#watch your ass orlais

[persephoneggsy]

i spent a lot of time today/yesterday thinking about my Marian Hawke living her best life as Princess of Starkhaven, and so naturally that spiraled into me designing five new outfits for her

elaborations below the cut

so this would of course be post DA2, if not outright post Inquisition. Marian is done traipsing around abandoned mines and dirty back alleys, she’s done being Champion of a city she never cared for in the first place. She fully embraces her role as Princess of Starkhaven and comes to love her new home with a fierceness she hasn’t felt since she was forced to flee Ferelden.

Everyday 1 - What she would wear to her day-to-day duties as Princess. She wears the Vael family tartan to diplomatic meetings.

Everyday 2 - Ferelden Insp - While she loves her new home, she’ll never forget her old one. She commissions several dresses done in a more Ferelden style, with simpler silhouettes and of course, fur.

Casual - This is basically just an elevated version of the ‘home’ outfit in DA2. This is what she wears on rare days off, when she’s able to just be with her beloved husband in the privacy of their chambers, or perhaps taking a walk through the palace gardens.

Party - Obviously, a princess needs to have a great selection of dresses for galas and balls and the like. She tends to favor reds and pinks, with a splash of gold for embellishment. Depending on the level of formality, she’ll also have a sash of Vael tartan to signify her status.

Travel - For the rare occasions where Marian once again takes up her staff to fight. Finely-crafted and woven with hidden enchantments, it is both practical and elegant, so no one truly forgets how high she’s climbed. The clasp on her belt bears the three circling dragons of Starkhaven, and the scarf around her neck is meant to be a tribute to her late sister, Bethany.

One constant in her outfits is the locket of Meghan Vael around her neck, which her husband gave to her upon their engagement. Another is, of course, her wedding ring.

I changed her hair from its usual appearance, since I think it makes her look a little softer and more refined. I considered letting her grow her hair out, but I have a bias towards short hair and so decided to keep it short.

And finally, I like to think Marian is an absolute sensation amongst the court of Starkhaven. So many trends in the fashion of the court start because of her - from Ferelden-styled fur embellishments, to the color pink skyrocketing in demand, to many ladies shearing their hair short.

[vaguely-concerned]

I have so many thoughts I (ironically) can't put into words yet about the use of heightened and ritualized poetic language and phrases in connection to magic in Nevarra (or possibly within the mourn watch?). they don't default to an ancient language for it like tevinter predictably seem to, and while they do have a whole scholarly language for the academic side of it -- when they're actually casting it and interacting with the dead, they speak in common but through poetry and metaphor in ways we haven't seen any other culture do. maybe the avvar, as the closest, just in a different literary tradition. they speak to the dead, but in a living language. ingellvar rook gets a bit defensive and even reproachful during emmrich's recruitment quest when the other companion makes some sort of comment to question it. 'it's watcher tradition! >:('

'Open your hearts to the final day, companion of all the ages'. even a rook who doesn't take the almost religious element of the role of watcher as seriously knows that one by heart no matter what you make them say during walking the graves. when myrna in so many words says that the necropolis is still rook's home, the way they agree with her is simply to quote 'A home in life, a berth in death...' and her smoothly finishing the thought with 'a house of many mansions'. there are several times with emmrich where rook answers something he says just by quoting from some watcher text they both clearly know well. (if you do this to weasel out of answering when he asks if you're afraid of dying, he is understandably peeved you're quoting watcher 101 stuff at him, and rook clearly knows exactly what they're doing.) this shared base of literature -- and more than that a kind of oral tradition, it sounds like? it's just What You Say when you do certain things, do you think half of this is even written down anywhere? this shared inheritance of language making for a feeling of belonging and continuity is beautiful and moving in a way but also. a bit cold and distant, all mind and no body connection. which I feel might be a running theme around the necropolis haha they mainly seem to have interest in bodies once life has vacated them, they don't give that much thought to what makes it feel good to be in one while you're here. we can only imagine the psychological effects of growing up a crypt baby in this particular cultural milieu.

you know what it reminds me of a little bit in places, actually? the way the qun uses language and set phrases to convey layers of meaning. the qunari are an oddly poetic bunch. and I think there's also something here about like... cultures whose religious side are more about philosophy and the language used than an idea of the divine as such. yeah nevarra is technically andrastian, at least on the surface, probably largely for reasons of 'ugh it would be SO inconvenient to have an exalted march called on us :/ some of us have real shit to get on with you know this body isn't going to mummify itself. sure tell orlais we'll join their dumb club or whatever'. but within and beneath that the syncretism with and survival of much older traditions are still so obviously (and double ironically!) alive. how much does your average watcher believe in god, and how much and how immediately do they believe in the grand necropolis, and in their duty to what has been, what is and what will come after them -- the quest for knowledge? memento mori ass culture to the point of absent-mindedly forgetting about everything else including god (affectionate). maybe the maker exists, but he's just not that relevant down here. he may take the souls, but we still tend the graves. render unto the chantry what's the chantry's, and unto the watcher what is theirs!!! really is the whole thing huh

[himluv]

Hard Truths (redux)

As promised, here is an update to my fic Say My Name (Say it Twice). Merry Christmas! This is a rework of my first attempt at writing Lucanis back in November, so while there is some overlap here, there's a ton of new stuff too. Enjoy!

SNIFFFF! Sweat and salt and coffee. Lucanis. Sulfur, too. Candles, burned low. Powder. Ash. Rough velvet on calloused fingertips. Press to the stone. Won’t forget. CANNOT. HIDE!

Yessssss. Good! They will know. I. Am. Here!

“Hey, Lucanis?”

Sniffff. Brimstone. “No Lucanis. Only Spite!”

“Ugh. You again?”

“Yessss. Always here. Waiting.”

“Right. That’s not creepy at all.”

Brimstone. Calm fire. No fear. Why no fear? “You don’t. Fear us. Why?”

“I’m Rivaini. Spirits don’t bother me.”

“Demon! Not spirit.”

“Sure you are. Now, let Lucanis go.”

“No!” Must get out. Go, go, gogogo!

“Hey, Taash. What’s going on?”

SNIFFFF. Campfire and berries. ROOK!

“Demon’s back.”

“I don’t think he ever leaves, actually.”

 “Then he’s acting weird.”

Sniiiiiiffffff. “Smells like… melon and woodsmoke.”

“Hey! No! No. Sit your ass back down.”

“I’ll handle this. Maybe make sure the eluvian room is blocked?”

Brimstone. Gone! Just Rook. Just. Us! “Now. We get to talk.”

“When demons say they want to talk, that usually means they want to bargain.”

“Lucanis. Made a deal. He hasn’t kept.”

“What deal?”

 “Break our chains. Kill. Escape our prison. And Liiiive!”

“Isn’t that what happened?”

“NO! I want out!”

“‘Out’ to where? Tevinter? Orlais? Nowhere’s safe for a possessed man.”

“No! No! He promised! Tell him! Make him–”

–Lucanis blinked in the familiar dim of the pantry, the candles lower than they should be. Much lower. But even in the low light, Rook shone like a star. She wasn’t looking at him, her eyes cast to the side as if to give him privacy.

“Rook?”

“You were sleepwalking,” she said. 

Ah. Of course. He noticed the chill in his neck now, the telltale sign that Spite had been in control. He looked down at his feet. “Spite was sleepwalking.”

“He didn’t go anywhere,” she said. Her tone was light and reassuring. “Nothing happened.” 

This time. But how many times could he lose control before someone got hurt? Before she got hurt? Just imagining Spite touching her, hurting her with his hands made his skin crawl. 

“I didn’t want you to see that,” he said. “Again.”

She took a step closer and he finally looked at her. Her eyes were clear, her expression earnest and soft. She always seemed to carry so much softness for him. 

