#this is why no one likes the chantry mother Giselle

[crossdressingdeath]

Ah, I think what we're getting into here is the difference between Andrastianism and the Chantry. There were a lot of different Andrastian sects(? Cults? Not entirely sure what the right word is, but I'm gonna go with sects) when the Chantry was first founded; most of them aren't around anymore (at least some of them gone because of the Chantry and its habit of wiping out every other religious group it can, see the codex entry on the Daughters of Song for an example; that one's especially nasty since they were pacifists and the Chantry steamrolled over them anyway), but even in the games' time period there's still a couple, most notably Chantry Andrastianism and Tevinter Andrastianism. Orlais chose a very warlike sect to follow right from the start, which might just have been because that's how Orlesians are but it's still a thing to keep in mind: the sect the Chantry came out of was already one that glorified war above most other things. How convenient for an expansionist empire! The Chantry itself was absolutely created from that initial sect with propping Orlais up in mind, and it has stuck to that mandate pretty consistently throughout Thedas's history (even up to the occupation of Ferelden, the Orlesian king put in charge had a Chantry advisor; as far as I'm aware there was no significant Chantry presence among the rebels, at least not in any official capacity). It's also important to me to keep in mind that in the games there is a vague acknowledgement of how Andrastians don't necessarily follow the Chantry and many don't agree with it; Anders is a devout Andrastian, and he understandably despises the organization. Varric is Andrastian, and Cassandra comments he wouldn't be caught dead in a Chantry. Basically the Chantry as an institution and Andrastianism as a religion are not the same thing, the Chantry was created with a specific goal that Andrastianism did not share, and after a point they have to be discussed as separate entities.

I sort of agree with the "institutions are at their heart the people" thing? But also that only goes so far when we're talking about an institution that is fundamentally not in it to do good, or at least not for anyone who isn't already wealthy and in a position of power. I think the best example is Mother Giselle; she was working in Jader during a famine, and she demanded the Chantry step up and offer aid to the people who were starving. She's the epitome of someone determined to do good within the Chantry and fulfill their supposed mandate of charity. And... the Chantry refused to help. Just straight up refused to send aid no matter how many times she entreated them to help these desperate people. Eventually Mother Giselle fell back on a hunger strike, and that worked (although the Chantry insisted she feed herself and her fellow sisters first, which they merrily refused to do; I have issues with Mother Giselle but this is very good, gotta respect the determination). But the Chantry was so furious with her for "shaming" them and forcing their hand that by breaking that famine she ensured she would never be able to move any higher in the institution than she was already. Mother Giselle was fighting the Chantry the whole way and was punished for succeeding. That's kind of the running theme in the Chantry; there are a lot of genuinely good people who are genuinely determined to help! But outside of the individual level they consistently find themselves stymied and slapped down by the organization they serve, because the Chantry does not actually exist to help and does not actually want to. There comes a point where you can't take the intentions of people who join up as the true purpose of the institution, because the institution absolutely does not agree with those intentions and will do everything in its power to shut them down. (Also I mean there comes a point where it's like... hey if you people are in this to help people why aren't you quitting when it becomes clear the organization is going to demand you hurt people at every turn, Keran DA2 you will always be famous to me.)

FINALLY SOMEONE SAID IT. Thank you Dorian for being the best once again and pointing out that hey maybe if the Chantry didn't treat their mages like shit and traumatize all of them they'd get possessed less often.

[rhysnolastname]

[dalishious]

you still dont get it lol I'm talking about writers and why they write these things irl, and you're picking mother gisele as an example. she is fictional character. them writing her like that was on purpose.. because for all her goodness she is still a chantry person and andrastian, and will elan into those false believes. that is precisely the point. that is not writers agreeing with her, it's them showcasing such narrow-minded mentality in thedas. no one is saying victims should take it wth?? also you posted once sentence from patrick weekes out of context, we cant see what the question was, and we can't see continuation of his answer... (clearly there was more after that...) my point is, in order to have heroes fight the injustice and ppl be invested, you first have to show that injustice clearly.

I can read your message just fine, I just strongly disagree with you're point of view. Hope that helps.

Also I may not be a fan of Weekes, but at least I don't misgender them, and you doing so just makes me super not want to have this discussion any further. Bye.

Also also if only we had evidence of BioWare writers being racist colonial bastards irl... oh wait, we do.

[star--nymph]

look man you can do whatever you want with Inquisitions narrative all you want but the fact that it leans perfectly into the dehumanization of worship and becoming a symbol is perfect for Eurydice, who has been an object all her life

the constant unpredictability of her father, calling her his 'jewel' one second and his 'empty thing' the next, either a object of pride or abuse, but either way always an object, a thing, a mistake, a piece of a beautiful, broken piece of property 

the rejection by the clan that refused to see her parents for her they were and therefore refused to see her as a full child or person--just a strange bird at best, a troublemaker, creepy, cold, cruel, damaged, dangerous, a shadow to gawk at and level suspicious glares at, because Lycus and Ismene speak of the trouble with that one, that one causes them such headaches, that one's eyes are off, that one must be as dull as she looks, it's a shame to her parent's names, but at least that one is beautiful. At least she's nice to look at occasionally.

being placed in the position of the First despite the discontent in the clan, robotically going through the motions for duty's sake because duty is all she has, loyalty to the clan, to her family, to her Keeper, that if she performs right, there will be a nod of approval, she will be liked, left alone to her own devices, maybe even understood, but it never comes. She is a good student but a poor First--they whisper to each other that they hope a mage is born among them soon, or they must go to another clan for a new one. Can't have that one be the Keeper. Deshanna is mad and blinded by her own affection. She can't see what that is.

she leaves, for duty, she gets a taste of personhood for a few months, she wanders the world and feels an identity being grown past daughter, sister, mage, first, jewel, thing--

and then conclave explodes and the shemlings capture her, the imprison, they worship her, and they crown her

and she's only a fully realized person to a few of them--and even then there's a habit of them still trying to dehumanization her for the sake of the Inquisition as an agenda--Sera talks about the little people and how Eury can't forget about them, but she has issues seeing Eurydice past her position as "elfy" or "Inky. Vivienne, Mother Giselle, and Varric struggle between Eurydice the Inquisitor and Eurydice the Person; they both recognize that her personhood doesn't matter here, as much as it should. Eurydice as a person can't survive against the persona of the Inquisitor and as much they both want to tell her to save herself, in order for the Inquisition to prosper, she can't BE an individual, she has to be a commodity that keeps the world captivated. Something akin to a holy relic. 

Cassandra and on a lesser note, Leliana, are almost desperate for Eurydice to be a prophet despite her denying that every breath she takes. Them looking at her, an elf with God's of her own, having to live with the possibility that the Maker choose her doesn't work with what they know, what they want, but they'll make it work. It's why Cassandra asks Eurydice "Is there no room in your pantheon for one more god" because yes Cassandra IS tossing aside Eurydice's own beliefs because in the chantry's eyes, the elven pantheon doesn't matter but also it's not even about that for Cassandra. It's about HER comfort, HER faith, her need for Eurydice to take on the role as a Herald in a specific way to justify her faith

and Solas? Solas watches on and I think stays, at least in part, because he knows what he just sacrificed in Eurydice's name. She may not have died at the Conclave, but he killed her in a way. It may have been what was done to him all those years ago, when the rebels made him into the Dread Wolf and had his own name forgotten to time and dreams. Gods aren't people. They are beyond such things.

and Eurydice lives with it, stripped down every second of every day when they call her: Inquisitor, Herald, Your Worship, Lady Lavellan, The Banshee, Witch, The First, Jewel, Thing. What is she if not a doll, one posed this way and that for the will of an society that is just waiting to chop off her ears and portray her as human?

and when someone uses her name and sees Eurydice as a thinking, breathing person, her first instinct is to think she must have tricked them

because if everyone else only saw her as a thing, then it must be true, right?

[daitranscripts]

Cassandra Cutscene: Wicked Eyes and Wicked Hearts

Considering the Divine

Cassandra Masterpost Related Quest: Wicked Eyes and Wicked Hearts

The PC walks up to Cassandra and Mother Giselle, who are speaking in the armory.

Giselle: Will you not consider it, Lady Cassandra? The clerics are sill sequestered. If no one steps forward, they will debate until—

Cassandra: And you think I could make them agree? I’ve heard enough for one day Mother Giselle.

Giselle leaves, passing the PC as she goes.

Giselle: Talk to her, Your Worship.

The PC walks up to Cassandra.

Dialogue options:

General: Is she bothering you? [1]

General: Having fun? [2] + Cassandra slightly approves

General: What’s this about? [3]

1 - General: Is she bothering you? PC: Is there a problem? It seems like she’s bothering you. Cassandra: Mother Giselle is kind, and she means well. So, yes, she was. [4]

2 - General: Having fun? PC: The fun never ends in Skyhold, does it? Cassandra (Qunari PC): “The Inquisitor was a funny Qunari.” That’s what they’ll say one day, you watch. [4] Cassandra (dwarf PC): Are all dwarves such comedians, or just you and Varric? [4] Cassandra (Dalish or human PC): “The Inquisitor was hilarious.” That’s what they’ll say one day, you watch. [4]

3 - General: What’s this about? PC: What’s going on now? [4]

4 - Scene continues.

Cassandra: I assume you’ve heard Leliana and I are both candidates to be the next Divine. Because of what happened at Halmshiral, of course. The empire favors you, thus everyone close to you. So now the Chantry bandies our names without even asking us first.

5 - Dialogue options:

Investigate: Is that even possible? [6]

General: So refuse. [7]

General: Who cares about the Chantry? [8] - Cassandra disapproves

General: You’d be perfect. [9] Divine: Cassandra +5

6 - Investigate: Is that even possible? PC: How can you and Leliana be candidates? You’re not even priests. Cassandra: It is not without precedent. Amara the Third was sister to the emperor, and Galatea a commoner. Leliana and I were, at least, part of the Chantry hierarchy. It would be accepted.

Dialogue options:

Special: Why am I not a candidate? [10]

[Back to 5]

10 - Special: Why am I not a candidate? PC: If they’ll pick non-priests, why am I not a candidate? Cassandra (male PC): Because you’re a man, first and foremost. If they name you a candidate, they may as well join the Tevinter Imperium. Truly though, I imagine it’s because they’re frightened of you. [11] Cassandra (mage PC): Because you’re a mage, first and foremost. If they name you a candidate, they may as well join the Tevinter Imperium. Truly though, I imagine it’s because they’re frightened of you. [11] Cassandra: Because they don’t know what you are, and that frightens them. [11] 11 - Scene continues. Cassandra: A weight such as yours would break the Sunburst throne and tear the Chantry to pieces. I just don’t know why they believe Leliana or I would be any better. [Back to 5]

7 - General: So refuse. PC: If you don’t want it, tell them so. [12]

8 - General: Who cares about the Chantry? PC: Why even consider it? Who cares about the Chantry? Cassandra: I care. [12]

9 - General: You’d be perfect. PC: I think you’d make and excellent Divine. Cassandra: Truly? I never look good in hats. [12]

12 - Scene continues.

They walk outside.

Cassandra: Surely it was never meant to be like this. The Chanty, the Circle of Magi, the templars… this cannot be what they intended when it all began. The Chantry should provide faith. Hope. Instead, it cannot veer from its course, even in the face of certain death.

13 - Dialogue options:

Investigate: You really feel that way? [14]

General: The Chantry has failed. [15] - Cassandra greatly disapproves

General: These are extreme times. [16]

General: So do better. [17] + Cassandra approves

14 - Investigate: You really feel that way? PC: I’m surprised to hear you, of all people, say that. Cassandra: Oh? Am I not the same woman who declared the Inquisition against the Chantry’s wishes? In all my years are a Seeker, I did what I was told. My faith demanded it. But now my faith demands something else: that I see with better eyes. [back to 13]

15 - General: The Chantry has failed. PC: The Chantry has failed, Cassandra. Cassandra (non-Andrastian PC): I’m not surprised a non-believer would say that. Cassandra (Andrastian PC): It’s disheartening that a believer would say that. Cassandra (unsure PC): I wonder if the legions of faithful throughout Thedas would agree with you. [18]

16 - General: These are extreme times. PC: Many extraordinary things have happened to get us to this point. Cassandra: I’m not so certain. I think this has been a long time coming. [18]

17 - General: So do better. PC: If you’re so concerned, then make it better. [18]

18 - Scene continues.

