big,” she murmured to herself. She curled the braid’s tail around her thumb. “Can’t imagine what it’s going to take to close that son of a bitch....”

“It will be quite the effort, whoever you call upon for help,” Fenris said, running a hand through his hair. “Will you have to open it again, as you did last time?”

“Void’s teeth, I hope not,” Kerith groaned, shuddering at the memory of the Pride demon they’d had to battle, one of very few things that had ever made her feel  small. She rubbed her forearm subconsciously, even though the remembered wound had been healed with nary a scar. “I don’t relish the thought of another fight like that.”

“Understandable.” His weight rocked foot to foot and back as he recrossed his arms. “It was quite the battle, from what I hear.”

“Would likely have been worse if not for those of you watching our backs,” she returned with a half-smile. “But yes. It... was not fun. And I hope nothing similar is required to close it for good.”

Fenris hesitated the briefest moment before voicing his thoughts. “If it were, the templars would also be a great help in that fight.”

“...as opposed to mages, who would perhaps be more vulnerable to demons.” She pinched the bridge of her nose. “It’s something for me to consider, since mine will apparently be the final word on the subject.”

“You are the one with the Mark,” he shrugged. “You are the one who can close the Breach. That lends your word on the matter extra weight.”

“Just what I always wanted,” Kerith said wryly, which earned a chuckle. She glanced at the restlessly shifting soldiers. “I’ve taken enough of your time, I’ll let you get back to it. I appreciate the conversation.”

“As did I,” Fenris replied, inclining his head respectfully.

He returned to training the soldiers as Kerith walked away, and she couldn’t repress a smile when she realized he’d learned as much about her as she had him. And with hardly a direct question. You’re just full of surprises, Commander Fenris. She didn’t know who to thank for dropping him in their laps--Cassandra, probably--but she had a very good feeling about the Inquisition’s military commander. 

Surprise that he may have been.

[crossdressingdeath]

at a certain point some of the companions must have caught on to the fact quiz may not be working with the inquisition of their own volition. like some of them had to be hoping for the disbanding of the inquisition when the exalted council was called so that their friend/lover could get a break.

also, I wonder if that would change any of the relationships between the companions and Cullen/Lelianna/Cassandra. it’d certainly give varric more reasons to be antagonistic towards her, is he’s at high approval

Varric is an odd one, given he and Solas are there from the start and so are present for Cassandra locking Quiz up and then forcing them to help her; if anyone's going to know that Quiz isn't there willingly, it's the two of them! I guess Varric was also a prisoner when he arrived at Haven and Solas is an apostate, so they might be trying to somewhat keep their heads down to avoid drawing Cassandra and the advisors' attention to them being very open about the much-vaunted Herald of Andraste being a glorified prisoner, but like... Varric knows exactly how you got into this situation to begin with, and then apparently decides that he's going to keep his mouth shut about this of all things? Even though he doesn't particularly like any of the people responsible for getting you into this and has zero reason to help them? Really?

But yeah, given there are points where you can pretty openly tell your companions that you don't want to be here (the option to nominate yourself as a potential Inquisitor to Bull solely on the grounds that you're there whether you like it or not is especially blatant), the way no one seems to really acknowledge that you're not there willingly bothers me. Why even give the player the option of telling their companions that they don't want to be stuck working with the Inquisition if none of them are going to show any sign of caring?! If nothing else, I'd love there to be some additional/altered banters where if you tell a given companion about Cassandra threatening you into joining the Inquisition after reaching a reasonably high approval rating they are noticeably colder towards her in banter, because she threatened their friend/lover into a deeply unpleasant situation and by all accounts is still doing so. Possibly some messenger conversations implying that at least some of the companions have a bit of a bone to pick with the advisors about it.

Especially with the romances! Blackwall's got the lady and knight energy to his romance that would lead to him taking his lover being threatened Very Badly, Sera hates people being pushed around by people with more power than them, Bull's whole deal is doing everything in his power to make Quiz feel safe and supported, Dorian's main hesitation in his romance quest is that too many people ask too much of Quiz as it is, Solas is against people being forced to serve others on general principle even when he doesn't give a shit about the individual personally... I don't buy for a second that any of them would hear Quiz say they were forced into the Inquisition and don't want to be there and respond with anything less than fury. But instead none of them say shit about it. Let the LIs be protective towards their protagonist!