“Nothing I’m seeing makes me want to look away.”

How? How could that be when he could barely stand looking in the mirror? How did she always say just the right thing to make him feel like he wasn’t completely drowning?

He shook his head. “How do you always do that?”

“Do what?” There was a teasing lilt to her voice that he now recognized as flirtation, but Lucanis couldn’t quite bring himself to match it. 

“Break apart my perfectly gathered clouds of doom.” He frowned. “You deserve better than to deal with my mess.”

Rook leaned against the wall, her hands behind her back. “You’re more than what you’re going through. And, you wear it well.” She gave him a smile so tender, a look so openly fond, it made Lucanis ache.

Time and again she had shown him that she was there. She’d been by his side since the Ossuary, unwavering in her support. Her actions and her words proved her trust in him, despite everything. She offered her hand, her heart, over and over again. And no matter how conflicted he felt, no matter how many times he drew close just to pull away, she never gave up on him. 

It made him wonder… could he be the man she seemed to think he was? Could he be the man he wanted to be, for her? Could he be what she deserved?

Lucanis took slow, intentional steps towards her. Finally, they would address this thing between them. And he would give her every opportunity to see reason and turn away. 

He shook his head once. “This isn’t a good idea,” he said.

She watched him approach, eyes bright with curious warmth. “Sometimes a bad idea is better,” she said. Still teasing him.

He was a small man – he had no qualms about it, it let his targets underestimate him – but Rook was even shorter. He placed his palm against the wall, just above and to the right of her head. He leaned into the wall and looked down at her. 

She tilted her chin up to meet his gaze, and the challenge in her eyes sent fire up his spine. She had no idea what she did to him. 

“You like to walk a little too close to the edge,” he countered. 

She reached for him, so slowly, and for a moment Lucanis thought she might hook her finger through his lapel chain and pull him in for a kiss. His stomach flipped at the notion, but she stopped just short of actually touching him.

“So do you,” she said.

Mierda, her lips. He wanted to know how they’d feel pressed to his. Wanted to taste the coffee on her tongue. If he was being honest, he wanted anything she would give him. He was a man standing on the edge of a cliff – it would take the barest touch to send him over the ledge. He would fall helplessly in love with her, and she had no idea. 

He looked right at her, his tone soft but serious when he said, “at least I know when I’m doing it.”

They were so close. The closest they’d ever been. Lucanis felt her warmth radiating against his body, smelled the hint of smoke in her hair and the coffee on her breath as she leaned closer. Her eyes closed and her chin lifted. 

Here she was, trusting him, offering herself to him as he leaned over her. It was a scene right out of one of his romance novels. He couldn’t help himself. He leaned into her, noting the beautiful spray of cinnamon-colored freckles across her nose, then closed his eyes. She was perfect.

And he… was not. He was a man on the edge of a cliff. If he fell, he would take her down with him. Mierda, what was he thinking?

Lucanis opened his eyes and turned his face away from her. It hurt to do so, to get this close only to stop. Again. Maker, what must she think of him?

“I…” he couldn’t look at her as he stepped back. “Need to clear my head.” He glanced up at her, saw the confusion and concern in her eyes, and though he wanted nothing more than to make her smile again, he kept walking away. With his palm now pressed to his waistcoat he gave her a tiny nod. “Excuse me.” 

Then he turned and hurried out of the room, ignoring the weight of her gaze on his back. He brushed a hand through his hair, tugged at his waistcoat, desperate to feel composed. It took surprisingly few strides to cross the dining room, climb the stairs above the kitchen, and step out onto the landing outside the dining hall. He took a deep, shaky breath and quelled the urge to rub at the constant itch behind his eyes. 

This wasn’t like him. He felt jittery, out of control. Perhaps all the coffee mixed with the sleep deprivation had finally gotten to him?

She makes you nervous, Spite sneered. 

Lucanis said nothing. There was no point lying to Spite, it would only encourage the demon to keep talking. Surprisingly, Spite remained quiet while Lucanis stood staring out at the blank expanse of the Fade. He needed the height, the perspective, and to breathe. It took a few minutes, but finally his heart settled some in his chest. 

Finally, the demon asked, why?

Lucanis sighed. “Why what?”

Spite growled, irritated at having to explain himself. Rook. Makes. You. Nervous. WHY?

Lucanis winced as the word rebounded inside his skull. “You don’t have to shout.”

Spite made an unconvinced noise.

“And besides,” Lucanis said. “You know why.”

Make it make sense. We. Like. Rook.

Lucanis pinched the bridge of his nose. “A little too much.”

Ahhhhh. Spite sniffed, as if savoring something delicious in the air. Scared.

Another truth he’d have to let lie between himself and the demon. 

Let her in and get cut deep. See inside then turn away. Won’t. Want. You! Oooh, or worse, she does want and then she di–

“Enough!” The word echoed out into the Fade, silencing the demon. “Enough,” Lucanis whispered. He didn’t need Spite to help him overthink all the ways kissing Rook could go wrong.

Want more than kissing.

The most surprising truth of them all. Lucanis could count the number of people he’d felt genuine attraction for on one hand. The only one he’d ever tried to pursue had misread him so completely he’d just given up. 

As much as he longed for romance, he just wasn’t good at it. Love was something meant for characters in novels, or people like Teia and Viago. Not him. 

If not love. What?

Before the Ossuary, Lucanis would have had an answer to a question like that. The Crows. House Dellamorte. Mediating peace between Illario’s ambitions and Caterina’s wishes. He liked being a Crow. He was good at it, and had never wanted more, a fact that had vexed Illario and pleased their grandmother. 

And it was all gone. 

Caterina was dead. In his current state, Lucanis was not fit to take her place as she’d desired. Illario would become First Talon, like he’d always wanted. If Lucanis somehow survived this contract perhaps House Dellamorte would allow him back. Perhaps the future they had fantasized as boys might actually come to pass. Perhaps he and Rook… 

Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps. Bah!

Lucanis sighed and shook his head. Then he and the demon walked back to the pantry in silence. And in that silence was another, terrifying truth. 

For the first time in his life, Lucanis Dellamorte didn't know what his future held. 

[pavus]

i was tagged by the lovely and effervescent @rosenfey to do this uquiz for my ocs, and i thought! hey! this is a great opportunity to do a lore dump about ippolita! so that's what all of this nonsense is. 🖤

patron saint of lost faith — patron saint of leaving it by the roadside. patron saint of it slipping out of your fingers. patron saint of searching and searching. patron saint of yearning for it back. patron saint of scraping your fingers down to the bone trying to hold onto it. patron saint of losing it anyway. saint of lost faith. not the saint of getting it back.

ippolita cabrielli (eventually, ippolita de riva or ippolitta dellamorte, depending upon the date of reference) was born smack in the middle of 9:25 dragon, not long before the fifth blight. her father, filippo, worked as a dyemaker for a renowned vendecolori just outside of antiva city, in a small, riverside town called alivia.

not once did her father speak of her mother. only her paternal grandmother spoke of the woman at all, and every time she brought up her existence, filippo flinched like he'd been struck. there was a story there, but it wasn't hers to learn.

when she was barely ten, she watched the vendecolori's even younger son drown in one of her father's dye vats. not long after that, she was taken from him as payment for what he allowed to transpire.

after a confusing few weeks, she was offered to the crows for a surprisingly hefty sum, and not long after, she began the rigorous and often excruciating training required of crow fledglings. ippolita proved to have a somewhat innate talent in acrobatics, but her true skill was in observation. she did not just pick up useful information, but she picked up voices and affectations that would have made her something of a mimic, if not for the high pitch of her childish voice.

became an official crow at eighteen. during the celebration that followed, she engaged in a brief (and very drunk) tryst with illario dellamorte. she's forgotten; he hasn't.