Cassandra: Did you know Varric is Andrastian? Oh, he blasphemes with every second breath, but deep down, he believes. His heart is virtuous. But he would never set foot in a Chantry. it should be the first place to which the virtuous turn. It needs to change. Perhaps I must be the one to change it.

19 - Dialogue options:

Investigate: And what of Leliana? [20]

Investigate: What would you change? [21]

Flirt: I like your determination. [22]

General: I can help you become Divine. [23] + Cassandra approves Divine: Cassandra +5

General: We have other concerns. [24] - Cassandra disapproves

General: Maybe the Chantry should end. [25] - Cassandra disapproves Divine: Leliana +1, Cassandra -1

General: A new crusade for you? [26]

20 - Investigate: And what of Leliana? PC: You’re not the only candidate. What of Leliana? Cassandra: Leliana says she wishes to follow Justinia’s legacy, but she and I remember a different person. Justinia knew her fellow clerics—and the people—would only accept so much change. Leliana would cast it all aside and start over, I think, and that would be chaos for us all. [back to 19]

21 - Investigate: What would you change? PC: What would you change about the Chantry? Cassandra: The Circle of Magi has its place, but it needs to reform. Let the mages govern themselves, with our help. Let the templars stand not as the jailors of mages, but as protectors of the innocent. We must be vigilant, but we must also be compassionate to all peoples of Thedas, humans or no. That is what I would change. [back to 19]

22 - Flirt: I like your determination. PC: Your determination is admirable.

Cassandra (male PC, not flirted before/turned down relationship): Some men would call it an unattractive trait. PC: I’m not those men. [back to 19]

Cassandra (male PC, flirted before): Some men would call it an unattractive trait. PC: I’m not those men. Cassandra: Truer words have never been spoken. PC: Who’s using flattery now? Cassandra: (Laughs.) [back to 19]

Cassandra (female PC): I do nothing that is not worth doing with all my heart. PC: It’s your most attractive trait. [back to 19]

23 - General: I can help you become Divine. PC: I have influence, and I can use it to help the Chantry make up its minds. Cassandra: I cannot ask you to do that. PC: You don’t have to. [27]

24 - General: We have other concerns. PC: We have more important things to worry about right now. Cassandra: One day we must turn our thoughts to what comes after. PC: But that’s not today. Cassandra: I suppose that is true. [27]

25 - General: Maybe the Chantry should end. PC: Perhaps the Chantry needs more than just change. Cassandra: You mean get rid of it entirely? I disagree. Without the Chantry, the faithful would be lost. The Chantry must simply be more responsible in how it leads. [27]

26 - General: A new crusade for you? PC: So this is your new crusade? Cassandra: I’ve agreed to nothing yet. PC: And if the Chantry calls on you? Cassandra: The I will do whatever I can, for as long as I can. [27]

27 - Scene continues.

Cassandra: I suppose I should not be so concerned. The clerics speak my name for now, nothing more. For now, restoring order and stopping Corypheus remain our priority.

Scene ends.

[v-arbellanaris]

Mother Giselle anon. Very good points made, no disagreement that racism is almost certainly a factor, and I didn't mean to suggest that Justinia was... demonstrably charitable, so much as "I've done less research and wondered if, in yours re: mage stuff, you had seen anything". It's worth noting that the comments about her "deserving" her title or not don't use that word, specifically, it was just kind of the vibe I got from the general reaction to her actions in Jader (which, notably, Justinia was Divine during iirc? And not helpful towards?) and the fact that staying to help the refugees of the conflict in Fereldan in person is why she didn't die at the Conclave - she was expected to attend. So there's likely some chafing at her "escaping her peers' fate". (Which is ridiculous - see Grand Cleric Victoire for example of that Chantry hypocrisy.)

hi again!!!

okay, that makes a lot more sense - sorry i misinterpreted your intentions there! i'm still working on the justinia metas, i've just been sidetracked because. blog termination. and this godawful cold. but honestly, from what i've seen so far of justinia, inc the stuff i've got in the unpublished metas, no, i would not lean towards that interpretation as an explanation for the opposition she faced from within the chantry and also amongst orlesian nobles.

i assume her background in jader is more directly referenced to in wotv, so i've just reread her da wiki entry - i'll check the actual wotv entry later (and gamlen's too! gotta remember to do that...), and i'll doublecheck whether it was justinia or beatrix's time. considering justinia then seemed to deploy her in impoverished areas (thereby gaining greater chantry support amongst the masses ofc), but then also deny her any career advancements (to placate the rest of the chantry but also cutting off any potential giselle might have had to enact REAL change - she could be in the running for divine if she'd been a grand cleric, after all) it's still ... Not A Great Look for justinia imho.

and that's a great point too, and i think it's definitely also overlaid with racism. no one says anything about the bunch of white chantry sisters and chantry mothers (we see one in redcliffe preaching to the rebel mages ffs) that didn't attend and therefore die at the conclave, but the moment it's a black woman... lmao. i would not be surprised, yeah.

[bees-bees-fear]

That said my Adaar is leaning toward "We're just a military arm of the chantry, templars belong to us anyway" templar conscription. My Trevelyan was gonna Divine Vivienne, but I'd like to see if she can justify it in this playthrough. Leliana is the closest thing to a clergy member though. Almost certainly not Cassandra.

I forget if mother Giselle dies or something, but when asked why clergy is only human women, Adaar was advised you must fight battles one at a time. Then you can step outside and have Leliana say "why stop at mages?" and then the meta knowledge of the epilogue slides saying she causes problems with that, but they all cause their own problems.

Maybe Divine Cassandra makes sense if you want a militaristic chantry. But as a Qunari she's probably hyperaware of not exalting any marches

[elfyourmother]

that last post made me think about how I’ve carefully considered what Gisele gets out of her relationship with Zenos besides the obvious (sex), and i’ve come to the conclusion that as bizarre as it sounds on the surface, he’s very good for her in at least one respect: he’s the epitome of the “don’t you wanna go apeshit?” meme towards her, which is something she honestly needs

even back at the Menagerie, Zenos was reading her like a book because of the Resonance, talking about how the Circle caged her because they feared her and sought to tightly control her in order to assuage those fears, and in doing so caused her to fear her own power on some level

Gisele’s kneejerk reaction to all that was to say it wasn’t true, that he was lying and he didn’t and couldn’t understand because he had no context for Andrastian cultural views in Thedas. But that was because she’s been telling herself for years that her Circle upbringing was mostly positive and necessary, largely as a coping mechanism. of course she became angry when she got her memories back and realized that mages didn’t have to live that way, now that she’s in a place where her gifts are celebrated instead of feared. but even so the kind of pleasure she gets in wielding the arcane in battle is something she absolutely has lingering Andrastian guilt about, because it’s the exact thing she was warned against growing up. That way lies Tevinter, and all. and no matter how strong she is, no matter how much her mother’s Dalish influence largely shielded her from believing the Chantry’s bullshit about magic, Gisele was still an impressionable child steeped in that environment and it maybe seeped into her subconscious in ways she didn’t realize. Zenos just held a mirror up to her. (and ofc this is why the RPR stuff is so so fraught for her, for all I joke about it being an absolutely hilarious Job for an ex-dyed in the wool Circle Mage.)

and so Zenos was the one who put the first cracks in that convenient lie she told herself, that the Circle didn’t impact her negatively or have any lingering negative effects on her years later. cue the duel in EW. when he talks about wanting to give her the only gift he can, there’s a lot more to it than canon. he wants her to cast aside that guilt/shame and embrace the pleasure of it all, because it’s what makes her strong. and it is. in a place running on Dynamis that was a powerfully transformative act, to be so unfettered. and that was his influence.

[donttelljim]

There Together

Dragon Age Inquisition Cullen x Lavellan Aredhel could get used to the Commander spending most nights in her room, but what takes a little more getting used to is his sleeplessness. A little light hurt/comfort fluff of Cullen and the Inquisitor navigating the night together, making something functional out of the slightly dysfunctional. Written for @chaos-company‘s Angstpril Day 17, Alternate prompt Tired. (On AO3 here) ============================

Aredhel rolled onto her side, shifting luxuriantly under layered linens and furs, her arm reaching in her unconsciousness for the warm, beloved body she knew she would find beside her. Her hand passed through where a shoulder should have been and kept going, her sense of gravity lurching at the lack of resistance. The mattress next to her was empty, the sheets cold. She woke up. In the dark, the Inquisitor’s cat-like eyes searched the blackness, going only by the little starlight that made it through her balcony windows. This late at night, the room was a scene etched in indigo, all but the coloured patterns of glass that spilt faint streaks into the space, watercolours over ink. Rising onto the balls of her feet, the Inquisitor looked about, crouched on the bed like the Dalish scout of her youth. She looked to the balcony, the desk, the hearth - all common places for her bedfellow to occupy himself on a sleepless night. It took a moment before a shift of fabric snapped her search, instead, to just beyond the mattress. “Cullen…?” As quietly as she could, the elf shuffled over her Frostback-inspired throws, coming to kneel by one of the stone totems at the bed’s base. Resting her hands against the creature’s pronged head, she peered silently over.

At the foot of the bed sat a circular rug, about the size of a glyph and bearing, in Inquisition colours, the symbol of the Chantry. It had been provided by Mother Giselle when the room was first furnished, and Aredhel had refused to get rid of it even as she’d gradually phased out Mother Giselle herself. Peering anxiously, poised and hesitating like a new hunter in a tree, the elf eyed Cullen as he sat. Her vhenan looked exhausted. His head was nodding, half of his limbs sprawled, the other half gathered to him; one leg trailed, the other had its knee raised - one arm flopped, the other rested braced, fist closed. She had seen the same manner on many a soul left guarding a campfire too long: he was watching for something. What he was watching for, however, only he could know. She glanced at the circular rug beneath him, gauging its size and imagery. Creators’ balls. Moving by delicate degrees, one bare elven foot alighted the bed, then the other, the soft shift of fabric against fabric and the even quieter pad of a light step against stone all there was to be heard. Giving the half-waking man a wide berth, she stepped around the outside of the rug, bringing herself into his peripheral before she risked startling him with speech. He had been overdoing it lately - she kept telling him that. From what she could tell, however - his slow movements, the lack of panic - this was a walking dream, not a waking memory. The difference was subtle, but important. He didn’t seem to spy her, eyes making critical study of something beyond and behind her. It was surreal to see: for all his tiredness, he eyed the dark like an archer, the keenness of his focus something that, in different circumstances, would set her Dalish heart fluttering. There was little in her life before Skyhold more impressive than the ability to scout. “Cullen…? Why are you down there?” She wanted to ask him whether he wouldn’t rather come back to bed, but she had quickly learnt better than to say anything to that effect when he was in his memories. She would rather like to find that desire demon and gut it, but she was all too aware that another woman had already attended to that task. Cullen raised a finger to his lips, eyes not moving. “Shh. They’ll come back eventually…I’m keeping watch.” His voice was remarkably level, extremely himself: relief nearly rushed Aredhel from her feet. She was glad, first of all, that her approach hadn’t been taken for ‘Her’ tonight. Those nights were much more trying. The other blessing was that he was steady: lyrium withdrawal, when it reared its head in his moments of greatest stress or exhaustion, lit a fire under all of the most fear-filled emotions, yet as he studied the dark, the Commander seemed as lucid and collected as if he really were keeping watch.