But I do love the image of the companions hearing about the Exalted Council and their first thought being "Oh thank the Maker, Quiz might finally get to rest". It would be so good if consistently picking the reluctant or unhappy options re being the Inquisitor and being part of the Inquisition led to if nothing else dialogue changes in Trespasser where the companions show some happiness on your behalf at the opportunity to just let the Inquisition end. I would also like it if consistently picking the "I don't want to be here" options led to changes in Quiz's dialogue where instead of getting pissy at people for daring to be mad about the Inquisition squatting on their land, Quiz got angry because they've wanted to disband the Inquisition basically from day one and they were blocked from doing so and now everyone's acting like it's their fault!

[anemeraldknight]

About Duke Cadash, part 2

okay so I know that this is supposed to be like an ask thing from here! butI only have like 3 followers on here, I just finished my second playthrough of Inquisition and I really really wanna talk about my Inquisitor :’)) so we’re doing this

what is your inquisitor’s name & race? - Duke Cadash, surface dwarf

what is their sexual orientation? - bisexual <3

what do they look like? (add screenshots, drawings, descriptions!) - he's a freckly ginger and has bright blue eyes, a very well groomed beard (he at least tries to redo the braids every morning), undercut on on the left side of his head but otherwise longish hair, scarring underneath his right eye and between his brows; he's like muscular and thick at the same time, I don't know a good word for it? but yea :) he's prettyy

how did they feel about being called “the herald of andraste”? - he uses it to his advantage. he doesn't outright deny it to people he doesn't really trust, only those closest to him know his real stance on it. he just takes being called the Herald in stride, doesn't hate it but isn't the biggest fan either

what are their religious beliefs, if they have any? - believes in the Stone because his parents had been cast out from Orzammar and they passed on their beliefs to him as well. he's not super into it though, more like a casual believer.

what is their opinion on the mage/templar war? - supports the mages and even though he can get along with templars if necessary, he often calls them out for their prejudices and bullshit. he believes that the war was inevitable and kind of necessary as well because in his eyes big change usually comes by, sadly, using harsher tactics.

who is your inquisitor’s best friend? - he was suuper close with Blackwall in the beginning because their humor was pretty similar, he was one of the first people he recruited on his own, and they're both pretty close in terms of age as well. however, as Duke grew closer to Dorian, they became best friends instead (and then eventually lovers). I'd say his real best friend is either Cassandra or Solas? because even though he disagrees with both of them quite a lot, they still somehow manage to get on pretty well <33 and they both have been there from the very beginning of this entire journey!! so it makes sense :) also, Duke is suuuuuper loyal, so when he found out about Blackwall :)) he fucking flipped and completely shunned him and never again took him into his party.

who is their rival? - uhhh among the companions? I don't think he really has one...

who is their love interest, if they chose one? do you ship them with anyone else/non-romanceable options? - DORIAN!! <333

warrior, rogue, or mage? - rogue, archer

how do they feel about the dalish? - he feels for them and wants to support them and work together as much as possible. he can see that a lot of them seem arrogant and standoffish on the outside, but he gets why that is, so he just lets them be and tries to work with it.

how do they feel about the qun? - he does not like the qun, to him it seems like a cult. he can also see many similarities between it and the chantry so.

how do they feel about the chantry? - he doesn't like the chantry BUT he does not shun them out loud because he knows that having them support him makes him look good to those who believe in Andraste and such, but also he doesn't wanna take away hope from those who find it in him during such a difficult time (even though he doesn't believe he's chosen in any way)

which demon is most frightening to them? - definitely the nightmare. Duke doesn’t get rattled very easily but that whole thing managed to get underneath his skin. plus! he’s incredibly scared of spiders and the nightmare created to many of them to freak him out, so the entire fade thingy was very hard on my poor Master Cadash :((

did they choose the qun or the chargers in iron bull’s personal quest? why? - the chargers. he didn’t trust the whole thing from the beginning and basically went along with it because he wanted to support the Iron Bull and because he could feel that something fishy was going on. also, even before the whole thing Duke got along with Krem really well, because he has this habit of taking younger people under his wing (exhibit A: Cole) so that’s also what kinda happened with Krem. ALSO! another thing is that Duke id very much against sacrificing lives in order to get something, so even if he hadn’t cared about any of the chargers personally, it would’ve just went against everything he stood for.

when are they the happiest? - when he's exploring the wilderness with his party, probably picking elfroot or iron lol

how do they feel about the mark/the anchor? - it doesn’t really cause him very much pain so he sees it mostly as something  that’s just there and helps him deal with this whole mess.