when she was barely nineteen, she was tossed to the lions rather than the wolves. her first foreign contract was in far-flung serault. for a time, she posed as a soft-spoken washerwoman for the city's floundering chantry. kill the leader of the cult of masked andraste, she was told. and kill them, she did.

subsequent contracts left her circling around orlais, and with every finished contract, she waited, wondering when she would be brought home.

she was twenty-three when she returned to antiva — not to antiva city, where she'd received most of her training, but to not-yet-occupied treviso. and for five of the years that followed, she continued making a name for herself under the mantle of house de riva.

ippolita is a drowner. whether it's in a canal, a bath, or a particularly deep puddle, it's her go-to method of assassination. it isn't all she's capable of, but it's how she prefers to kill. otherwise, she has a particularly nasty stiletto that makes its way into the rest of her marks.

found a number of letters from an anonymous admirer upon her return to treviso. someone had been paying attention to her work while she was away. she still doesn't know who wrote them. the romantic in her has kept them for years and delights every time she finds a new one in her apartment.

loves music and has a lovely singing voice, though she couldn't play a note herself. there is little in the world that enraptures her like agile fingers on lute strings.

horribly allergic to cats.

would rather starve than eat rice and the smell of onions fried in butter makes her nauseated. eat something enough, and you find you cannot stand the taste.

she stands at an absolutely miniscule 4'11, but is powerfully built. she is small, but strong and fat around her belly and hips and ass. there's no knocking her over. varric thought she was a dwarf until he caught a glimpse of her ears.

[nerdanel01]

Rook Questionaire - Agnes Gallatus

tagged by @eavangeek, thank you!

Under the cut due to length! Tagging @ass-deep-in-demons @nostalgiaclown @starfleetteddybear @racheloleo @the-grand-gemini @truebluedreamer @jusbeinkt @blindvogel @erikonil @hmserebusadjacent (no pressure!) in case you want to join + play :) (also anyone else who sees this should also feel free to join in and tag me if you fill it out :D)

Where in Thedas is your Rook from? Agnes grew up in the countryside, in the part of western Nevarra that has changed hands between Nevarra and Orlais a few times. I headcanon this to mean there are some people who live their who consider themselves “Orlesian” and have a more Orlesian culture, although this is exclusively the peasant/lower class. Agnes’ mother Madeline would have been one of those peasants. Her father is a Nevarran noble, but very minor nobility; she was raised on his estate, first as a servant, then later as one of the members of the household after her mother passed away. Because her father’s estate is so far west, she was sent to the Circle at Perendale when her magic manifested, rather than the fancier Circle in Cumberland. She also has a slight southern inflection to her pronounciation because of all this, which means everyone else in the Mourn Watch clocks her as a hayseed pretty much from day one.

What is your character’s alignment? She’d like to think she’s lawful good, but despite how hard she tries she’s really a messy, chaotic good.

Race and subclass? Human, Spellblade mage.

If your Rook was a companion, where would they be found? Minrathous, because Agnes is definitely still getting run out of Nevarra by the nobility after the War of the Banners one way or the other, even if she doesn't end up as "Rook" Rook. 😬

What emotion did they usually pick? Aggressive/stoic, but it’s a mask. She mellows out to the soft supportive/approving Rook when she’s talking to someone she likes (mostly just the companions.)

What companion are they platonically close with? Agnes is closest with Bellara, although Davrin is probably a close second.

Romantically close with? She’s been disgustingly obsessed with Emmrich since she was like, 19, if that counts as “close.”

Who are they suspicious of? ILLARIO FROM DAY ONE. FROM GO SHE DOESN’T TRUST THAT MAN. Also, every time Solas so much as breathes in her direction she thinks he’s planning something awful for her. She's not always wrong.

Does your Rook get along with their chosen faction? For the most part, Agnes “got along” with the rest of the Mourn Watch in the way that oil and water “get along.” But there were a few rare exceptions where she made a friend… or an enemy. :)

Are they proficient in playing any instruments? Solas is trying to teach her the harpsichord. It isn’t going well!

Weapon of choice? Orb & dagger babeyyyyy. Let her get up close with her magic and stabby stab.

What is their orientation? Like, I know this, but I don’t know that Agnes does…. She’s not 100% hetero but she’s been obsessed with Emmrich for so long I don’t think she’s ever really had the chance to discover that she’s maybe a little bi.

What are their thoughts on killing? Is it a necessary evil or do they enjoy it? Don’t tell anyone, but she likes it. Not because of anything to do with the bloodshed itself—she’s not really bloodthirsty—but it gives her great satisfaction to know that she is strong enough (and capable enough) to protect the people, communities, and ideas she cares about. She enjoys killing because she’s good at it; because she thinks it can help keep the people she loves safe, and protect her, in some measure, from grief. (It won’t.)

What hobbies does your Rook have? Agnes draws, although she doesn’t really consider herself an ‘artist’ in the typical sense. Her drawings are meant to be renderings, not artistic depictions: true to scale diagrams of monuments and anomalies in the Necropolis that Emmrich has asked her to draw to illustrate his scholar’s logs. She maintains this ‘hobby’ after she leaves the Mourn Watch, but never really considers herself an artist so much as a person who looks at things carefully. I would say her drawing style is more architectural than expressive. She loves the opera, it’s her #1 fixation. Not really a hobby so much as a coping mechanism, but she’s also frequently found to be cleaning—either her Mourn Watch cell or Emmrich’s study.

What NPCs do they like? Which ones do they dislike? I mean, as indicated above, she dislikes Illario pretty much from ‘go.’ No one else is really able to get under her skin that way… although she doesn’t really love the dude selling conspiracy theory newspapers in Minrathous either, even if he is Neve’s contact.  As far as the ones she likes… I’m not sure that she and Viago have a warm relationship, exactly, but they have common interests and a mutual respect for each other. She likes Shathaan a lot, because in some ways her protectiveness over Taash reminds Agnes of her own mother. Of course, she has a complicated relationship with Myrna and Vorgoth because of the War of the Banners and her own damage about being part of the Mourn Watch in general, but those are also positive relationships.  She has a… complicated history with Johanna Hezenkoss, who advocated for her inclusion in the Mourn Watch. :)  In general though she tends to keep people at arms’ length, so she doesn’t have super strong opinions about most of the NPCs.

Do they have a favorite creature in Thedas? She’s not really a big animal lover, but Agnes has a massive weak spot for Assan.

Do they enjoy life as an adventurer? I’m not sure it’s that she likes her life as an adventurer so much as she really wasn’t so hot about her life in the Mourn Watch…. She does enjoy the things that life as an adventurer has brought her, though, specifically all her new friends in the Veilguard. It’s really the first time in her life she gets to feel that kind of camaraderie.

What would your Rook be doing if they weren’t recruited by Varric? Getting cauliflower ear and developing chronic pain while fighting for her dinner in Dock Town.

How do you think they’ll meet their end? Spoilers for when I am laid in earth, sorry! :)

Would they side with Solas or fight him? Their relationship is so volatile it really depends on the day. Ask her again tomorrow.

What is your Rook’s favorite ability? Omg that Voidblade though. Rush in and stabby stab stab and EVISCERATE

What languages is your character fluent in? Common, Tombscript (written)

What do they do after an absolute crisis? Sit in silence staring at a wall, not processing, not talking to anyone. Shoving it down as deep as she possibly can.

Does your character believe in the afterlife? Yes, but she doesn’t have any concrete ideas about what that looks like or feels like. But she has a high sense of conviction that there is something beyond death; that it is more like stepping through a door than a curtain coming down at the end of a play.

What specialization best represents your Rook? Spellblade. Get up in their business and fuck shit up.

What animal best represents your Rook? Mabari—capable of cuddling at your feet in front of a fire but also capable of chewing someone’s face off if pushed. But distinctly a domesticated animal; not a wolf.