Taking the opening whilst she had it, before his half-dreams reframed her role in this scenario, the Inquisitor stepped over the threshold of the rug and sat beside him. “You’re dreaming, you know,” she reminded him gently, with the same conversational warmth as if she were suggesting he was being stubborn or competitive. “You should sleep.” Cullen shook his head, raising a finger to his lips once more, gaze not leaving the shadows. “That’s what they would have us do. Don’t worry -” For the first time, he looked to her, his tone solid and assuring despite the lack of threat truly around them. It was loaded with care for her, seeking to assuage her fears; “I’ve been here some time. I know how they play this…” As they continued to look at each other, Aredhel saw the shift begin: his initial acceptance of her, led by whatever part of him still remembered enough to expect her here, was merging uncomfortably with the narrative of the dream. She could see the wheels of his mind moving, searching for an explanation. As he squinted, her heart braced, ready for him to turn on a coin and cast her as his tempter and attacker…but instead, after some moments, Cullen only smiled, pleasantly bemused. “I’m glad you’re here, at least. Though I wish I could spare you from this.” Again, he turned and eyed the dark, gravely studying details she couldn’t see. “Odd of them to put you in here,” the strategist continued, frowning at the night as he puzzled over her apparent fate. “After all, you are one of them…” Prickles began to move over his skin - suspicion and paranoia as the logic presented itself. Not rocked (this wasn’t their first night of this, and it would not be their last), the Inquisitor slipped a hand into Cullen’s free one as she found his eyes, trying to bring his attention back to her, to knowing her, before his displaced memories extrapolated her into some maleficar. “Some mages said no. Like you did.” An explanation, without claiming a lie. She would never touch blood magic and she had turned down offers from many a demon, but even so. Sometimes, her heart clutched for the mages in that place - those that resisted and got out deserved acknowledgement they didn’t get. She wouldn’t feel comfortable claiming their victory. Cullen beamed even so, relieved, regarding her with unmasked adoration. “I knew you would.” His hand squeezed hers back, an unwanted congratulations that she felt wicked for receiving. “...This isn’t real, Cullen. It’s one of your dreams. You could go back to sleep.” Again, the man shook his head, pointing into the dark in patient explanation: “When I sleep, that one comes back. She was trying to find my dreams. But I’m keeping watch. We’ll be alright.” Aredhel watched her vhenan - everything from his posture to his careful tone was, even now, aimed towards keeping her protected and assured. She had seen, when his lack of lyrium chose to be cruellest to him, the true terror still remembered in his heart for that place, yet right now, in whatever blend of reality he inhabited, he was determined to provide a rock for her to lean against. Sometimes, come morning, he would apologise for nights like this, trying to ascertain how or why she still loved him after them: some nights, she was glad he could never witness from outside of himself, but if he could see this one, she pondered, moved, he would not worry again. “...Alright.” The Herald settled beside her Commander, folding her arms and shuffling down to plant herself for a long vigil on the floor, ignoring the draining pull already at her eyelids and her spirit. “I’ll help.”

The prisoner, as he thought himself, looked shocked, both politely and honestly taken aback: “You don’t have to.”

“No.” She crossed her ankles, sat shoulder-to-shoulder with him as if proving she would not be moved: “I do. If you’re here, then I’m staying with you. Unless you want to try following me out?” Again, Cullen shook his head, the motion short and blunt, his expression growing distressed that she kept pressing that point. “Do not ask me that,” he urged, trying to hide the impatience in his plea. “They were in my dreams. I am alert, now. I know how to guard this.” He gestured to the circular rug.

“Alright, then.” Resolved, smiling to him, Aredhel tucked closer beside her beloved, her back against the bed behind them. “I’ll take the next watch. You rest your eyes for a bit - we can trade tomorrow.” She could already feel the yawn of tomorrow’s duties stretching ahead of her, but all the more reason for him to sleep. The sentry visibly sagged with exhaustion as he allowed himself to feel it, though his look of hopeful appreciation turned promptly to professionalism before he could truly let himself sink. Always on duty. “Watch out,” he cautioned. “My abilities aren’t manifesting. Uldred’s people must have done something - ” Without missing a beat, Aredhel shot the ex-templar a sly smile. “It’s alright,” she muttered conspiratorially, smirking secretly to him as she raised her left palm. The Anchor lit and crackled, erupting in light - the air of it thrummed with power, yet, as they both knew, it didn’t feel quite like a spell. Their faces were underlit by green as she winked: “Mine are.”

The kitchen-hand had grown accustomed, by now, to pretending she did not see two figures below the Herald’s bedsheets most mornings, and she also pretended not to notice as she set two teacups on the tray she delivered, or the reports from the Inquisition scouts that she set with them. Even this diligence, however, could not ignore what she saw that morning: the Inquisitor and the Commander, both in rumpled nightclothes, lay sprawled on the floor, their backs against the bed, deep asleep. A throw of bear fur had been pulled down, dragging half of the bedding awry with it, and thrown loosely over them. The Commander lay face pressed against the mattress, open-mouthed, the Inquisitor’s head against his shoulder, hair askew and face puffy. Her left hand - the cause of so much speculation - lay palm up above the bearskins, the blessed Anchor fizzing and fitzing, still spitting weak bursts of power as she slept.

[choccy-zefirka]

The dreary quiet of the dungeon is punctuated suddenly by the sound of footsteps: a lighthearted, cheerful patter against the cold stone. The drowsy guard looks up, blinking thickly through the slits of his helmet. There’s a protective layer of steel shielding his (rather pudgy) body and hiding his face from view — but somewhere inside that metal bucket, he is smiling. He cannot help it. No-one can. Not even Seeker Pentaghast. Heck, not even the Fereldan members of the Inquisition, who normally recoil at the sound of an Orlesian accent. The Herald just has this effect on people.

 'Good afternoon, Godfrey!' a bright voice chirps, with that telltale soft lilt.

A silhouette of a short, curvy person — half-dwarf, half-elf, a tad bigger than one, a tad smaller than the other — pops up with the flourish of a character in a shadow puppet play. It's inky black against the vivid square of light that floods into the dungeon stairwell from the Chantry’s hall above.

'Is everything all right down here? Flissa sent you your lunch yet? I shared my family’s fruit preserve recipe with her, though there’s not much fruit to choose from, with snow everywhere…'

'Good afternoon m'am!' the guard booms back through the bucket helmet. 'All's well, and thanks for the lunch, to both of you! That was better than anything Andraste cooked for the Maker!'

The Herald snorts with laughter as she approaches Godfrey, tapping lightly at the stone floor with the heels of her well-worn boots, as if she were dancing.

The contrast of light and shadow is now not so stark, and more of her features come into view: the two buns of sleek dark hair, with strands of green woven in, colored with some Orlesian dye. The aquiline nose. The palm-sized, ever so slightly pointed ears. And the large black eyes, which are filled with a genial glow.

‘I heard some Chantry sermons from the humans in my hometown, but I don’t remember the part where Andraste cooked meals for the Maker,' the Herald chuckles.

Godfrey shuffles his feet sheepishly.

'Well, nah... But I figured, even the Maker had to sit down for dinner some time! Maybe He and Andraste take turns cooking, like my old ma and pa did... Please — ' he swivels his head around, rather comically, and looks over his shoulder. 'Please don't tell Mother Giselle or the Lady Seeker that I said that!'

'Don't worry!’

Two soft dimples appear on the Herald’s sun-bronzed cheeks, and she presses her finger against her lips, winking.

'The Canticle of Home-Cooked Meals is safe with me!'

Godfrey breathes a sigh of relief.

'You are awful nice, m'am, for a —'

He stops in mid-sentence and hastens to end it with a loud, awkward sneeze — but fails to deflect the Herald’s attention.

‘I hear that often,’ she says, still smiling — though the light fades from her eyes, a crease cuts across her broad, joined eyebrows, and her jaw hardens, ever so slightly. Godfrey squirms with guilt, as much as his armour allows him.

‘You see someone half the human height, with ears to match, and your mind instantly jumps back and forth between "servant" and “smuggler”… And yet humans are not so quick to let either of my kin learn a trade, no?’

She sighs, and the momentary flash of bitterness on her soft face gives way to sadness.

She shakes her head, chasing the lingering darkness away, and bites into her lower lip to brace herself.

‘The dwarf side of my family was lucky to start a fruit orchard on the surface instead of getting sucked into the Carta… And even then, my sister almost —'

'But that is idle talk. You are a good human, Godfrey, and I know you can do right by me, and the other dwarves in Haven. That is not why I am getting into your…’ she squints hesitantly at the bucket helmet. ‘Your hair? Anyway. I was actually rather hoping... That you would let me talk to the prisoner — alone.’

Godfrey lets out an echoing metallic gasp.

‘But m’am! I can’t just go off and leave you with that... that evil... villain! What if he tries to pull something... blood-magicky?'

'Shush, Godfrey,' the Herald attempts a new smile, but it still looks crooked and forced. 'I have... dealt with him before; I can handle myself. Besides, if he wanted to do something blood-magicky, he would have done so already. Do you know how flimsy the locks are in here? Before the cells started filling up, I would watch Sera — who is a friend, by the way; do not be hard on her — pick them for sport!'

Godfrey mumbles something incoherent, but eventually concedes, clumsily inclining the bucket on his shoulders to look at the Herald's left hand — the source of her wondrous power, which has been helping her slay demons and heal the sky and vanquish evil... villains.

 'Right then,' he says, straining to be heard over the rattle of his key chain, as he fumbles for the key that unlocks the cell. 'I will just... Head out... Drop by at the tavern... And by the time I get back, you better still be alive m'am!'

After the metal door swings open with a dreary creak, and Godfrey ambles off, the Herald freezes on the cell’s threshold. Looking straight ahead, into the rank, slightly humid darkness.

 Even though he must have heard them talking about him, the prisoner never moved an inch. Now too, as the dwarf draws closer and closer to him, bathed in the golden torchlight that does not quite reach his little corner, he refuses to stir.

He is slumped against the far wall, one leg bent slightly in the knee. His face is turned away from her, so that all she can see is the rim of his broad, outlandishly decorated hood, which is now covered in splatters of dirt and smears of mould from contact with stone.

She pauses when there are barely inches of space left to separate them. Then, she swallows, steadies her breath — and, nearly even height with the sitting human, wraps her arms around his shoulders.

Finally shaken out of his stupor, the prisoner shudders violently and lets out a hoarse, hissing curse,

'Kaffas!'

A moment later, he musters some degree of composure; enough for saying curtly,

 'Pardon the language. You startled me with your… arrival. I believe our dealings are completed, Herald. I have submitted to the Inquisition, and now wish to be left in peace. Kindly remove yourself from my cell.’

The dwarf shakes her head, moving a step away yet determined to search his face.

'Not until I say what I came here to say.’

Her voice is quiet yet resolute. The prisoner inhales deeply. As she finally catches a peek of his haggard profile underneath the hood, she sees his weary eyes slide shut.

'And what could that be?' he asks, his voice hollow and expressionless. If you are so eager to gloat, there are many places to do that. Where I can’t see you.’

The dwarf swallows again.

'I wanted to say that I am sorry,' she breathes, her eyes beginning to brim over with tears. 'In... In the future... When the Elder One had taken over the world... I — I had to kill you.’

The prisoner's eyes remain closed.

'Well, we all fought you, actually... ' she corrects herself. 'Cassandra, Leliana, Varric... Even Dorian... had to... strike at you... But — but it was me who made that final blow. And — '

Her voice cracks, and she leans forward again, instinctively gripping at the grimy cloth of the prisoner's once-embellished sleeve.

'And I... held you, bleeding… I looked in the eyes before you... before you slipped away... I am so, so sorry!'

 Something twitches momentarily in the corner of the prisoner's mouth. A ghost of that cold, domineering smile that he gave Grand Enchanter Fiona while announcing that her charges were to join the Imperium's Legion.

'I imagine the experience must have been very gratifying, Herald,' he says venomously. 'I cannot fathom why you would want to apologise.’

'No!’

Her heated, almost pained protest echoes through the dungeon — so loud that it sounds like it’s about to make something crumble.

‘It was not gratifying! It is never gratifying to kill people — not for me! I am a gardener, not a warrior. And even if I was a warrior from the start, I still wouldn’t stop thinking about why every highway robber I “take care of”,’ she mimes very disdainful air quotes, ‘Chose to do what they did… And you... I know what made you choose... all of this. The time magic, the Venatori, the Elder One. It was all to save your son! I — '

A shiver runs up her spine. The prisoner's nostrils quiver; he bites hard into his lower lip and shoots a long glare at the Herald. Yet she continues, undeterred.

‘My eldest sister joined the Grey Wardens many years ago... After the Fifth Blight ended and the Hero of Ferelden vanished, Empress Celene sent her to Amaranthine… to rebuild… And I ran away from home, all the way from Orlais, to visit her.’

She swallows a hard lump.