upon first meeting cole, were they afraid of him? - not really? he could tell that he was different but Thedas is full of so much surreal and nonsensical shit that this kid who acts a bit outside of the established rules of the society didn't really faze him. when he first met Cole during the attack on Haven, his first reaction was that “why is this young kid out here??? get him to safety!!!!” but yknow in a way where he could still see that Cole was perfectly capable of pulling his own weight, Duke just worries.

did they use the templars or the mages to close the breach? - mages

what was their court approval like at the winter palace? did they have any fun at all? - the only things that Duke liked during the whole charade was seeing Josephine and Leliana enjoying the whole thing AND getting to dance with Dorian. he got 100 court approval but he hated that everybody kept shitting on him for being a dwarf etc. also dealing with Gaspard, Celene, and Breala was frecking frustrating.

someone is encroaching on their love interest. how do they respond? - idk how to answer this. he knows that Dorian can handle himself but if the situation requires his help then he will get supper angry and protective

what is their favourite weapon? - Duke’s Bayard!! :D this really great bow that he got made

are there any creatures in the wild that they refuse to/are reluctant to kill? why? - nugs because to him they look like a rabbit and an old wrinkly man merged into one. so yea, no. he also doesn’t like killing dragons. the only proper dragon he and his party ever killed was the big one in the hinterlands but Duke didn't feel right about it afterwards so he never went after another again

what is their opinion on blood magic? would they ever use it, if given the chance? - to him blood magic is just a type of magic really but I don't think he'd use it if he were able to

what is their favourite place within playable regions? - interestingly, the hinterlands. it's because he grew up in fereldan is used to that kind of nature

did they feel suspicious of dorian upon first meeting him, because of his tevinter heritage? - a bit, yes, but it quickly faded

as a whole, how do they feel about tevinter + the imperium? - he hates the whole slavery business that they've got going on over there but Dorian manages to convince him that the imperium could be changed so he has hope for it. he doesn't blindly hate every vint he meets.

did they encourage cullen to continue taking lyrium, or to stop? for what reasons? - to stop because even though he’s not very close to Cullen and he has his issues with him, he didn't want him to be dependent of lyrium in order to work to the best of his abilities. because Cullen is in charge of such a huge part of the Inquisition, he needs him to be dependable

does it bother them to sleep in tents when on the road with the inquisition? - nope! Duke loves tracking and yknow finding and looking for stuff out in the wilds so he’s used to that sort of thing since he grew up in a naturey place. he had to spend a lot of nights in similar situations while he was part of the Carta too

are they an optimist, a pessimist, or neutral? - i guess something between an optimist and a neutral? I guess you could call him an optimistic realist. he rarely veers towards pessimism

if varric wrote a book about your inquisitor, how would they feel about that? - he would actively encourage it because it would be fucking hilarious to read

do they get along with vivienne? - nope, he doesn’t even recruit her.

are they afraid of anything specifically? - spiders

what was their reaction to the destruction of haven?

how do they feel about “the game”? - a bunch of nugcrap

are they especially protective of certain inquisition members, even those capable of defending themselves? - even though he knows that all three of them can take care of themselves and he trusts them to do so, he still worries about them the most. Cole, Krem , and scout Harding.

do they like their skyhold pajamas? - he hates the pajamas. but the outfits that he usually wears look superrr fly so he doesn’t mind those one bit

are there any insults they find to be especially offensive? (i.e. “knife ear”/”rabbit” for elves, “oxmen” for qunari, ect.) - I am not sure what insults a dwarf would get in terms of specific words. the fact that people keep making comments about the Inquisitor surprisingly being a dwarf does annoy him though

if varric gave them a nickname, what would it be? - either cherry because of his red hair OR the Archduke :P

do they enjoy being the inquisitor? - yes!! at the beginning, he's more wary of it, which of course makes sense, but even then he's just ready to take on the role of the leader because no one else will do it and he does have the mark so it makes sense for him to do it. as time moves on he grows to really like it! he makes a great leader and he knows it.

[mass-dreams]

i wrote a thing?? it’s uhhhh almost three thousand words so you can read it on AO3 if you want. this is my first time properly sharing my writing, so i’m nervous, and i know i have a ton of room to improve. constructive criticism is always appreciated, but please don’t be rude!! in the very relatable words of our beloved alistair theirin, “i bruise easily.” (metaphorically so, this time)

_______________________________________________________

Thalia was used to feeling unwanted.  