What was their life like before the events of Veilguard? Immediately proceeding? Pretty grim—having left Nevarra and the Mourn Watch, she’s basically having a midlife crisis. Has left her boo behind. Has chopped off all her hair. Is feeding herself every day from the betting proceeds she earns in an illegal dueling ring. It’s not a good time! Agnes did not love Minratous, and most of the time she lived there she spent punishing herself for things that were probably out of her control.

Is your character the de facto leader of the party? Or do they consider someone else to be the leader? Oh no, she’s totally the leader. She hates it, but she owns up to it and what it means. It’s not the first time she’s had that burden, so when Varric asks her to take over in his place, she’s not half-assing it—she becomes boss.

If you could choose a different faction for your Rook, which one would they have joined and why? I mean, I wouldn’t… but there’s definitely a world where Agnes could have gotten involved with the Shadow Dragons in Minrathous if she hadn’t had the Depression so bad. She doesn’t really get over that until Varric recruits her.

What’s your favorite thing about your Rook? Hard to name one thing… in general, I really like that compared to my Inquisitor, Rook is a total mess. I like that she can be selfish, I like that she can be manipulative, but mostly I like that she’s just kind of… pathetic, on some level, most of the time, despite her higher-than-average capacity for physical violence. I do quite love that she saw an opera about someone killing themselves due to the pain of unrequited love, said “skill issue” and just started to repress her affection for Emmrich even harder. I think what I especially like is the way her psychic damage aligns in the most fucked-up perfect way with Emmrich’s… like I maybe thought before the game came out her being in love with him for 20 years without saying anything was a stretch, but in reality it is absolutely not. These two are so down bad for each other but both so unaccustomed to unrequited love that of course they don’t want to risk what warmth and affection already exists between them, of course they are just willing to take what they can get from each other and not risk rocking the boat because their partnership is the closest thing they’ve felt to family… which they are both suffering from a lack of. 

Bonus: some of the characters that inspired her :) not exhaustive

[thesummerstorms]

The imagery used in this codex if f!Hawke was left in the fade is actually kind of shippy?

Expensive red wine from "refined" Orlais, playing the lute well and peacefully for a loving hound and listening sea birds, very gentle humor acknowledging the mark Kirkwall left on the protagonist, and then that last line which is the same for all variations of the entry.

... and then we get m!Hawke

The cormorants are still there, but the mabari isn't. Instead of a lullaby, the lute is being tortured into an entirely different family of musical instruments, there are feet on a dining table) the alcohol is a "noxious" beer from the rugged Anderfels, the Hawke!Expy is reassured instead of doing the reassuring.

And like, there absolutely some weird ass gender binary stereotype shit going on here. (Female= soft, elegant, artistic, gentle interaction with a loyal hound, addressing others emotions ; Male= unartistic, unrefined, bad manners, exasperated peers, addressing the expy's emotions). I imagine for some folks their female Hawke would more align with the male Hawke's imagery and visa versa.

However, I can't even be annoyed in this moment because damn... that first one full on reads like f!Hawke x Varric ship bait to me. I don't even ship Hawke and Varric romantically, but I would still take that first entry as proof that Varric was at least a little in love with her if a writer wanted to take it that way.

Its the difference in tones. Which again, yes, very heavily gendered. But still. And also:

"And to answer your question, you can get me some company. One Guardsman might suffice." + the default last line "And the two of them watched the last of the light disappear together in peace."

It still ties directly back to Varric writing a farewell for a friend, since all the versions get that line. But the "you can get me some company", aka "Stay with me to the end?" and also just the implications you can put behind company in a stereotypical romance scene....

IDK. Like I said, I don't ship it, but I could for this codex entry?

[breadedsinner]

from the da worldstate meme: 1. Your Warden/Hawke/Inquisitor's opinion on Orlais? 3. Opinion on blood magic? 13. Their thoughts on the Grey Warden order?

Your Warden/Hawke/Inquisitor's opinion on Orlais?

-Is it cheating to say they all think it sucks? Hervor's observations would no doubt be hypocritical, coming from royalty, but in her defense she at least busts ass with the best of them, and never cared for the political side of dwarven nobility... which is why she was exiled so easily.

Judith, as a Ferelden, understandably does not care for Orlais. And Rota watched the Empress get stabbed, so.

*

3) Opinion on blood magic?

Answered!

*

13) Their thoughts on the Grey Warden Order?

-Both Hervor and Rota respect the order, considering they're the only non-dwarven group who cares about Darkspawn. Rota half-jokingly asks Blackwall about asking to join herself when this is done; she can't go back to the Carta, and if she gets a stipend to support her family, it seems like the perfect solution.

-Judith's feelings are mixed. Even knowing it was ultimately Loghain's betrayal at Ostagar, there was a feeling of disappointment in these heroes were meant to come and stop the Blight before it began. They did eventually, but by the time the Blight was ended, it was too late. Combined with learning the Wardens entrapped her father, and it all just feels very hollow to her.

[ramblinganthropologist]

Writober 2023 19 - Plump

Summary: Kaaras is a big guy. He's not exactly fond of that. But at least he has a nice boyfriend to help him start to like himself a little more.

---

Once again, it was morning and it was time for Kaaras to face the day.

At that moment, he found himself in front of his mirror, frowning as he stared at his reflection. Thanks to reuniting with his clan, he had proper Dalish clothing again. While it was nice to have a tunic and leggings again, part of him wished he still had to wear pants and shoes for one very important reason.

His hand was over his stomach, as it often was when he was getting dressed and had to acknowledge his body existed in the physical realm. Now, Kaaras wasn’t a stupid man – he generally knew what he weighed and how it compared to his height. Unlike his brother and cousin, he wasn’t exactly a lightweight to say the least… but knowing and seeing it were two different things unfortunately.

It wasn’t a good morning to say the least.

“If only pants weren’t so uncomfortable…” He sighed, and his hand fell to his side. Touching his gut wasn’t going to make it disappear – he knew that from years of trying it. All he could do was pull on his cardigan and use the fabric as a makeshift cover for his many insecurities. “Fuck.”

Another sigh, and he grabbed for his favorite sweater and buttoned it up. It didn’t help, but something about an extra layer of fabric soothed his frayed nerves. Maybe it was the love stitched into it from his mother.

Or maybe it was just a placebo effect.

At any rate, Kaaras adjusted his leggings and headed down the stairs. He had a lot of meetings to get to – the Inquisition wasn’t going to run itself. Unfortunately for him, he was technically in charge after all.

Next time, he wasn’t going to take the stupid sword and just tell Cassandra to fuck herself. It would’ve saved him a massive headache.

What a surprise – the meetings had run late, and now his head was vaguely hurting.

Kaaras sighed as he massaged the base of his right horn. After a long day of planning and debate, he was back in his quarters for the night. He had planned to work on a bracelet for Hissra as a thank you for her work, but his eyesight was too tired for that. So, instead he dozed on the couch, too tired to make it to his bed.

Why were all of his problems in Orlais? It had to be the masks – they cut off blood circulation or something.

“Wish I could just blow the bloody capital up… would solve a lot of my problems.”

“While that would be entertaining, I don’t think the leader of a holy army would be looked kindly upon for blowing up the Empress.”

Dorian’s voice broke the quiet of the early evening. Kaaras watched as his favorite mage made his way up the stairs, eventually coming to sit next to him on the couch. A faint smile played across his lips as he leaned in, their shoulders brushing together.

“I didn’t say I’d blow her up, just the capital.”

Dorian chuckled at his words, shaking his head. “She tends to be within the capital, you know.”

“I’ll ask around and check before I set the explosives, I’m a stickler for safety. Ask my former captains.”