‘I was scarcely eighteen back then, and I thought it was going to be some grand adventure, but — but instead, I saw the darkspawn come back. I saw an entire city almost fall to the Blight. And I saw what the Taint does to people.’

Her fingers twist and lace frantically together; a moment more like this, and she might start snapping her own bones.

‘It’s — it’s easy to understand why you’d break the world to prevent that terrible darkness from claiming someone you love. I am not saying you are a poor innocent lamb, but I… I understand.’

'Well, I failed, did I not?'

The prisoner still tries to sound sarcastic, but his voice barely escapes from his thin, ashen lips. 'The world is far from being broken, and — '

He scrapes together at least some shreds of strength to make the next sentence sound like a harsh, ringing slap.

'And I think you have outstayed your welcome, Herald.’

He pointedly turns away again, apparently intent on glaring a smoking hole through his prison wall.

‘If I am to be your captive, at least allow me some share of dignity. You were not making a grand discovery when you said I was not innocent. I know that. I will spend my final hours pondering that. Your sympathy is not required.’

The Herald throws her head up, seeming to add a couple inches to her modest height. Behind her, the torch chokes and splutters, suddenly producing a burst of light bright enough to touch the prisoner… Before it sizzles off.

'There will be no talk of final hours. Whatever happens next — whatever the Inquisition decides to do with you... I will vouch for you. No-one who was in that future with me will die a second time. Not Cassandra. Not Varric. Not Leliana. Not Fiona. And not you.’

[selchwife]

also like

for fic purposes i want to reduce the time it takes to get out of heaven bc the Haven part is not good. i had been planning to just remove the whole mother giselle and val royeaux visit.

replaying it again, i’m. Confused? i don’t know if i’m stupid, or perhaps insane, but the logic of that whole section feels so dreamlike. you as the player know you need to enlist the help of either templars or mages. Ok. you need the chantry to not hate you??? for some reason?? even though they are massively disorganized atm, have basically no way to enforce their will since the Templars have fucked off (essentially established BEFORE the shit with lord seeker lucius even), and can’t really do much to help OR hinder you. then the leaders of the two factions are. In val royeaux? I guess bc they know you’re there, but i feel like inquisition does this thing where the time and effort involved in international travel within its setting is never really given any weight, so people just show up anywhere like this.

idk like i think this setup is dumb and nonsensical. sure, the breach has been stabilized, but still. why waste time courting the chantry when it’s literally too disorganized to make any particular difference and that time could be better spent in contact with one of the groups that’s actually immediately relevant to fixing the giant fucking fade hole. like even if the concern was the chantry organizing itself and launching a counteroffensive it would be a more reasonable gambit in my opinion to go on with closing the breach before they can do that to begin with. problem solves itself. Am i insane for this

[antivano]

The Ultimate DA: I OC Questionnaire.

Hi DA fandom! I’m seven years late to the party. A few years ago I whipped up this huge DA: I questions template and never released it but I figured why not. It’s got 22 parts and almost 200 questions, free to be modified to your liking for other websites as long as there’s credit. It’s very packed and full, and is all located under the cut. I would strongly recommend copy pasting everything underneath the cut and turning it into your own post (please like/reblog if you do, and tag me in it if you want to!) for your own ease, but you’re welcome to just reblog it and fill it in from there.  Without further ado, the ultimate DA: I OC questionnaire. Enjoy! 

THE ULTIMATE DA: I INQUISITOR QUESTIONNAIRE by @antivano.

Basics. 1. 1 Introduce the Inquisitor! Name, age, race, gender, sexuality, birthday, class.   1. 2 Any reasons for these choices? Are they named after anyone?   1. 3 Are they happy with who they are? Do they wish they had a different name, another gender or race, wish to be born with/out magic?   1. 4 Does your Inquisitor stick to canon origin stories, or did you change it to fit your story? I.E is your dwarf Inquisitor a mage, is your “rogue archer” Inquisitor secretly a mage, etc.   1. 5 Do they have any artistic, singing, dancing talents? Anything that stands out? Any hobbies?  

Appearance. 2. 1 Give a detailed description of what they look like, or add a picture!   2. 2 How do they view themselves physically? Do they believe they’re attractive, or have low self-esteem? Is there any one particular thing about themselves they wish they could change?   2. 3 What about mentally? How do they view who they are as a person? Do they believe they’re a good person? Bad? Do they like or dislike who they are? 2. 4 Do they have any scars, and if so, how and where did they get them? Why were the wounds not healed with magic? Any tattoos or piercings? If they have vallaslin, what colour is the ink? At what age did they get it and what does it represent? Do they regret any of those choices?   2. 5 If they have vallaslin, how did they feel about learning the truth behind it?   2. 6 Which voice out of the four options do they have, or do you have a voiceclaim for them? What about faceclaims?  

Personality and views.   3. 1 What kind of person are they? Give a detailed description of their personality. Are they friendly, broody, quick-tempered, impatient, etc? Flaws and strengths?   3. 2 How do they view other species/races? 3. 3 How did they react to suddenly being in charge? Are they a natural born leader, or are they waiting for the first chance to escape?   3. 4 Does their personality change during the events of the game? How so?   3. 5 What is their opinion on magic, templars, seekers, apostates, blood mages/blood magic, the chantry?   3. 6 If a non-mage, do they have any former templar training? How did they get into it?   3. 7 Any political views within Thedas that stand out?   3. 8 How do they view the countries of Thedas? Do any of their views stand out as noteworthy? How do they view Tevinter and the controversy surrounding it?   3. 9 How do they feel about the fall of Arlathan and the Dales? Do they hold all humans accountable? If dalish, does it hurt to think about, or is it so far in the past that they’re detached? Does their opinion on these things change upon learning what truly happened to Arlathan?   3. 10 What are their religious views? If dalish, how do they react upon learning that the Old Gods were just powerful mages? How do they feel about them being locked away? Do they feel abandoned, betrayed, angry? 3. 11 What are some of their favourite things in all of Thedas? The ocean, baby nugs, the colour silver, rainy nights? Any reasons?   3. 12 What is their greatest wish, hope, dream? What is their greatest fear? How do these things affect who they are?  

Skills.   4. 1 What was their fighting skill like before they were sent to the conclave? Did they know how to fight, or were they thrown into the fray?   4. 2 How does this improve during their time in the Inquisition? If a mage, do they have any knowledge of how to use swords, daggers, or bows? Were they self-taught?   4. 3 How do they deal with combat? Do they drag it out, hack and slash, or get it over with as fast as possible? How do they feel about death and killing? Was their first kill during the Inquisition, or have they killed before that? How did they cope with it?    

Backstory.   5. 1 What’s their backstory?   5. 2 What were they like as a toddler, child, teenager, and now as an adult? 5. 3 Any traumatic or noteworthy incidents that have stayed with them? How did they cope with it?   5. 4 What is the greatest tragedy that has ever happened to them? How did it shape who they are? 5. 5 Do they know the Hero of Ferelden or anyone from Origins? How and when did they meet? Do they still keep in contact?   5. 6 What about Hawke or anyone from DA2? If so, does Varric know that Hawke and the Inquisitor know one another?   5. 7 How did they feel about being sent to the conclave? Did they volunteer or was it forced upon them?   5. 8 Are they happy with where they come from? Do they wish they had a higher or lower standing in society? Have they run away, or wanted to?   Family.   6. 1 What are the names of their parents? Are they living or dead? What are or were they like? Does the Inquisitor have a healthy relationship with them?   6. 2  Any siblings, nieces, nephews? Tell us about them.   6. 3 Any children that the Inquisition does or doesn’t know about? Why do they keep their children a secret, if so? Are they mixed race? Where are they now, who do they live with? How do they feel about their parent being named Herald of Andraste? If none, does the Inquisitor want children in the future? Talk about them here. 6. 4 What was their family home like growing up? Did they stay in one place or move around a lot?   6. 5 Who is the Inquisitors closest friend? How did they become friends? Was it always a happy friendship or was it enemies-to-friends? How has it evolved or crumbled during the Inquisition?   6. 6 Is there anyone they aren’t on good terms with? Anyone they can’t stand? Either individual people or organizations (Red Templars, etc). Why so?  

Romance.   7. 1 Did the Inquisitor romance anyone from the Inquisition, or were they solo?   7. 2 When did they first begin to have feelings for their love interest?   7. 3 Was there a break up? Was it permanent, or did they rekindle? Are they still friends?   7. 4 How do they feel about their relationship? Is it serious, or fun?   7. 5 Do they fight often? What is it most often about?   7. 6 Are they a flirt?   7. 7 Do they want to marry their love interest, or is it not on their mind right now?  

Misc.   8. 1 Do they have a favourite place in all of Thedas? Is there anywhere they’d hate to be?   8. 2 Do you have a playlist for the Inquisitor? A theme song?   8. 3 Do they carry around anything significant to them that has sentimental value?   8. 4 What languages can they speak? Were they self taught?   8. 5 Have they ever been arrested outside of the conclave explosion? If so, what was it for? How long was their sentence? Did they escape or were they let go?   8. 6 Have they ever been drunk? When was their first time being drunk? What are they like being drunk? Do they get any hangovers or do anything they regret?   8. 7 Are they addicted to anything? Have they tried to stop? How does it affect their stay in the Inquisition?  

Pick Your Party.   9. 0 Who does the Inquisitor most often bring with them on quests? Do you pick this based on who they’d want with them, or who you as a player needs at the time?   9. 0. 0 Do you make decisions based on your Inquisitor in a roleplay sense, or do you make decisions based on what you as a player wants?   9. 1 What were their first opinions of the companions and advisors?   9. 2 How does their relationship with them change during the game? Have they grown closer or further apart?   9. 3 If allied with the mages, does the Inquisitor and Dorian share a bond from being trapped in a destroyed future together, or were they able to brush it off easily with no impact?   9. 4 Did they help Blackwall find the Grey Warden objects? Did they go out of their way to find them, or was it just right place right time?   9. 5 Did they help Cassandra hunt down the missing Seekers? How did they feel about finding out the truth of the seekers and tranquility?   9. 6 Did Cassandra rebuild the Seekers?   9. 7 How did they react to Cassandra’s love for Varric’s books? Did they help, or tease her? Have they ever read Varric’s books?   9. 8 Did they help Dorian hunt down Venatori agents? How do they feel about the Venatori?   9. 9 What happened during the events of Dorian and his father? Was the Inquisitor supportive?   9. 10 How does the Inquisitor feel about Mother Giselle?   9. 11 Did the Inquisitor become a Red Jenny?   9. 12 What became of Harmons? Did Sera kill him? If so, how did the Inquisitor react?   9. 13 Did they help Solas retrieve the elven artifact? Did they help Mirhis? Was there a fight for the amulet? 9. 14 Did they help Solas and his spirit friend? Was the demon killed by the Inquisitor? 9. 15 Were the Chargers sacrificed? Why or why not?   9. 16 Did they help Varric with the red lyrium, and with Bianca? How did they feel upon learning that lyrium is alive?   9. 17 Did they bring a real Snowy Wyvern heart to Vivienne, or a fake one? How did they react to Vivienne's beloved?   9. 18 How did they react to Cullen’s lyrium addiction? Did they help Cullen become clean?   9. 19 How do they feel about Krem? Have they ever met an Aqun-Athlok before?   9. 20 How do they react to Zevran and the Crows? Do they know anything about them? Do they keep in contact?