The moment the fire had left her fingertips, the life she had always known shattered. She had expected that, really. But she hadn’t expected the disgust in her father’s eyes when her magic became known. She hadn’t expected her mother to cower in fear of her nine-year-old daughter. 

Even as her younger brother’s arms wrapped around her waist, the ache in her chest only became more painful. The lump in her throat grew. The tears in her eyes spilled over.

Her family was safe. Her little brother was safe. That should be all that mattered. 

Yet she knew they didn’t feel safe. Not anymore. Not with her. 

Her own family didn’t want her. 

She was cast aside, struck from the Trevelyan records as much as public knowledge would allow. 

“We can’t have a mage, of all things, tainting our house’s reputation,” Bann Trevelyan had said. 

When the Templars arrived, Thalia felt almost relieved to finally leave her home.

Although, it wasn’t really her home anymore, was it? 

With each step taken away from the Trevelyan estate, she could feel the invisible cord connecting her to the place become tighter and tighter until it was pulled taut. Until it snapped. 

It felt like the broken pieces of the life she had just destroyed were cutting into her- nothing but sharp edges, draining everything. 

Life in the Ostwick Circle felt almost like a dream to Thalia. Then, she was too young to know the horrors mages often faced. She only knew that she was finally learning how to properly control her magic. That there was a library filled with books waiting for her. 

She was homesick for a while. There were many nights she fell asleep with tears soaking her pillow, mourning the life she had once had. The brothers she had had to leave behind. The parents whose love she had thought unconditional until she found the exception. Until she realized she was the exception. 

Thalia paid little attention to the other apprentices, though not maliciously, or even intentionally. She was so wrapped up in learning everything she possibly could, that making friends was far from her mind.

The others misinterpreted her distance.

In their minds, she was being snobbish, and conceited, and thought she was better than them because she was nobility. 

For years, Thalia was an outcast without even knowing it.

It wasn’t until her teenage years that she realized just how anti-social she had been. She was always polite and kind in the interactions she had with her peers, even though they were few and far between. 

She made a point to actually attempt to make a friend.

That was when she finally noticed the whispers, and the pointing, and the laughs. When she tried to start a conversation with one of her fellow mages, they would sneer, and hastily end the exchange.

Thalia knew when she was unwanted. 

Years later, everything had changed. The Circles were no more. There was a giant hole in the sky. And the key to the world’s salvation was on Thalia’s left hand, glowing a bright, sickly green. 

The mage walked out of the Chantry, inhaling a deep breath of the fresh, crisp air she had been deprived of for fifteen years. She strolled leisurely towards the gates of Haven, taking in the sights of people bustling about in the snow.

She stepped outside of the village, her attention quickly drawn to golden hair and a deep scowl. 

Maker, Thalia would never understand how the commander managed to look endearing while literally glaring at reports. 

She was aware of the fact that he used to be a Templar, and she was also much more knowledgeable of what many mages unfairly faced throughout Thedas. Cullen had seemed wary of her at first. The man had seemed to warm up to her, though, after she had aided the refugees in the Hinterlands and used her healing abilities to help the soldiers. 

Ever since she had first met Cullen on the battlefield, he had invaded her thoughts, taking up much more space in her mind than was appropriate. Foolish, she knows, to think of a man she met only a short time ago so often. 

He was the commander though, and her the Herald of Andraste (or so many believed). She ought to get to know him better, considering the amount of time the two would be spending together for Maker-only-knows how long. At least until they sorted out this whole “end of the world” business. 

However, as Thalia gathered up the courage to speak to the man (and rehearsed the entire conversation in her head), the stares and whispers caught her attention. 

“The ‘Herald of Andraste’- a mage! Can you believe it?”

“I heard she’s supposed to be nobility, but was kicked out of her own damn family!”

“Does she even speak? I don’t think I’ve ever heard her say a word.” 

“That’s probably because no one wants to get close enough to hold a conversation!” 

Thalia turned on her heel and hastily retreated back into the village, back into her cabin.

Perhaps not everything had changed. 

Skyhold felt like a new beginning. 

It seemed as though Thalia had proven herself when she risked her life during the destruction of Haven.

In all honesty, she had been absolutely terrified. Like, shit-your-pants terrified. 

She never, in a million years, would have thought that she would have to face down an ancient dark magister and his pet archdemon. 

She was familiar with the prospect of risking herself to save others, though. She had experience in that area. The lives of those hundreds of villagers was worth far more than her own. If it took her death for them to live another day, then so be it. 