Oh, who was he kidding – he didn’t care if Celene died. She was a pain in his ass. The last thing he wanted was to keep her around, but one had to keep up appearances when they were leading a holy army.

But a man could dream, he supposed.

“I suppose that would answer my question about how your day went.” Dorian’s voice was soft as he reached out to squeeze Kaaras’ hand. “Want to talk about it, or would you rather throw yourself off the balcony than think about another meeting?”

If not for the fact his hand was being held, the mere thought would make him want to launch himself into the mountains without a second thought.

“Let’s just say, Cassandra’s on even thinner fucking ice than before.” He sighed, using his free hand to rub at the base of his horn again. “Thanks to her I have the beginnings of one hell of a headache.”

Next to him, Dorian frowned. “Perhaps you should rest then? I wouldn’t want to keep you up if you’re not feeling well.”

But that would mean the mage would leave… and he didn’t want that. Kaaras was more than willing to sit with a headache if that meant he got to sit with his boyfriend. At least, that’s what he thought until the pain pulsed.

Oww.

“I don’t want to move to the bed, though, my dreams have been weird lately.” He would’ve shook his head, but pain. “Maybe I just need to rest my eyes for a bit and forget Cassandra exists.”

“Well, I can fix that.” Dorian shifted his position, moving to the edge of the couch. He then patted his leg. “Maybe this would help.”

…

Kaaras shot him a blank look as he felt his eye twitch from the pain. “I’m fine, Dorian, really. I can rest my eyes sitting up.”

A horned head in someone’s lap wasn’t especially comfortable… add in his extra weight and it would be downright painful. It was better he stay in the position he was, rather than worry about hurting the man.

His response caused Dorian to roll his eyes. “Kaaras, you’re barely sitting up. If it’s your horns you’re worried about, they’re not going to bother me.”

It wasn’t his horns he was worried about, though the tips were fairly sharp honestly. A brief, less than logical thought passed through his mind that he might crush something valuable of the man if he rested even a little weight on him.

After all, he was a lot bigger than Dorian. While he wasn’t sure how much he outweighed him, he knew he was far more solid than the mage. Add enough weight… and well, it wasn’t a pretty sight.

“It’s…” He shook his head – oww. “It’s nothing, I’m fine, really.”

His remark caused his boyfriend to frown. “You don’t look fine, Kaaras.”

Truth be told, he wasn’t. The headache was getting worse, to the point that he really needed to lay down. Even standing was difficult as his headache pulsed behind his eyes, threatening to send him to his knees.

Anchor headaches. They were the absolute worst.

Careful hands were moving him – Dorian was gently directing him to lay down in his lap. Kaaras would’ve fought it, but his head hurt too much. He gingerly laid his head down, careful not to stab him with his horns, and sighed as he closed his eyes.

“Sorry.”

He couldn’t see Dorian’s face, but he could hear his voice. “No need to apologize, I’d rather be here to keep an eye on you.”

“No…” His inhibitions were down, so he wound up muttering. “Sorry I’m really heavy… you’re probably uncomfortable.”

Shame pulsed at the same rate of the headache behind his eyes. Right then, Kaaras wished the headache would kill him rather than have to exist in the moment he found himself in. He braced himself for the worse, even as the pain ramped up.

Was Dorian going to laugh at him? Agree with him? Would he pity him? That was the last thing he wanted…

“Kaaras, you’re a qunari. I expect a little extra heft.” Dorian’s voice was soft, and his hand found the base of his ear to scratch at it carefully – it was one of his favorite spots. “And it’s not like you’re breaking my legs.”

Creators forbid…

Still, his face heated up and he sunk in on himself. “There’s a difference between qunari heft and…”

He trailed off. “Just let me know if you’re uncomfortable is all I’m saying.”

Kaaras’ remark was met with a heavy silence. His stomach squirmed, and he wished he could disappear off the face of Thedas. He couldn’t even imagine what Dorian was thinking in that moment  - probably nothing good.

Worst of all, he had the poor man trapped. The universe hated him.

“I’m not uncomfortable.” He fingers carded through Kaaras’ hair, finding the base of his horn, and rubbing it lightly with his thumb. It sent a pleasant shiver up the qunari’s spine, which helped with the pain behind his eyes. “But you sound it.”

Of course he was… spend your life among the Dalish when he outweighed them by the time he was 12 was enough to make anyone uncomfortable.

“Just… part of being me, I guess.” Kaaras winced as the headache pulsed in time with the cut on his palm. “Fuck…”

Could he just stop existing now? Better to just fucking die in his sleep than deal with this. Then again… dead weight was bad enough on its own, but his dead weight would effectively doom Dorian to be stuck there.

Maybe he could be nice and die on the floor.

“There’s nothing wrong with how you are, Kaaras.” Dorian’s voice was soft as he continued to rub the base of his horn. It did help to soften the blow a little to say the least, but it still felt like pity. He hated pity. “Really.”

Kaaras risked a weak laugh – at least that didn’t make his head hurt. “You have to admit I’m not exactly in shape like most of our companions.”

“I would argue the fact you can run through a forest without shoes while wielding two swords means you’re more in shape than you think.” A pause, then, “And who cares about them. I’m certainly not kissing any of them.”

No, he wasn’t…

But he still worried, nonetheless.

“I know this won’t stick because your brain is currently on fire… but you’re wonderful just the way you are.” His voice was barely above a whisper. “And I won’t mind saying it when you feel better. Maker knows you need to hear it more.”

Something about the tone of his voice and the soft pressure on his aching horn was doing great thing for Kaaras’ headache, to the point maybe he could believe it for a second. Or maybe that was his brain just trying to get some rest.

Either way, he would take it.

---

The next time Kaaras was conscious, it was dark outside.

His headache had subsided to a dull throb with the setting of the sun, settling into his forehead with a strange familiarity. It was something he could live with at any rate as he began to remember where he was.

Dorian looking down at him certainly helped.

“Have a nice nap?” At some point he had picked up a book and started to read it. Kaaras recognized the cover – his brother was reading the same one. Good to know their rivalry hadn’t subsided. “You looked rather peaceful in your sleep.”

Kaaras nodded as he sat up, rubbing his forehead. “I guess I needed some rest. Sorry if I kept you too long.”

The moon was high in the sky when he glanced towards the balcony – after midnight, perhaps. Dorian would have a decent walk in the dark back to where he slept, no doubt a difficult one when one was tired.

Should he…

“It allowed me to get some reading done.” Dorian inserted his bookmark between the pages with a soft touch. “But if you’re feeling better, I suppose I should take my leave.”

He stood, no doubt ready to leave. Something about it made panic shoot through Kaaras’ brain and activated his physical response. At the last moment, he reached out and grabbed the man’s hand to prevent him from leaving.

Dorian’s gray eyes met his when he looked back. “Yes?”

Kaaras’ tongue for once worked as he managed to stutter out, “It… it’s late. Why don’t you stay here tonight?”

He then quickly added, “Just to sleep, of course. I wouldn’t… it’s just a long way back to the tower and I know humans don’t see as well in the dark and…”

Even he knew he was babbling. But part of him just didn’t want to let the man go. Whether it was for safety reasons or something else he didn’t know how to address, he wanted Dorian to stay the night..

If only he could put that into words.

“Well… if you wouldn’t mind sharing your bed for sleeping.”

Dorian’s voice was soft there, like it had been before. “I don’t exactly wish to stub my toe in the dark, you see.”

Kaaras’ heart skipped a beat as he watched the mage return to the couch so he could get more comfortable for bed. It was a reminder he had to do the same – though he did so with trembling fingers.

Luckily Dorian wasn’t looking when he slipped his binder off before pulling his tunic back on. He was too focused on other things to miss the appearance of certain anatomical features Kaaras wasn’t fond of.