Finding a Safe Haven.   10. 1 What was their reaction upon being locked up? Did they immediately resent Cassandra (and/or Leliana) for it?   10. 2 Did they try to escape before reaching the breach? Did they consider killing anyone to escape?   10. 3 What was their reaction upon learning that they could seal rifts?   10. 4 What’s their opinion on Haven? Is it too cold for them, too loud, too quiet?   10. 5 What is their opinion on Roderick? What about other minor characters within Haven?   10. 6 Which path did they take to get to the breach? What was their reason? Do they feel guilty about the casualties of the other path?   10. 7 How do they react to being named the Herald of Andraste? Do they ask people not to call them that, or do they wear the title proudly? How do they feel about Andraste and the Maker in general?   Mages, Templars, Seekers, (oh my!)   11. 1 Did they choose to ally with the templars or with the mages? Why? Did they take their companions opinions into consideration or was their mind set?   11. 2 How do they feel about the conflict? Do they think it’s time the mages got their freedom no matter how, or are they staunchly pro-circle?   11. 3 How do they react to the templars and seekers going rogue? Is it a surprise?   11. 4 How does the Inquisitor react to learning of the plot to ally with Tevinter? Do they agree with it, or blame Fiona?   11. 4 How do they feel about Alexius and Felix? What was their reaction to Felix's letter? Did they trust it, or were they suspicious? 11. 5 Did they care about Felix's illness, or was it unimportant to them? Would they have tried to help him, if they could? How did they react to the events of the potential future?   11. 6 How did they react to meeting the King or Queen? What do they think of King Alistair or Queen Anora?   11. 7 How did they react upon gaining the support of the templars/mages? Were they glad to be surrounded by them, or did they wish to be as far away from them as possible? 11. 8 Did they want to relax, after gaining the support of the templars/mages, or did they want to celebrate?   11. 9 How did they react to Corypheus and Samson/Calpernia? 11. 10 Did the Inquisitor try to save as many people as possible? Did they feel guilty about the ones they couldn't save? 11. 11 How does the Inquisitor feel about being a distraction for Corypheus while Haven flees? Did they volunteer?   11. 12 How do they react to being lost? Did they walk until their legs give out, or did they want to curl into a ball of fear? How do they react to being found by Cullen and Cassandra? Did it change their dynamic with either of them?   11. 13 How do they feel about being chosen as leader of the Inquisition? 11. 14 How do they react to Solas telling them the orb is of elven origin?  

Skyhold.   12. 1 What are their thoughts on Skyhold as a whole? Do they get lost easily? Any favourite areas or areas that they’ve decorated?   12. 2 Do they change the appearance of Skyhold often with throne replacement or banner decorations? Does the Inquisition object to it?   12. 3 How do they generally judge people in trials? Are they lenient or brutal? Do they enjoy being a judge, or would they rather pass the responsibility to someone else? Do they visit prisoners? 12. 5 Any noteworthy trials?   12. 6 Does your Inquisitor generally use Force, Secrets, or Connections to complete War Table Operations? Why? What does the Inquisitor usually spend Inquisition Perks on?   12. 7 Do they have any pets? What mount do they most often ride?  

Phoenix. 13. 1 How does the Inquisitor react to Hawkes presence? Do they get along? Do they agree? Do the tales live up to the reality? 13. 2 Who is Hawke? Mage? Sarcastic? Did they romance anyone? Is their partner with them in Skyhold, or did they stay behind?  

Here lies my heart. 14. 1 Who is the Warden contact, and how does the Inquisitor feel about them? Have they met them before? Do they spend time with the contact at all outside of combat and quests?   14. 2 How do they react to the letter the Hero of Ferelden sends? Do they write back? Do the Warden and the Inquisitor then keep in contact?   14. 3 How do they feel about The Calling?   14. 4 What is their opinion on the Wardens? Did they know anything about them beforehand? Have they ever met a Warden before the contact? 14. 5 Would they join the Wardens, if they could?   14. 6 How does the Inquisitor react to Warden-Commander Clarel?   14. 7 Did they bring Blackwall along? If so, are they suspicious that he never heard the Calling? Does it raise red-flags?   14. 8 Did they intend to open a portal to the Fade, or was it accidental? 14. 9 How do they react to being in the Fade again? Do they have nightmares about it afterwards?   14. 10 Do they believe the spirit they encounter is truly Divine Justinia?   14. 11 How do they react to the revelation regarding the Wardens’ involvement in the Conclave attack? Do they exile the Wardens?   14. 12 What would the Nightmare say to the Inquisitor?   14. 13 How do they react to learning it was the Divine behind them in the Fade, not Andraste? Does it break their spirit, or are they relieved? 14. 14 What would be on the Inquisitors tombstone? What about Hawkes? 14. 15 What else do the Fearlings take the shape of, or are they all giant spiders? 14. 16 Who do they leave behind in the Fade? Any guilt or regret? Why do they choose this person? If Alistair or Hawke, how does the Warden or Hawke’s love interest react to their death?   14. 17 How do they respond to Varric if Hawke dies? Do they comfort him? Does it change their dynamic?    

No Rest for the Wicked. 15. 1 What is their opinion on returning to Orlais? 15. 2 How do they feel about the ball? Are they excited? How do they feel about the clothes they're wearing? 15. 3 Is the Inquisition confident that the Inquisitor will succeed at the ball, or is there a fear that they'll be kicked out within five minutes? Is the Inquisitor the belle of the ball, or do they barely scrape by?   15. 4 What happened during the ball? Any romance? Did they gather coins, secrets?   15. 5 How does the Inquisitor react to Briala? Celene? Gaspard? Do they agree with Briala? 15. 6 What becomes of Orlais? Who holds the throne?   15. 7 Does the Inquisitor dance with anyone?   15. 8 What is their first impression of Morrigan? Does this change during the events of the game? Do they spend time together? How do they feel about Kieran? Who is Kieran's father? Do they meet? How does the Inquisitor react to Kieran's parentage? 15. 9 How do they feel about the Orlesian Game? 15. 10 Are they a good dancer, or do they have two left feet?

Pride and Prejudice.   16. 1 Does the Inquisitor take the Pilgrim’s Path, or fight their way through? What is their reason for this? 16. 2 Does the Inquisitor ally with Abelas or Morrigan? How do they feel about Abelas? Does it change their view of Elves at all?   16. 3 If Dalish, does Morrigan's attitude annoy them at all? Do they confront her?   16. 4 Do they drink from the Well of Sorrows? Why or why not? If so, does it change them at all?  

Run, Kieran, Run!   17. 1 How do they react to the disappearance of Kieran? Are they worried? 17. 2 How do they first react to Flemeth, and then Mythal? 17. 3 If they drank from the Well, how do they react from discovering they are now the servant of Mythal? Are they fearful, determined to find a way out of it, or do they believe she holds no power over them? 17. 4 How do they react to finding out who Kieran really is?    

Hope Will Never Die. 18. 1 How does the Inquisitor feel about facing Corypheus for the last time? Do they feel confident? Do they believe they will survive the encounter? How do they cope with the possibility of failure? Are there any tearful farewells?   18. 2 How do they react to the broken orb? 18. 3 How do they react to defeating Corypheus? Are they relieved, unnerved? Are they in disbelief? 18. 4 If they drank from the Well, did the Dragon they mastered survived, or was it killed in the fight with Corypheus's dragon? How do they react to now having a pet Dragon? Does it serve them, or fly away after the battle? 18. 5 How did they feel about Solas's disappearance?

I Know the Mark Like the Back of My Hand. 19. 1 How do they feel about the Anchor? Is it sacred to them? Do they hate it? Have they tried to remove it?   19. 2 Does it hurt? How much? 19. 3 Does it control them, or do they control it?   19. 4 Can they do any fun tricks with it? 19. 5 Has it gotten them into trouble? (ex; glowing in a dungeon and alerting enemies)

Jaws of Hakkon. 20. 1 How do they react upon learning that they will be investigating the fate of the last Inquisitor? 20. 2 Do they gain an alliance with the Avvar? 20. 3 How do they feel about the Avvar?   20. 4 How do they react to Telana? How do they react to her Dreamer abilities? 20. 5 How do they react to discovering the truth of Ameridan? Does this change their opinion of history? If Dalish, how much does it affect them to discover that they were an elven mage?   20. 6 Do they vow to tell the world the truth, or do they continue letting people believe that Ameridan was a human noble? 20. 7 What becomes of Storvacker?  

The Descent.   21. 1 How do they feel about the Deep Roads? Did they find the scenery beautiful, unnerving? Are they afraid of heights? 21. 2 How do they feel about Valta and Renn? 21. 3 Did they believe in the Titans? 21. 4 How did they react to Renn's death? 21. 5 How did they react to the truth of Titan's? 21. 6 How did they react to being inside a Titan? 21. 7 How did they react to Valta using magic? 21. 8 ow did they react to Valta staying in the Deep Roads? Were they concerned for her safety? Did they send search parties to later look for her? Any headcanons of what became of her?

Trespasser. 22. 1 How has the Inquisitor changed in two years? What have they been up to?   22. 2 How has the relationships with the Inquisition changed? 22. 3 How has their love life been? 22. 4 Are they happy to get back into the fray, or annoyed? Were they hoping for peace and quiet? 22. 5 How do they feel about Bann Teagan?   22. 6 How do they feel about the people's wish for the Inquisition to be disbanded? Does the Inquisitor agree? 22. 7 How do they feel about the Qunari being involved? 22. 7 Do they suspect Solas of being involved, or does it come as a complete shock? 22. 8 How do they feel about the ancient elven city beyond the Eluvians? 22. 9 How do they react to finding out Solas is Fen'Harel? Did they ever have even a small hint or suspicion that something about Solas wasn't right? 22. 10 How do they feel about Fen'Harel in general? Has it changed their opinion of him?   22. 11 How do they react to their mark flaring up again? Are they angry? Do they become frightened? 22. 12 Do they believe that the fight with the Viddasala will kill them? Do they say goodbye to their companions? What about their love interest?   22. 13 How do they feel about Fen'Harel's plan? Do they agree with him or vow to stop him? 22. 14 How do they react to their arm being ripped off? How do they cope with it? Was it a relief to be rid of the mark? How do they adjust to life without it? Do they use magic to compensate? How does their love interest help them?   22. 15 Do they get married? How is their marriage? What was the celebration like? 22. 16 What becomes of the Inquisition? What was the reason for the Inquisitor’s choice?   22. 17 What happens after Trespasser? How is the Thedas looking? What are your headcanons?

[theharellan]

Who Am I in Your Arms?

Written for Stories of Thedas Volume II Pairing: NB!Lavellan x Solas Prompt: Hair

In the aftermath of Wisdom's passing Solas takes the first steps towards moving on from its death, though this time he need not do it alone.

Trigger warning for suicidal ideation and depression / derealisation.

Read on AO3.

Light strains through the open window, highlighting the dust suspended in the air by the morning breeze. With each sigh of wind from the mountains’ peaks it rises anew, kept aloft in perpetuity each time it begins to sink to the bedroom floor. Solas watches from his back as the light that flows through open windows grows longer, reluctant to acknowledge the fast-approaching noon and all the duty that comes with it.

He does not truly know how long he lies there, looking idly up at the ceiling, neither dreaming nor truly awake. From a distance he recognises the sound of Mother Giselle calling to a Chantry Sister and sees the shadow of a passer-by darken the window momentarily, but these notes are brief and fleeting, skirting over his consciousness without room to take root. The doorknob turns, latch unhooking with a click, force of habit compelling him to look. His eyes meet Ian’s as the door swings ajar, and he suddenly wishes he had at least sat up before he’d entered. “You’re awake,” Ian says. Relief quiets the tension he held between his brow, a look too soft to be meant for him steals across his face as he settles beside him, the mattress sinking with a sigh beneath his weight. “I was afraid- I- I was—” As he fumbles with his words he struggles with removing a leather glove from his left hand, finding the thought only when the last finger was wrested from him. “I didn’t want to wake you.”

“You didn’t.”

“Good.” His bare hand leans upon Solas’ cheek, touch cool and calming against his face.

“What time is it?”

“You’re needed nowhere for the moment,” Ian answers the more honest question on his behalf. “I just needed— I wanted to see if you were alright.”

It is an answer Solas isn’t certain he can give neither one way nor the other. He is of sound body and sound mind, and for many those two alone would be enough to suffice. “Thank you,” Solas mutters, having little to offer but his gratitude and an affectionate peck to his palm. Perhaps sensing the answer Solas is reluctant to give, Ian’s smile pinches, straining with concern. Guilt twinges in his gut, and he averts his eyes, penitent. “Ir abelas, Vhenan. I did not mean to worry you again.”

A soft laugh sighs through Ian’s lips, though it sounds sad to his ears. “You don’t need to be sorry, Solas. Not unless it helps.” He recognises the refrain as one oft-repeated to Ian, spoken in his own voice when Ian’s troubles wind too tightly around his heart. To hear it said to assuage his sorrows stings, no matter how much he may need to hear it. The hand at his cheek guides his gaze up, his hollow stare feeling all the more empty when beheld in Ian’s kind eyes. They scan from left to right, reading the expression on his face as though he’d opened up a well-loved book. A thumb scarred by gardener’s shears draws a smooth line across his cheekbone.