The whispers and stares had lost their malice. Now it was mostly wonder, and even worship that filled the expressions of those she passed by. 

It also felt like the beginning of something with her commander.

In the courtyard, he had promised to never let anything like Haven happen again. The poor man took the deaths of those lost as his own personal failure.

He had also said that he was glad she made it out. Specifically her. While the words themselves could be chalked up to his unwillingness to lose the Anchor or just another life in general, the expression on his face, and his awkwardness after the words left his mouth made Thalia think differently. 

Then came his struggle with lyrium. 

Thalia’s heart hurt to think of Cullen in pain- to think of everything he had had to experience in his past and the effect it had on him. 

His strength through everything, and his ability to persevere only made her affection and respect for him grow stronger.

She had assured him that he was doing the right thing. That he could make it through. 

Afterwards, when she had found him on the battlements, she couldn’t help but watch as he closed his eyes and took a deep breath in.

He seemed… at peace, if only for a moment. As if he had been able to lay down a burden he had been carrying on his shoulders for so long. 

Each time Thalia thought she couldn’t possibly feel anymore for this man than she already did, he managed to prove her wrong.

Their chess game in Skyhold’s gardens only reinforced the small inkling in Thalia’s head of what if…? 

What if her feelings weren’t unrequited? What if Cullen reciprocated? 

“We should spend more time together,” Thalia risked saying.

“I would like that,” Cullen replied, his face seeming to light up at the idea.

Unable to form any other words, Thalia simply said, “Me too.”

His eyes were gentle, and a small smile graced his lips as the words left his mouth, “You said that.” 

Thalia’s face burnt as he brought their attention back to chess. Her embarrassment was worth it to see him smile, though. Maker, what she would do to make him smile. 

Not soon after that, the two began to have near nightly chess games, even going as far to have supper in Cullen’s office while they played.

It evolved into a routine for them. Eventually the chess board would lay forgotten- the pair too wrapped up in conversation and each other to pay attention to it. 

The illusion Thalia had built for herself crumbled sooner than she had expected. 

Of course, it was on a night when she was feeling particularly brave- particularly reckless. 

At the war table meeting that morning, she had caught the commander staring at her. While Josephine was rambling about a very important noble visitor (Thalia couldn’t even remember who it was, now), she had glanced at the man (which she absolutely did not do every twenty seconds, thank you very much) and found his eyes already on her. 

He quickly looked away, a blush coloring his cheeks. 

She turned back to Josie, with a large smile that she couldn’t seem to hide, and attempted to force herself to pay attention to the words coming out of the woman’s mouth, but ultimately failed.

Later that day, the two had even found time to have lunch together.

Or, well, Thalia had arrived at his office with a report that could absolutely not be handled by anyone else (it may have had something to do with trebuchets, though Thalia didn’t know for sure, as she had barely glanced at it before snatching it from the messenger while they were distracted delivering the inquisitor's own reports), and demanded Cullen eat something after he had denied having breakfast, and initially refused to eat lunch, as well. 

Although, he had given in rather easily to Thalia after she had offered to stay and eat with him. 

Ultimately, these events motivated the inquisitor to do something she never would have expected from herself- confess. 

That night, she had resolved to return to Cullen’s office after they had supper, when most of Skyhold’s inhabitants would be either asleep or shit-faced drunk at the Herald’s Rest. 

She donned her favorite outfit- a long, flowy dress with transparent sleeves that lacked a shoulder, colored a light blue which Josie had said matched her eyes, and Thalia couldn’t remember the last time she had worn a dress. Not robes, but an actual dress. She pulled her long black hair over her shoulders, and took a deep breath as she descended the stairs into the main hall.

With each step the butterflies in her stomach became more intense, but at that moment Thalia had no doubt in her actions or what the result of them would be.

As she pushed open the door leading onto the walkway to Cullen’s office, she couldn’t help but smile. 

To think that all it would take to move their relationship forward- to something they both wanted, she was sure- was just a little bit of courage.

She almost laughed. She probably would have, if her eyes hadn’t caught the figure leaving Cullen’s office through the door facing the tavern. 

It was an elven woman, dressed in the inquisition’s scout armor- Thalia could tell by the shape of the silhouette. 

The woman seemed to be… readjusting her clothes, and fixing her hair. 

But why would she be delivering something to the commander so late at night? And why would she be so disheveled just from-

Oh.

Oh.

The smile dropped from the inquisitor’s face as the realization hit her. 