Well, he’d see them eventually… but with cloth it was easier.

Still, his heart skipped a beat as he approached the bed. It was big enough for two, but… the prospect still excited him. In the end, he was the first to get in, followed by the mage who all but dove under the blanket.

After a few moments, they settled in. Somehow, Kaaras wound up pressed up against Dorian’s front, nestled into his arms. No doubt it looked ridiculous with their body differences, but right then he didn’t care.

“Good night, Kaaras. Sleep well.” Dorian’s voice was in his ear as he nuzzled into his shoulder. The mage’s arms were wrapped around his abdomen, right over the stomach he hated so much… but in that moment it was hard to mind much.

It was… nice, he supposed.

“Goodnight, Dorian.”

There were no more words after that as they settled in for the night. No doubt in the morning it would be more than a little awkward… but Kaaras would worry about that when the sun was up. Right then, all was right with the world.

For the first time in ages, he found himself drifting into a peaceful sleep, Dorian’s arms around him and the human’s breath in his ear. All things considered… he could honestly get used to something like this.

Maybe… it wasn’t so bad. Maybe.

[ghostwise]

Overgrown for the prompts?

She finds him in the orchard, among the flies, mold, and rotting fruit.

The sickly sweet odor of a thousand dead plums is an assault on her senses. Leonor reels back, dizzied. Nobody has tended to the orchards at Quinta de Talpa. For years they have been left to grow wild, an interruption of the ecosystem, sucking up all the water and nutrients in the soil yet feeding no one. A space dedicated to nothing more than decay.

It feels appropriate.

She has been thinking about her and Rinna’s situation. They came here looking for an escape, but lately it feels like a dead end. What once seemed like a promising start has become much like this orchard; untenable and stagnant.

By the time Mahariel reaches her she is miserable, looking at him as if he were the very cause of everything wrong in her life. It’s not too far from the truth.

“I wish you’d never come here,” she says, too angry to try and be clever with him.

Hamal looks at her, impassive and silent. His eyes shake in their usual unsteady tic, too blue to be real, strange and unsettling, but he’s listening. Most of their conversations involve him listening.

“You really fucked things up for me!” Leonor continues. “So many years trying to keep her safe and now we have a diplomatic incident on our hands because of you and your shit husband-”

“’Diplomatic’—what?” Hamal asks. Her tone combined with a reference to Zevran catches his attention, and his expression falls into a half-hearted glare. “I do not understand. What did you say about my husband?”

His Antivan is still not very good. He understands about half of what she says to him, but he knows just enough to be a real pain in the ass when he’s up to the effort of conversing. Frustrated, Leonor reaches into her pockets and produces a letter, written on good parchment, with an ornate seal.

“Who the fuck,” she begins, exasperated, “is writing to you from Orlais?” The paper crumples as she hits it for emphasis, startling him. “The fucking Left Hand of the Divine! Are you serious? How does she know you are here? Why does she even care?”

Hamal’s eyes follow the letter and he seems genuinely taken aback. “I… I do not know-”

“Read it!” She shoves the paper into his hands and takes out a dagger for good measure. “Out loud!”

Hamal glances at the letter, then at her weapon.

“Read!”

“Ya, ya, calma,” he says, unworried. “One moment. Thank you.”

Leonor is no Templar, no guard and no soldier. She watches him read in utter silence, and runs her hand through her curls, giving them a desperate tug. Finally, feeling that she might have been a tad hasty, she puts the knife away.

“Well? What does it say?” she asks.

It says she is overstepping, as usual, Hamal thinks.

Leliana, it seems, has done well for herself since the Blight. Truth be told, he is not too pleased by the letter in his hands. While most would think no news is good news, Leliana has taken it upon herself to spend time and resources tracking them down.

Hamal sighs and closes his eyes, aware of Leonor still watching him. He wishes Zevran was here to discuss this. How troubling.

“She is a friend from Ferelden,” he explains, and tries desperately to think of how to spin this in their favor. He struggles a bit with the next part. “Me ayudó… con… cuando… uhm...”

Waving a hand through the air, he brings it down in a swoop of wings.

“Raar, raar. Demonio. The Archdemon. She helped us end the Blight.”

“The Left Hand of the Divine helped you defeat the Archdemon,” Leonor repeats, and she sinks to the ground in a moody crouch. “Of course. And I suppose she and Zevran are the best of friends.”

“Yes. Friends.” Hamal forms a little twist with his fingers. “Leliana and Zevran. She wants to see us.”

“Then maybe you should go.”

Leonor covers her eyes, mortified. The Divine’s Left Hand! An army of Chantry forces will surely follow. They’ll find a decrepit estate, full of falsified documents, blood magic, assassins, apostates, tax evasion! What will become of Rinnala then, when she is no longer at her side?

Contentious relationship aside, Hamal does sympathize. He knows enough about Leonor to understand that her freedom was hard-won, and that her concerns for Rinnala mirror his own feelings toward Zevran. He steps closer, carefully, and kneels beside her.

“Rinnala does not want us to go,” he says slowly. “She has to decide. Zevran will wait for her to ask him to leave.”

Abruptly, he continues in his native language, something she vaguely recognizes as that curious Coastal Fereldan Elvhen. Different from the way the Antivan Dalish speak.

“I will write Leliana,” he says, holding a palm out and scribbling on it with his finger. “I will tell her we are well and correspond with her accordingly. I will tell her not to come. Que no venga.”

He wags a finger ‘no’.

“Zevran will agree with this plan. No Chantry forces will come to Quinta de Talpa. No Templars will ever chain you again.”

And they’ve squabbled with each other enough in these past months to have built a little bridge all their own. Some understanding, past the language barrier, past the distrust, allows her to grasp his meaning. Leonor puzzles out what he’s saying, unable to believe him, but tempted by the offer.

“Alright… alright,” she says finally. “But we are to read every letter you send. Do not try anything underhanded!”

Hamal nods. “Nothing bad. Promise.”

Leonor scoffs and pulls herself up, grasping him by the shoulder.

“Let’s go. It smells awful. Why are you even out here?”

“There are animals in the orchard,” Hamal says idly. “I was setting traps.”

“Animals?”

“Little ones. They eat the plums. Ah, hm… they go like this.” Unable to describe them, he holds out a hand and makes little motions with his fingers, like a creature scurrying. Then he bunches it up into a fist, as if the creature were curling up.

“Armadillos?” Leonor asks.

Hamal shrugs. A curious moment of peace transpires. The entire conversation has his mind spinning.

“This will work,” he tells her, glancing at her warily, “but not forever. Leliana is not the only one who will come. One day, Rinnala has to let us leave. You promise me.”

“Buddy,” Leonor sighs, “if it were up to me, you would already be gone.”

[aria-i-adagio]

45 or 48 from the touch prompts for Rhys and Dorian?

Thank you! Definitely helping with the day.

48. dancing with each other

“Inquisitor -” Josie halts and lets go of his hand and waist, shoulders rolling with exasperation. “You’re still missing the fourth step.”

“Really, it’s more of a half-step.” Rhys’s shoulders are also tight with annoyance.

“And you mix up left and right. I can’t have you tripping over every duke, duchess, and chevalier in Orlais.” Josie throws herself back into one of the more comfortable chairs in the room and props her feet up on the low table. “We only have a few days before we need to leave for Halamshiral.”

“Does anyone find it a bit gauche that the Orlesians located their pleasure palace in the former Elven capital?” Dorian looks up from his book. It’s a study of recent Orlesian history. He volunteered to make Rhys a crib sheet.

Rhys sits down beside him on the sofa and leans on his shoulder. He vaguely remembers formal dances and such from when he was a child, but it isn’t his fault that they weren’t part of the curriculum in the Circle. “Wouldn’t it be nice if I had two left hands instead of two left feet? Imagine how much more efficient closing rifts would be?”