Ian’s hand glides around the side of his head, meeting resistance as his fingers cup the back delicately. “Your hair…” he says with a laugh in his breath, a hint of wonder colours his tone leaves Solas humbled. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen so much of it before.” Fingertips idle along the nape of his neck, moving across the rough beginnings of an auburn hairline, but for Solas’ part his eyes remain transfixed upon Ian’s face. He memorises the way amusement works its way across his lips, until his teeth press down upon them, trying and failing to tamp down his growing grin. Hazel eyes fall suddenly to his and then away, pink shame heating his cheeks. “Sorry.”

Solas rises, detouring to brush his lips against Ian’s, which still bear the impression of his teeth. “You’ve no more to be sorry for than I,” he says, then as an afterthought grazes his hand over his head. A fine layer of hair has sprouted, coarse, like sharkskin against his palm. “And you are correct, it is long past time I shaved.”

“Oh, you— you’re… I thought-”

“That I intended to grow it out?” he finishes Ian’s thought, picking it up where he had dropped it. “No, and I suspect I won’t for some time.” He slides open the top drawer of his dresser and rifles through, not looking but feeling for his razor. Fingers brush against brittle dried herbs and crumpled notes too important to throw away yet irrelevant enough that he does not remember why they are here, rooting through the ephemera of his everyday life before they find what they seek.

“Typically my magic minimises the upkeep, but then…” He thinks back upon the last few weeks, how time bled together and one moment tripped into the next. Hardly a thimbleful of effort had been expended upon the simple day-to-days. “I suppose I have had other matters on my mind.”

Wisdom’s death still weighs heavily upon him. Though he had told the Inquisitor the powers which willed it into being still exist and there may again be a being who called itself Wisdom, it is a cold comfort. The moments they shared are now his alone to remember. In his grief he strains to recall every memory, summoning details of bygone ages, despair curling one cold finger around his heart as their edges begin to blur. Guilt bores into him as he tries to remember what face Wisdom wore the first time they met.

“Solas?” His hand must have lingered too long, his stillness speaking to a persistent pain he struggles to give voice, yet Ian hears it regardless. He releases the breath held captive in his lungs as Ian’s hand folds over his. Their scars align, matching together as alike rhymes in a poem might. “Would you like me to do it for you?” Solas doesn’t answer right away, mind too full of memories to fully feel the present, and in that silence Ian finds the time to doubt. “If you’d rather do it yourself…” he ventures. The hand over his squeezes affectionately, comfortingly.

“No,” he finds his voice. When he tears his sights away from their intertwined fingers, he discovers Ian’s gaze leveled with his own and offers him a thin smile. “No. I’d welcome the offer.”

Before he releases his grip on Solas, he pulls his knuckles to his lips, pressing them against the places where errant magic had marked him centuries ago. He feels the ghost of his affection as he pulls his hand back, thumb stroking the place where Ian kissed him to keep the memory alive upon his skin. “You should sit,” Ian says, motioning with his head towards the empty seat shoved in the corner of the room. It’s as near a command as Ian will ever give outside the Inquisition’s healing tents. “I can take care of everything.”

A simple sentiment, yet ambitious. His first instinct is to doubt, but not all the lessons from the past few weeks left bruises. Trust is a muscle that atrophies through disuse, stretching it again strains even on fairweather days, but he accommodates Ian’s command, sinking into the cushioned stool he works from on quiet evenings.

He watches in silence as Ian takes stock of his tools, hands touching each in succession until they are accounted for. As he pours water into a shallow dish Solas’ throat scratches, realising he had not had so much as a gulp of water since the night before. It is as refreshing on his head as it would be on his lips, however, spread by a wrung out towel across his scalp. Thin streams trickle down his neck and beneath his nightshirt, provoking shivers as they slide along the crevice of his spine.

“You’ve— there’s more here than I’m used to working with,” Ian says, hovering over the instruments at his disposal. “Do I use the oil before or after?”

“Before,” he answers, “I use the cream after.” Out of the corner of his eye he sees Ian nod then reach for a small vial with a glass stopper. He pours a pool no wider than the average silver crown into a cupped hand and spreads it carefully over the top of his head, working the oil into the skin of his scalp. A few deliberate strokes and his eyelids grow heavy, head tilting into the sensation. A small snort of amusement issues from Ian’s nose, but he says nothing. With fingers still slick with a thin coat of oil he rubs along his hairline, feathering coarse hair with his thumbs. It scratches pleasantly in his ears, and he muses to himself if he may be persuaded to keep it at this length, on the condition that it were afforded this attention every day.

It’s a disappointment, then, when his hands at last fall away, busying themselves with the soap. He scrapes a few shavings into a shallow bowl and tops it with water measured with his eyeballs, working with the confidence of someone who has done this before. “These steps are familiar to you,” he notes.

“The last thing any surgeon needs is to close a stray hair in an open wound,” he says, “or to let it cloud your view.”

“I suspected as much.” What faith Ian has in himself lies mostly in his duty, beyond the walls of the infirmary it is as unreliable as the wind, and about as difficult to catch.

“I haven’t… this is the first time I’ve shaved anyone’s head, though. It’s mostly legs, or arms, or beards— sometimes backs.” The thin layer of bubbles quickly stirs to a thick, soapy pillow which rises higher than the bowl it was concocted in. “I never knew how much hair humans had until the Blight.”

The conjured image of Blackwall’s scurrying naked through Skyhold comes to mind, the hair on his back as black as his beard, and he spares a small smile at the Warden’s expense.

He strokes the brush over his head, drawing small overlapping circles across the top of his skull. Foam snaps behind his ears, bubbles burst by the bristles as Ian passes over a second time, leaving no inch of stubble uncoated.

“I don’t… I- tell me if it hurts,” he says. Setting the brush aside, he reaches for the razor, examining the blade against the light for flaws before he’s satisfied, although he waits for an affirmative nod before he dares hold it against his scalp.

It glides smoothly beside his skin, flowing with the grain of his hair. The scraping sound is no less unpleasant as he recalls, but painless. Ian handles the blade with a surgeon’s precision. He watches him from the corner of a hand mirror laid on the desk, every so often his reflection vanishing to wash off the soap and hair built upon the razor’s edge. A look of concentration screws his expression, the boughs of Mythal’s blood bending across his brow. Not so serious as when he works, the faint impression of a smile turns the corners of his mouth. The same lips he ruminates upon the shape of in the pages of his journal, the same smile whose corners he dreamt of kissing. They click apart, and, recognising the beginning of a question upon them, something within Solas sits up straighter.

“How long have you kept it this way?”

Their eyes meet through their reflections. Ian pauses to allow Solas his answer, wiping away the excess of hair dirtying the blade in a discarded cloth. As a question it’s innocent enough, but pries at memories he’d sooner bury. Like too many answers, he’s forced to weigh his head against his heart before he speaks.

“Not as long as you might suspect.” Once it was as long as his memory, and in each thread laid a name, a lesson, a thought. With each tragedy he sheared it shorter, until at last he could bear it no more. “What time I spent on my hair I realised I’d prefer to spend elsewhere.” The lie does not come as easily as he would like, even if— as had all the ones which came before it— it lies rooted in truth. He feels it strain against the knife when he speaks, pressure mounting in his temple, as though daring him to continue with his deception. Ian is quick to retreat, murmuring a soft reminder not to speak when he’s cutting, though he can hardly hear it through the fog in his head.

His first waking breath in this world felt like a dagger between his ribs. He choked on reality itself as he stumbled from his dreams, hair dragging past his ankles, tangled with generations of birds’ nests and hollow around his ears. It should have echoed with the dirge of an empire, but instead there was nothing, and somehow that was worse. His first cut was clumsy, blood dripped down his temple and sank into the creases of his hands, but he persisted. Each time he cut himself upon the sharp edges of the world it felt like justice, even if in his heart he knew it could never be enough.

Ian wields it without malice. The same blade which a week ago might have carved a red necklace across his throat now glides harmlessly over his skin, guided by tender hands that could name all the world’s cruelty but acts with none.

He swallows, throat thick with sentiment he’d believed too numb to harm him. Every day affection like he has never known rises in him like a force of nature, blooming with all the strength of springtime. If some small part of him had ever laboured under the belief that indulging those feelings would abate them, it’s been proven the fool. He loves Ian more now than the day he felt love’s first stirrings behind his ribs, but it does not come by him gracefully.

Love sticks in his throat like his grief. Tears spring into his eyes, the image of Ian’s reflection in the mirror clouded by droplets suspended between his lashes. He holds his breath behind his teeth to keep himself steady, pressure building beneath his chest ‘til he has no choice but to release. The sour, sterile scent of soap coats his nostrils as he measures his breath, careful not to let it hitch. As he hears Ian pause to clean the blade, he turns his face to the corner of the room to disguise his expression in the moments their eyes might meet through the mirror.

Love spills onto his cheeks, hands balling the fabric of his trousers as the first drop splashes his knuckles. The blade’s touch is as soft as a kiss upon his skin, scraping off the shadows missed during their first pass over his skull, and then set aside.

Love sees his sorrow and pulls him back against his chest, narrow arms enveloping him in their embrace.

A high, shuddering inhale whistles through Solas’ nose and though he reaches for stillness, today he finds himself wanting. The world surges forth like the first snowmelt of spring in the wake of an overlong winter, and he can do nothing to curb its strength. He claps his hand against his mouth, too late to suffocate the sob that wracks his shoulders, too weak to stifle the guilt-ridden cry that chases it. Ugly tears stain his cheeks, wielded like weapons to pry undeserved sympathy from the hands of his beloved, despite the effort he’d put forth to quell them.

A kiss crowns his forehead, ignorant of the guilt his grief springs from. An apology hangs upon the tip of his tongue, begging to be voiced and denied its release, knowing in his heart any forgiveness granted will be unearned.

Perhaps Ian hears the intent in the strangled sound he makes, for he moves to assuage his worries. Another kiss adorns his brow as he kneels before him, occupying the space between his knees. With both hands he reaches up and cradles his face between his palms, tenderly swiping away the sorrow from his cheeks. Their eyes meet through the veil of his tears, Ian’s shining with their own sadness as they hold his gaze. When Wisdom was taken, he’d held him just as he does now, until Solas remembered how to coax the air back into his lungs. So much had changed since that morning, and yet so little. Ian looks at him with the same eyes and holds him with the same hands. It is a disquieting revelation, knowing his worth does not lessen the more he is known; all the rage and misery Ian witnessed in him these past few weeks hasn’t lessened the love in his eyes.

From that love a cruel hope springs, born in the part of him which dares entertain the truth. Dares to ask if Ian would show the same compassion to the elf who had woken a year and change ago and mistook the world for empty.

The thought twists in him like a knife, and his expression contorts. Whatever peace he’d found comes apart at the seams, eyes screwing shut as tears spring anew from their corners. He turns his cheek into Ian’s palm, shoulders shaking with the force of the sobs he denies himself. Fingertips bend, coaxing him closer, and he obliges, nesting himself in the crook of Ian’s neck. The scarf he buries his nose in smells like his pipe and he can still bask in the warmth of the sun upon the copper curls that whisper in his ear. The hands that cut the bitter memories from his skin hold him without abandon, squeezing as he begins to weep anew. Protracted sobs wrack his body until his lungs ache in his chest, but Ian’s grip never falters, never fails. In his arms he knows himself as never before.

The shadows in their room narrow as the midday sun passes over Skyhold and the dust in the air mingles with what little hair he’d had to his name, carried upwards by the slightest breeze beneath the doorframe. In the sweepings he sheds his grief and carries forward what remains: his duty, his regret, and his love.

[aria-i-adagio]

Mudlark

aka. Chapter 46 of Where the Elfroot Grows (read on AO3)

---

Rhys Trevelyan - Fucking Herald of Andraste and newly appointed Lord Fucking Inquisitor - kneels on the warm ground of Skyhold’s garden, ripping out weeds with his bare hands, getting dirt all over his trousers, and trying his best to enjoy the autumn sun in peace. The walls of the garden are working as they should, collecting and trapping the heat of the day, even as the shadows cast by the trees begin to grow long. It’s brilliant engineering, even more brilliant than he thought at first. Even at lower elevations, the season for pears and applies should have passed, but the trees here are still producing. He suspects some sort of enchantment built into the walls to amplify the natural effects of the design, but he hasn’t been able to clear enough growth to uncover all the stonework. He’d have finished days ago. Except for Leliana and Cassandra interrupting his plans to declare him Inquisitor.