Of course Cullen didn’t actually want me, she thought. It was ridiculous to even entertain the idea. He probably only dealt with you because you’re basically his boss.

The thought made her heart ache, and her eyes fill with tears.

Throughout her entire life, no one had wanted her.

Why would this be any different?

Why would he be any different?

How could she have believed that this strong, kind, selfless man could possibly have feelings for her- a mage disowned by her own family, with nothing but herself to offer him? 

Foolish, really. 

The ache in her chest only grew stronger as she made her way back to her quarters.

Thalia knew when she was unwanted. 

She was used to it by now. 

Thalia allowed herself only that night to mourn what she thought had been. Only one night to let the tears fall freely. There was still a world to save, after all. 

Attempts to avoid the commander entirely were futile, considering their positions. 

Though she had stopped her evening visits to his office, entirely convinced their friendship had been one-sided and in her head because why would he want to spend time with her that he could be spending with his lover? 

When she caught him watching her, she chalked it up to be him double-checking her- making sure she was doing everything right because obviously, as the Herald of Andraste, she couldn’t make a single mistake. His small, almost shy smiles that always made her melt, were never meant to affect her in the way they did. When he went to check on her in her quarters after she was buried underneath a mountain of paperwork, making sure she ate, it was concern for their leader, not for her. 

She had mistaken his tolerance for acceptance- for desire, even for the possibility of what could eventually be love. 

But of course he would be with someone else. Of course, Thalia wouldn’t be enough because she had never even been kissed, for fuck’s sake. If no one else had wanted her in that way, why would he?

Soon, though, Cullen seemed… different. The circles under his eyes became darker as the days went by. His hand went to his temple- an attempt to ease a headache, Thalia knew- more often than ever before. The candle illuminating his office windows seemed to burn even longer into the night. 

Eventually, concern for the man overpowered Thalia’s own shattered heart. If he didn’t want her there, then he could tell her so. 

She went to his office at an ungodly hour in the morning, when she couldn’t sleep, and neither could he, it seemed.

Thalia knocked softly on Cullen’s door, and stepped into his office after hearing his quiet, gruff, “Come in.”

“Inquisitor!” he startled, abruptly standing up from behind his desk. “I thought… I thought you stopped coming.” His voice seemed small, and weak when the words left his mouth. 

“Yes, well… I saw you had found someone else to spend your time with. I didn’t wish to impose,” Thalia replied, though with no malice, and not accusatory- she was just stating an observation. She ignored the confused furrow in his brow as she attempted to barrel on and get to the point- his well being, which was much more important. He didn’t allow her to do that, though, and stopped her before she could say anything else.

“Who… ? What are you talking about? I assure you, no one has taken your place. My eyes are only on you,” Cullen said, as if it was the most casual thing in the world, as if it wouldn’t make Thalia’s heart beat a thousand times faster because does he mean what I think he means? 

His words seemed to catch up to him, as his signature, adorable blush appeared on his cheeks and his hand came up to rub the back of his neck. “Maker’s breath. That is… I mean…”

“What about the scout I saw leave your office? It was really late, and she seemed… a bit disheveled,” Thalia replied, deciding to put him out of his misery, and seek the answer she really needed if he truly did mean what he said.

The furrow between the commander’s brows reappeared, his lips set into a small pout as he tried to recall the scout she was asking about. 

“Are you talking about… Maker, I didn’t know it looked like that. She had ran all the way here from the stables with an urgent message from the Hinterlands, then promptly tripped when she walked through my doorway.” 

Thalia almost giggled, but didn’t when she realized it sounded like something that she, herself, would do, and that this meant her commander had no lover and might actually feel the same way about her. 

However, “Oh…” was all that managed to leave her mouth.

The pair stood there in awkward silence, until-

“Did you really mean-”

“I really meant-”

They spoke at the same time, then met each other’s eyes as their faces burnt red, and smiles graced their lips.

“I did,” Cullen said softly, as he stepped out from behind his desk and stopped right in front of Thalia. “Do you…?”

“I do.” The words were breathy- she practically whispered them- but how was she supposed to form a coherent thought when he was so close and his eyes kept looking at her lips and Maker, he’s going to kiss me.

Their lips met, with one of Cullen’s hands on her cheek and his other on her waist. It was clumsy, and Thalia knew she was doing it wrong, but Maker, this is perfect. 

When he made to pull away, Thalia pouted and reached up to pull him back to her. 

He smiled against her mouth and let her. 

Thalia already knew she would never be able to get enough of the man. 

She knew, now, that she was wanted.