Josie laughs. Unlike Rutherford, she isn’t overly bothered by Rhys and Dorian’s relationship. Cassie seems to be cautiously charmed. “Still, I need you to be able to get through this ball and the negotiations.”

“They’re playing to my strengths, aren’t they?” Political intrigue, schmoozing with nobility, trying to keep up with where his feet are located at any given time, stiff clothing. Josie had at least promised to modify the neckline a bit on his uniform. He can’t deal with a high, tight collar. “This might actually be the death of me.”

Dorian sets aside the book and hops to his feet, holding out one hand to Rhys. “You may just be over-thinking.” He pulls Rhys to his feet and guides him back to the open space in the center of Josie’s office. “Let’s try again. I’ll lead, you follow, maybe you can get a better sense of the steps.”

He gently rearranges Rhys’s hands then leans his head close to Rhys’s ear and whispers, “Relax, Lark. Just follow me. Okay?”

Rhys turns his head, brushing his cheek briefly against Dorian’s. “I’ll try.”

“All you need to do.”

Dorian starts counting the beats softly, and Rhys does his best to mirror the steps. Right then left, forward - no that should have been backward, and he bumps against Dorian’s chest. “Andraste’s ass.”

“It’s okay.” Dorian kisses the corner of his mouth. “Stand a little closer. Shut your eyes. Try to feel what I’m doing.”

“Alright.” Nothing else has worked. Maybe not watching what he’s doing will help. Worth a try. At any rate, standing closer to Dorian is pleasant. Rhys closes his eyes and attempts to just react to Dorian’s movements. He makes it a bit further through the sequence before side-stepping in the wrong direction and nearly toppling into the floor.

Dorian catches him with a soft laugh. “Better. You’re doing better.”

“It doesn’t feel like it.”

“Again.” He messes up Rhys’s hair. “We’re going to get it.”

It takes another half hour before Rhys makes it through the entire movement without tripping. Perhaps not elegantly, but he didn’t step into Dorian or fall into the floor. Josie claps with delight, and Dorian rewards him with a kiss. “Very good, Amatus.” He steps one leg forward, and when Rhys manages to copy the movement with the correct foot, dips him backward and kisses him, deep and long this time.

Josie laughs merrily. “Excellent. Now, if we can just teach you to lead.”

[scurvgirl]

Summer Heat

Good gracious I actually wrote something and it’s um. Naughty. It’s PWP, y’all. Fluffy PWP. Because before there was heartache with Miriel and Solas, there was joy - beautiful, sexy joy. Rated E - Explicit

Please remember to reblog if you like! Help your creators out :)

~~

Summer had overtaken Skyhold with a heat wave and sun. For the many southerner occupants, the heat was unwelcome and odd with the mountain elevation, but for northerners like Miriel, Bull, and Dorian, the heat wave was welcome after a long and difficult winter. For the first time in months, Miriel shed her outer layers and walked around in her preferred traditional garments. Her arms were bare and her hair up, letting her dreadfully pale skin greedily soak up the sun while it could. Dorian had even emerged from his cozy book nook to enjoy the heat, or Bull deciding to run his northern accustomed Chargers through drills. 

Miriel could feel the flowers and trees bask in the glory of the light and heat, or at least she liked to think she could. She was not gifted with magic but she liked to imagine that the plant life was eating this up as much as she and the other northerners were. 

The southerners were even more disrobed than the northerners, fanning their faces and avoiding the sun. The troops Cullen was running were down to their breeches and boots. Metal weapons had been turned over in favor of wooden poles for training purposes. All of which Miriel found more than a little amusing - it wasn’t that hot. She had walked the plains in Antiva in the height of summer - she knew heat. But these southerners were accustomed to snow, sleet, and cold. 

Feeling delighted Miriel walked across the bridge from Cullen’s office to the rotunda. She meant to use it as a shortcut to Josie’s office to discuss an incoming noble from Orlais, but stopped short upon seeing Solas. He was up on the scaffold, painting in a new section of the panel depicting their victory at Adamant. Paint coated his hands and upper arms and his shirt was delightfully discarded to the couch below. Miriel grinned, happy to be waylaid by the sight of her lover’s form. 

Solas was a man who took notice of...everything, but he was often engrossed by his painting that the rest of the world fell away. When he read, he became similarly engrossed. She used his distraction to her benefit and stepped quietly to his chair, then took a seat to watch. 

Some did not understand her attraction to Solas. He was certainly older and was not built like a warrior, but an active scholar. He was bald, and barefaced too. She knew all these things, and it did not dampen her desire for him. If anything, she found his form delightful and deliciously proportionate - he was tall and lean and his legs were so well shaped. His intelligence and knowledge were exceptionally attractive to her, and she practically crooned at the way his voice sounded when he told her tales of his explorations of the fade. He was artistic, and quite frankly, hot as fuck. Her friends could not understand it all they wanted - he was what she wanted, and she had a wonderful penchant for getting what she wanted these days.

She leaned forward in her seat and removed her vest, leaving her just in a loose under shirt and tight breeches that highlighted her shapely legs. With the vest gone, her strong shoulders and arms were full on display, leaving no wonder to her prowess with a bow. He did so love her muscles. She only left the small wrist length leather glove on her left hand, not wishing to have the green light of the Anchor give her away just yet.

Watching Solas paint was always pleasant -  the classical style with which he worked was so interesting to watch take shape. She waited until he sat back on his heels to look at what he’d done in a way that signified he was done for the day. When he nodded silently to himself, she let out a low whistle. 

“I can’t tell which is prettier, the painting or the painter,” she said. Solas whipped around, his face turning bright red to match the paint on his hands. Still, he smiled deviously, pleased at the comment.

“I am glad my skills please the Inquisitor,” he said and she rolled her eyes.

“Do I look like the Inquisitor right now?” For emphasis, she reached up and undid her ponytail, letting her blonde hair fall to her shoulders. She fluffed it with deliberate slowness, knowing he loved her hair - loved to thread his fingers through it, loved to bury his face in it while they -

“No, you do not,” he said low, interrupting her trail of thought. He climbed down from the scaffolding and walked over to the water basin to wash. As he grabbed the washcloth, Miriel stood up and walked over to him. He began to run the cloth against his skin and she ran a finger lightly up his back.

He paused briefly before resuming his wash, “I gather you are in a certain way, vhenan.”

“Always so observant,” she murmured, then angled herself to lean up and steal a quick kiss. Well, it was supposed to be quick. Solas kissed her back, his tongue sliding across her lips. She sighed, leaned into him and deepened the kiss. 

Solas broke away and she leaned up quickly to kiss the tip of his nose. He smiled and pressed his forehead to hers.

“You are insistent today.”

“I’m not the one starting with tongue, vhenan,” she teased, still pressed up against him and even angling her head to brush her lips along his jaw. Early on she learned just how starved for affection he was, just how much his body craved touch. Since then, Miriel had touched him as much as she could without being overwhelming - a hand to his back when she approached, a kiss to his cheek to say hello or good night, holding his hand at the camp fire when in the field, anything to make him remember that he was here and so was she. She once asked him if he had no one to touch him and he had paused and then only said that the Fade was imperfect and it had been a long time since someone had touched him, or wanted to touch him, like she did. 

“I’ll just endeavor to touch you as much as I can, then. Have your Fade adventures, and when you wake up, I’ll be here,” she had told him. His eyes had squeezed shut and when he opened them, they were full of overwhelming emotion.

“Thank you, vhenan.” 

Now, he put his hands back in the water and she maneuvered herself out from under him. The sooner he finished, the sooner she could get him up to her quarters. 