He’s as close to alone as he’s likely to manage anytime soon. Mother Giselle wandered into the chapel a half hour or so ago either to pray or to work on cleaning and repairing the ancient statue. She’d probably tell him that work and prayer are much the same if one has the right attitude of devotion to Andraste’s teachings and the Maker’s will. He heard the sound of other feet in the gallery a bit after Mother Giselle passed followed by the scraping of a chair being pulled into a desirable spot. Someone might be there still, but whoever it is, they aren’t bothering him, just trying to get a break of their own from the general cacophony of a hundred or so people trying to make Skyhold fully habitable.

It shouldn’t bother him so; it wasn’t as though he’d ever had space to himself in the Circle, but there’s something very different about being in charge of more than seedlings. And Inquisitor feels so much more permanent, so much heavier, than Herald.

Josie kidnapped him promptly after breakfast and trapped him in meetings all day. First with Leliana about the couriers she would be sending: to the Inquisition camps around Redcliffe, to the Chantry, to the College of Enchanters, to Queen Anora in Denerim, to Orzammar, maybe to the Queen of Antiva. Rhys had honestly lost count at a certain point, even though he did his best to read the ones she wanted him to sign. They were all variations on the same theme - an announcement that the Inquisition had survived the destruction of Haven, a reminder that they were responsible for closing the Breach, and requests for supports to oppose Corypheus.

Then, Rutherford and Cassandra wanted to discuss the soldier’s progress repairing an old road that ran through a pass between Ferelden and Orlais, just under the peak on which Skyhold sits. Rutherford says the road is in shockingly good condition and mostly only needs a bit of clearing a few holes filled to be usable by caravans. At the moment, the engineers can’t explain why it was abandoned, as once opened the route will save a significant amount of time transporting products between Orlais and the Lake Calenhad region. Further, they’d discovered auxiliary forts will secure Skyhold's control of what will be a valuable trade route. There’s some discussion of collecting tolls as a source of income for the Inquisition, but it all seems very abstract to him.

The only part of the report that Rhys is internally motivated to be interested in is the repair work on an ingenious winch and cable system that would allow people and goods to be moved up and down the mountain in a matter of hours, versus days. Like the road, it is in remarkable condition - a little grease and a few solders to the heavy cables made it functional again. They’re already able to use it to send messages and lightweight supplies up and down the mountain. (And one adventurous member of Bull’s Chargers. Rhys is slightly envious.) To operate it with any significant amounts of weight, they'll need some strong draft animals to turn the winches at the base and the summit, but Rhys is told that the contact he had made with the farmers around Redcliffe and a few generous handfuls of gold should be able to make that happen.

Rhys had just thought assisting the farmers to secure watchtowers so that they could better defend themselves seemed like the right thing to do as he had no solution to the conflict in the area. Even without Templars and Maleficarii, there were still bears to worry about. Rhys has developed a strong dislike of bears. But they do all the allies they can manage. And Rhys wouldn’t say no to a bear fur or ten or a hundred. Skyhold is magnificent, but with the exception of the garden suntrap, the temperatures are rapidly dropping below anything he’s ever experienced.

An hour after lunch, when he thought the four of them were finished with him, Harritt showed up talking about the tunnels underneath the keep that he’d been exploring with a small team. They go deep, far deeper than Harritt is comfortable taking the men without reinforcements, but he just feels that they reach the Deep Roads. Skyhold is close to Orzammar after all. No signs of Darkspawn, thank Andraste! But they do need to be mindful of the possibility of an attack from below. (It balances the threat of an attacking dragon from above, Rhys supposes. Good to keep your equations balanced.) Cassandra suggested that Harritt take Blackwall along with a few soldiers to explore further, and around yawns, Rhys agreed with her. If the road between Ferelden and Orlais is somehow valuable, why not a road to Orzammar? Or Minrathous? All the roads!

Rhys continues ripping out vines and mentally curses all four of them for promoting him from Herald to Inquisitor. (Although, he’s fairly sure that Rutherford isn’t entirely happy about having a mage in charge for the longue durée.) Morning glories - another plant that would generally need a warmer clime to survive, even as stubborn as it is. Pretty flowers, but they take over everything. He’ll transplant some to a bed near an arbor he discovered two days ago when he swung a machete at a stand of ragweed and hit a metal post. The morning glories will be a desirable replacement - Josie will like the decorative element - if he can keep them contained.

Why couldn’t Andraste just need a gardener?

That question, of course, assumed that Andraste is in fact, the Bride of the Maker and thus, endowed with the power to toss Rhys back out of the Fade (however he ended up there in the first place), which, in turn, assumes the existence of the Maker and not just an empty throne in the middle of a Golden City. And as far as Rhys has ever been able to tell, the Maker’s existence can be neither proven nor disproven, and the people debating it - quietly, of course - were both wasting their breath and risking their necks.

A better question might be, why in the Void did he let Cassie talk him into agreeing to lead the Inquisition? It was a bit unfair of her and Leliana to ambush him with the question in public. And Josie and Rutherford’s little display of rallying acclamation from the survivors of Haven strongly suggested that the decision had already been made before Cassandra and Leliana asked him.

From the Fade and into the fire. Just my luck.

Rhys is too distracted by humoring his own grumbling to notice the loose, mounded soil hiding under the vines until his right hand is buried well past his wrist and stinging sharply from hundreds of tiny mandibles pinching the flesh and sinking venom under the surface of his skin.

Rhys springs up and back with a yelp, flinging his arm to the side in an attempt to shake the ants free, then immediately back in front of him to cast a cage of lightning around the anthill, hoping that it circles deep enough underground to cut off the entire colony before any more of the ants can swarm out to attack him.

“Andraste’s flaming weasel -” Some of the ants have already gotten under his sleeve, and it doesn’t take many of this species to produce abject misery. He swats futilely at his arm, then gives up and tears off his jacket. “Knickerbocker tits!”

“Rhys, has some demon of dance possessed you?”

“Ants.” Rhys tosses the jacket aside and tries to crush the insects between the fabric of his sleeve and his arm for a second before ripping the buttons on his shirt open and stripping it off as well. A couple of the damned terrors have made it to his neck and chest. “Blighted fire ants.” Ugh. That’s a horrible notion - fire ants infected with the Blight. The Maker really will have abandoned us.

“So dramatic. Here -” Dorian attempts to brush a few of the blighters off before Rhys can stop him. “Fasta vass! That thing bit me.”

“Yes.” Rhys flicks one off his neck and sweeps his left hand over his right arm. Be damned nice if this Anchor were effective against fire ants. “Get me a bucket of water, will you?”

The static cage spell will wear off shortly, releasing any of the ants that hadn’t been shocked to death already. And those ants will be an infuriated horde with murder on their hive mind. Rhys ignores the stinging long enough to cast as controlled and intense of a fire spell as he can manage over the mound and watches with satisfaction as it erupts through the weeds and rolls over the anthill in a destructive wave. Invasive little fuckers. Kill them. Kill them with fire.

Rhys grabs the full bucket from Dorian and splashes the water over his right side, knocking most of the remaining ants loose and hopping away from that bit of ground before they can recover and decide to crawl up his leg.

“The hell are those things?”

“Fire ants.” Rhys glares at the scorched earth, watching for movements that might single a second assault. Dorian really must have spent the majority of his time in cities and libraries if he didn’t know about fire ants. The things are native to Tevinter and had been slowly invading the south for decades. He goes back to the well in the center of the garden and draws another bucket of water to dump over his head. “Also known as the most vicious little blighters known to Thedas.”

“Certainly they can’t be that bad. They’re just insects.”

“I fell into a mound once when I was still an apprentice... I’ll take a small horde of Darkspawn over these things.” Rhys rubs his hands over his neck and face. He doesn’t think he’s allergic; the bites should just be an irritant - just one more irritant for an irritating day - but people do develop allergies to insect bites following initial exposure. He can’t feel any swelling around his throat, but there is an itch along his jaw. He swats at his cheek - unsure if there’s an ant, or if he’s just imagining it - and inadvertently smears water and dirt together into mud.

“Ah, thus the warpaint.” Dorian smirks at him.

Rhys touches his face. The tacky mud over his cheek and nose sticks to his fingertips. Fortunately, it seems like Dorian is the only other person about to bear witness. Rhys laughs. Ah yes, he should definitely be in charge of a quasi-religious movement with a military. “Yes. The warpaint.” He slaps his thigh as he feels another series of stingings pricks. Excellent. One or two had made it to his legs, but at least it’s not a swarm. “And the two or three more fireballs I’m about to hit that mound with.”

“Such a vengeful little mudlark. Ready to defend his territory. Want help?”

“Oh yes. Fire. Kill them with fire.” Rhys casts another fire spell over the mound as the first burns out, silently apologizing to any innocent soil dwellers caught in it... But... Fire ants.

“Then quick healing spell, a bath, and clean clothes, I suppose?”

“Volunteering to help with that too?”

“I could be.” Dorian paces a tight circle around Rhys and flicks one of the insects off his back with a single manicured nail. “You seem rather distraught to be left alone.” A wave of magic - Dorian’s spells always feel warm - flows over him, easing the stinging, although the sensation - real or imagined or a combination - of insect feet has Rhys ready to crawl out of his skin - along with the rest of his clothes.

“Inquisitor?” Cassandra shouts down from a window in the tower she’s claimed for herself. “What are you doing? Why are there flames?”

“Fire ants!” Rhys yells back. That should be self-explanatory. He thinks the known range of the damned bugs includes Nevarra, but then Cassandra hasn’t spent that much time in Nevarra, and probably not that much time stomping through weeds anywhere. Andraste! Fire ants under armor. He shivers at the thought.

“What?” Cassandra sounds confused.

“Don’t worry about it, Seeker. The Herald and I have everything under control.”

Rhys can imagine her grumpy huff even if he can’t hear it over the sound of the shutters of the window slamming shut.

Dorian’s eyebrows arch high with amusement. “Be careful, Rhys, or there’ll be a rumor started that you’ve gone quite mad.”

“If I get many more bites -” He smacks a different spot on his thigh. “I just might.”

“Well then, we’d better go make sure you get them all drowned then. Is it safe to touch your shirt?”

“Leave it. Damn things will get confused now that their colony is gone and wander off in a bit.” He can retrieve the shirt and jacket to be cleaned later - once the ants are well gone. The morning glory vines around the ant mound are too green for the fire to spread easily, but Rhys throws another bucket of water over them to be safe. Josie would probably tell him it’s bad form to burn down one’s new base of operations. And then yet another bucket over his head.

If Varric has questions when Rhys, shirtless and still dripping water stalks past the table he’s writing at with an amused Dorian following behind, he keeps them to himself.

“Why so grumpy today?” Dorian asks. He’d volunteered to go find some dry, ant-free clothes for Rhys, and after returning to the kitchen storeroom - the most rational place to locate a tub for bathing until further repairs are made - had remained, leaning against the closed door and toying with the rings he wears, switching them from finger to finger. “You're normally as chipper as a little bird.”

“A mudlark?”

“Does that bother you? I won't call you that if it does.”

“No, no. I kind of like it.” Rhys scrubs a bit of soapy flannel between his toes - just in case an ant had found its way there. At least Josie won’t be able to complain about dirt under his fingernails for a few hours. “Much better than Herald.”

“Or Inquisitor?”

“Definitely better than Inquisitor.” Rhys slides down in the tub, dunking his head under the water again. His next oldest brother and little sister calling him snaggletooth when he was eight would be better than Inquisitor. Besides, he likes the way that Dorian says ‘mudlark’ when talking to him. Rhys resurfaces and pushes wet hair out of his face. “I really don't want to be called Inquisitor. And yet, here I am.”

“You know, the fact that you don't want to be Inquisitor might be precisely the reason why you should be.”

“I spent all morning trying to keep up with discussions on topics that I know nothing about. Politics, economics - roads! I’m not the right person for this.”

“You’ll learn. Quickly, I’m sure.”

“You’re more confident than I am.” Rhys flicks idly at the surface of the water. “But for what it’s worth, thanks.”

“Rhys, the kind of person who would be prepared for something like this is also the kind of person who is likely to abuse any power they are given. And you will have power once the rest of Thedas realizes the threat Corypheus poses. Wouldn’t you rather be the leader and not just the tool?”

Rhys lifts his left hand from the water and studies the Anchor carefully. Yes, a tool. An instrument that controls the Veil in terrifying ways that he doesn’t understand. Something that he’s not supposed to have and that an ancient monster desperately wants. The faint green glow is more apparent in the dim light of this basement room than it was in the sunlight of the garden - one more reason to cherish the place. “It feels so foreign. Wrong. Like some disease that should be pruned away.” He touches the first three fingers of his right hand to his palm and draws them slowly down to the fold of his elbow, following the path that the magic flows along before Solas pushes it back again.

Dorian’s brow creases and moves fluidly, kneeling on one knee beside the tub and catching Rhys’s hand in his. “You’ve managed well this far.” He weaves their fingers together, and almost - almost - touches his lips to Rhys’s knuckles. “You can always come rant to me, you know. If any given day is too much.”

Rhys remains still for the space of one, two, three heartbeats, then he runs his thumb over Dorian’s fingers, soft skin, metal rings warm with heat from his body.

Dorian’s eyes drop. His cheeks might be colored a touch, but Rhys can’t quite be sure in the dim light. He rises to his feet and turns away in a single elegant motion. “You should take a break. Soak for a while. Relax a bit.” He pushes the door open, just a crack, hesitating for the barest second. “I guess I’ll -”

“Dorian?”

His back straightens as he turns back around. “Yes.”

“Keep calling me mudlark.”

Dorian glances down, breaking eye contact between them, but the corners of his eyes crinkle as he smiles. “You know where to find me, Mudlark, trying to salvage books. I could try to do something about the mess you’ve made of your hands playing in the dirt again.”

[skyholdlibrary]

I've been thinking quite a bit about the singing scene after Haven since i started to replay DAI in May.

This is going to be a long post so please be patient with me.

When i first played years ago i thought just as everyone else that it seemed a little bit cheesy. But it is actually not and i needed a few years and actually giving it a thought to finally see why does it make perfect sense and it is in fact not “a bit too much.”

Someone somewhere i am sure already wrote this but i just had to get it out of my head. So this is nothing big actually.

In advance i was pretty slow to this realization because i'm not particularly religious. At least not in the common sense so i did not exactly obseved the scene in that regard for quite some time. This post was brewing from some time now and i finally got around to write it down. It's mostly to calm my brain not to change the world.

See we know Haven was an isolated mostly religious-traditionist village and DAO and the Warden happend. No need to elaborate. Than thanks to Divine Justinia later it became an important destination for those who went on a pilgrimage to the Temple of Sacred Ashes.

Now if we consider all this, chances are that the citizen's of Haven are highly religious, with maybe a few exceptions. Like traders or the like. They do believe in the Chant and all.

So when the Inquisitor or back then “only” The Herald of Andraste (the same Andraste that is a key figure in the religion that all of Haven follows) shows up from the fade presumably with the guidance of Adraste herself, it is only probable that only those stayed in Haven who belived that they actually are the Herald because the Chantry declared them and their supporters a madmen and a bunch of heretics. Especially after officially declaring the founding of the Inquisition there was no Chantry support.

Then Corypheus attacks and the Herald sacrefices themself to save the citizens and maybe a few pilgrims who stayed. Basically everyone. And as we established they probably all are religious people. And later the Inquisitor rises from under the mountain and return to “their people” almost as if it’s some kind of miracle. You know the kind that is an important piece in most religions.

Death and resurrection.

It very well could be seen as a miracle because the circumstances are grim and people are more prone to see wonders in time of great need. They are all lost in somewhere among the mountains. A few weeks ago their sacred temple has been blown up. Their Divine is dead. They just have been attacked by a monster of legends, a darkspawn who was an ancient tevinter magister before who also happens to command a corrupted high dragon that looks eerily like an achdemon. Haven, their home or home for the past few weeks is buried under the mountain. They do not know where they are, they have so much supplies and no real sense of when the closest place of safety is. They are scared and understandably so. They have no plan, no concept on how to step forward. They are scared and frightened.

Do you remember what is one of the gut reactions as a child when you are afraid? Singing. It provides comfort, it is soothing. It does not matter it is by yourself, your mother, father, grandparents, brother, sister or just yourself. Singing calms people.

What ultimately the Chantry should be about? Comforting those in need. Just like any religion. Mother Giselle does not have answers but she is a devout Sister of the Chantry. She is a Revered Mother. So she tries to provide comfort to the refugees the only way she can. So she starts to sing. Sings about hope and the light after the darkness. That the dawn will eventually come. And in the camp everyone wants to believe that. All of them. Because they desperately want to feel safe. They need to feel safe and focus on going forward. Not succumb to desperation. So they sing with her. And never forget that everyone knows the lyrics so it is a hymn that is actively part of the Chantry repertoir not some long forgotten verse with a tune. It is familiar and represents hope. So they join in to the singin. The only ones that are silent are Solas and the Inquisitor.

The Inquisitor because they are the one that is the centre of the awe. Everyone sings because of them. He is the beacon or at least focuspoint of the hope in camp. Solas in the other hand silent because he knows a bit more than anyone else about what is going on. And this is definitely not his religion if he has any. And he also knows a place. He is aware that Skyhold is not that far. They could make it there if he decides to let them know of it, which he eventually does.

So considering all this i really do not think there is anything overblown about this scene in the end. Actually the more i think about it the more i like it. There was some seriously good writing in this game.

[daitranscripts]

The Last Resort of Good Men Pt. 1

Contact

Dorian Masterpost

The PC enters the main hall in Skyhold after talking with Dorian about Felix.

Mother Giselle: Inquisitor? If you’ve a moment. Mother Giselle: There is something I wish to discuss, Inquisitor. Mother Giselle: Your Worship. I need but a moment of your time.

The PC speaks with her.

Mother Giselle: My [lord/lady] Inquisitor, it’s good of you to speak with me. I have news regarding one of your… companions. The Tevinter.

Dialogue options:

General: What has he done? [1]

General: Don’t like him, do you? [2]

General: Bad news? [3]

1 - General: What has he done? PC: (Sighs.) Has Dorian done something wrong? Mother Giselle: No, thankfully. It’s nothing like that. [4]

2 - General: Don’t like him, do you? PC: Is that a note of distaste I detect, Mother Giselle? Mother Giselle: I… admit his presence here makes me uncomfortable, Inquisitor, but my feelings are of no importance. [4]

3 - General: Bad news? PC: Nothing good, I expect. Mother Giselle: If you have reservations about his presence here, I share them, but this is another matter. [4]

4 - Scene continues.

Mother Giselle: I have been in contact with his family: House Pavus, out of Qarinus. Are you familiar with them?

Dialogue options:

General (have not talked with Dorian about himself): No, not at all. [5]

General (have asked Dorian about himself): They’re not on good terms. [6]

General: We’ve never met. [7]

General: Why are you in contact? [8]

5 - General: No, not at all. PC: I’ve never spoken to Dorian about his past. [9]

6 - General: They’re not on good terms. PC: He’s mentioned his family. They don’t appear to be on good terms. Mother Giselle: Yes, I believe you’re correct. [9]

7 - General: We’ve never met. PC: Familiar? We’ve never met, if that’s what you’re suggesting. Mother Giselle: I’m suggesting nothing. I’m only curious whether you know of his… situation. [9]

8 - General: Why are you in contact? PC: Why exactly would you be contacting Dorian’s family? Mother Giselle: I didn’t contact them, Inquisitor. They contacted me. [9]

9 - Scene continues

Mother Giselle: The family sent a letter describing the estrangement from their son and pleading for my aid. They’ve asked to arrange a meeting. Quietly, without telling him. They fear it’s the only way he’ll come. Since you seem to be on good terms with the young man, I’d hoped…

10 - Dialogue options:

Investigate: What kind of “meeting”? [11]

Investigate: Why would they contact you? [12]

Investigate: They don’t want to tell him? [13]

Investigate: This is legitimate? [14]

General: I’m not going to trick Dorian. [15]

General: I’ll think about it. [16]

General: I’ve no time for this. [17]

11 - Investigate: What kind of “meeting”? PC: Just what kind of “meeting” do they have in mind? Mother Giselle: I believe they just want to talk, to understand why Dorian felt he had to come here. Somewhere private. Away from Skyhold, but not in Tevinter. You make them nervous, I think. They don’t understand why he’s with the Inquisition. They want him to come home.

Dialogue options:

General: And if he doesn’t agree? [18]

General: Worried parents? [19]

General: And you want him gone. [20]

18 - General: And if he doesn’t agree? PC: What happens if Dorian doesn’t agree? Mother Giselle: Hopefully that would be the end of it. If not… well, that’s why you should be there. [back to 10] ㅤㅤ ㅤ 19 - General: Worried parents? PC: I’d be worried, too, if my son ran off to join some gauche foreigners on a crusade. Mother Giselle: So would I, although I suspect there’s more to it than either of us understands. [back to 10] ㅤㅤ ㅤ 20 - General: And you want him gone. PC: I imagine you’d be relived to see him gone. Mother Giselle: If this is what it seems, and it works out, it might be better for all concerned. [back to 10]

12 - Investigate: Why would they contact you?\ PC: Why would his family contact you? Mother Giselle: Because they don’t know you, Inquisitor. I’m not of the Imperial Chantry, but they know what I represent. These are parents concerned about the welfare of their son. How could I not do whatever possible? I would speak to the young man myself, but… he does not care for me. Thus I come to you. If any good can come of this, we must try. [back to 10]

13 - Investigate: They don’t want to tell him? PC: They don’t want Dorian to know? That seems odd. Mother Giselle: They believe the young man would refuse, and the letter implies he’d have cause. Yet they are remorseful for whatever came before. This is a chance for dialogue. There is deceit in bringing the young man to this meeting without his foreknowledge, I know. But… does it not lead to greater kindness if there is potential for reconciliation? [back to 10]

14 - Investigate: This is legitimate? PC: Are you sure this isn’t some kind of trap? I mean, the secrecy… Mother Giselle: That did occur to me. What if it is the plot of those mages… the Venatori? Another reason to put this in your hands, Inquisitor. I pray this isn’t the case, but if it is, you are far better equipped than I to respond to such treachery. [back to 10]

15 - General: I’m not going to trick Dorian. If you think I’m going to trick Dorian into meeting his family… Mother Giselle: (Sighs.) I feared you might say that.

16 - General: I’ll think about it. PC: I’ll see what I can do. Mother Giselle: Bless you, Inquisitor.

17 - General: I’ve no time for this. PC: I have better things to do than arrange family reunions. Mother Giselle: (Sighs.) I feared you might say that.

21 - Scene continues.

Mother Giselle: The family will send a retainer to meet the young man at the Redcliffe tavern to take him onward. If he truly does not wish this reunion, he can always end the matter there.

Mother Giselle (if the PC declines): I pray you change your mind, Inquisitor. Perhaps their letter will persuade you. If there is any chance of success in this, it behooves us to act. Mother Giselle (if the PC agrees): I shall pray for your success… and the young man’s happiness. That’s all we can hope for, is it not?

The PC receives the letter from Magister Pavus.

Your Reverence, ㅤㅤ ㅤ I understand that you feel inadequate to the task of bringing Dorian to a secret meeting. Even in the asking, I find it difficult to believe myself. Considering my son has rebuffed all contact, this is the only way. I know him; he would be too proud to come if he knew—even just to talk. That is all we wish to do. The thought of Dorian in the south, placing himself in the path of such danger, alarms us more than I can express. ㅤㅤ ㅤ If this somehow succeeds, we have a family retainer at the Vandral Hills watching for Dorian's arrival. He will bring the boy to us, somewhere private. If Dorian utterly refuses to go with him, it ends there… and there is nothing we can do. We are at our wit's end. ㅤㅤ ㅤ Graciously yours, Magister Halward of House Pavus

Next: The Family Retainer Optional: Your Father Sent a Letter