He washed as quickly as he could, taking care to remove every fleck of paint and plaster from his fingers. She knew he moved quickly, but there were moments where it almost felt like the world slowed as she watched the slim length of his fingers be washed, saw them flex in the water. She met his eyes and a distinctive mirth entered his expression. Wonderful, filthy man. 

As soon as he was finished with the wash, she grabbed his hand and brought it to her lips, kissing his fingertips then his pulse. 

“Brazen indeed, vhenan,” he murmured before stepping forward to cup her face and kiss her once more. Heat bloomed between them, putting the heat wave to shame. She adored kissing him, and would happily do so for hours. Today, though, she was very much in a particular mood - a mood that desired Solas and herself naked and writhing with passion.

She broke the kiss, took his hand and began to lead the way to her quarters. It was still the middle of the day at Skyhold, and the rotunda was entirely too public for her. She liked her privacy, as did Solas. 

Of course, there was no doubt as to what was happening as they traipsed through the great hall to the door that led upstairs to her quarters. Without evening looking, she knew Varric was smirking and shaking his joy as if he didn’t take immense joy in seeing his friends happy. 

As soon as they were through the door, Solas shut it behind them and pressed Miriel up against a wall. His mouth was on hers, his hands mapping her body, relearning it. She gripped his shoulders, pressing herself into the heat of the kiss and to his body. Moments like these made the world fall away, made her forget all about her duties as Inquisitor, even about the Mark blazing in her hand. 

She wrapped her arms around his shoulders then jumped up to wrap her legs around his waist.

“Yes, vhenan,” he murmured against her lips. His hands were on her ass, holding her even as he felt her up. She smiled into the kiss, nearly laughing, forcing it to break. 

“Something funny?” He asked.

“You love my ass. I just...it’s funny!” 

His brow furrowed but he smiled, “Ah, well, it is a very nice one.” He gave her a firm squeeze, making her gasp. Before she could respond, he adjusted his grip and fadestepped all the way up the stairs. She held on for dear life until she was being thrown back, landing on the softness of her bed. 

Her heart raced, head swimming as she tried to orient herself. And there was Solas, already pulling his leggings over his shapely form. She bit her lip, her body’s interest blooming with renewed vigor. Miriel followed her lover’s example and removed her undershirt, then wiggled out of her breeches. She did away with her breast band and underwear, leaving her bare to his gaze. The single glove on her Marked hand remained. Solas’s gaze roamed over her body with obvious desire, so she arched her back and shifted backward.

“Solas,” she murmured and that was enough to have him crawling after her onto the bed. He was over in her a moment, slanting his mouth against hers once more. She felt her entire body sigh on a singular thought of yes as he pressed his body to hers. He had his Fade, but she was in the physical world and she could have him here, feel him groan with pleasure, feel his erection pressing against her hip. Her fingers dragged down his back and he shivered with pleasure. 

He slipped a hand between them, his fingers delving for her hot, wet sex. She moaned into his mouth as he began his ministrations, thumb rolling and fingers stroking. She spread her legs wider, but while she meant it as an invitation he stopped.

“Solas, please,” she panted against his mouth, but his mouth was already moving away...and down. “Oh good, nnnngh,” she groaned as his mouth replaced his hands. That wicked tongue of his stroked and delved and made her moan ceaselessly with pleasure. She gripped the bedspread instead of clawing at his bald head. That would be entirely too obvious. 

His tongue circled her clit with purpose and his fingers returned to slip inside of her. Her hips undulated against his touch and her moans spurred him onward as he brought her off, his fingers preparing her for his length. Her muscles tensed and he crooked those fingers inside of her as he increased the tempo of his tongue lashing.

“Fuuuh,” she moaned as her pleasure washed over her, her sheath spasming around his fingers. Even as her pleasure washed over her, she felt herself crave more. 

Solas moved up her body, licking his lips in clear appreciation. She glanced down to see his erection, flushed and hard. 

Miriel put her hands on Solas’s shoulders and in one motion, had him flipped onto his back with her straddling him. As she ran her hands down his body, he held her hips then squeezed her backside. 

“Watch me,” she instructed, reaching for his cock. She adjusted herself and then was sliding down his length, inch by inch.

“Miriel,” he groaned, eyes glued to the sight of her taking him into her. She grinned with victory. Miriel loved this. Loved seeing how mad she could drive him, loved riding him into oblivion. Once fully seated, she took a moment to simply enjoy the feeling of being filled. He had prepared her well and she felt only pleasure at the sensation of stretching. She flexed around him and his hips bucked in response. 

“Patience, sa’lath,” she teased. She leaned forward and pressed kisses to his neck before sucking a bruise right below his earlobe. He groaned, grip tightening on her backside. Taking mercy on him, she rolled her hips, moving herself up and down his length. 

She rose back up and rolled her hips again. And again. She moved on his cock, riding him at a quick pace that had him gasping and thrusting for more. They moved together, chasing their pleasures in sync. Her head fell back, falling into the sensations of heat and tension and the delicious slide of him in and out of her. 

His fingers on her clit shocked her and she mewled in surprised delight. Sparks of pleasure suffused her sex and love seemed to take a singular hold over her heart. 

“Vhenan, yes, yes,” she chanted, grinding on him. He returned thrusts in kind, keeping with her. Her Marked hand throbbed as she felt his magic permeate the air as it always did when he was close. She opened her eyes to watch his glorious face in the throes of passion. Creators, he was beautiful. Gorgeous tension in his face as he neared his end, his full lips and bright eyes, that nose…

“Ar lath ma,” Miriel panted. Solas’s lips parted and he groaned, hips snapping upward and his magic surging as he reached completion. She felt him pulse inside of her, and with a quick motion of his fingers, her world bloomed with sensation and she came with a high pitched cry. 

Her body trembled with aftershocks, and he was still inside of her, softening. Part of her loathed to part, but she knew better. Carefully, she moved off of his cock, but she remained on top of him. Unable to resist the pull of his lips, she kissed him gently. 

Solas sighed and cupped her face. The kiss was languid and sweet, communicating without words what they felt for each other. The closeness they felt with each other, separate from the rest of the world that was a mess and so demanding of her and by extension him. Here, in bed, it was just them, enjoying themselves. 

Miriel let herself enjoy the moment then pulled away with a smile. “Be right back,” she said, giving him a quick peck to the cheek. She dashed over to the washroom and took care of herself. When she exited the washroom, Solas was laying in beautiful naked repose in her bed.

“The windows were open,” he said, nodding to the open balcony to the garden below. 

“Well, it’s not like anyone doesn’t know. Besides, it’s good for the Chantry sister and mothers to be scandalized every now and then.” She left the windows open, with the tower up so high there was a nice cross breeze to counteract the heat anyways.

She looked back over at him and his lovely body, “You’re beautiful.”

He blinked in surprise and a blush spread across his cheeks, “You flatter me, vhenan.”

“I tell the truth! You’re beautiful and sexy, especially after I had my way with you,” she couldn’t help it, she laughed a little. Not at him and not because it was a joke but because she was happy. 

Solas chuckled, “You are beautiful and sexy as well, particularly after you have had your way with me, as you so aptly put it.” 

“Hmm,” she hummed, stalking forward. “I wonder if we’ll be as beautiful if you have your way with me.”

“An excellent wondering, we should investigate.” He leaned forward on the bed just as she reached it, their lips coming together in a heated kiss. And Miriel did so love the heat.

[heartslogos]

newfragile yellows [1032]

He's been avoiding contacting Evelyn for information because it’d feel too much like ratting on the other three. That and Evelyn probably doesn’t know about the whole situation. She’s been deeply focused on the restructuring of the Exalted Plains’ branch of the Herald’s Rest now that Orlais has called for a temporary cease fire in the region.

And Evelyn would probably get on his ass for bothering her about something inconsequential. He could play the ‘but we’re friends’ card which would get him out of trouble just as easy, but it feels like a cheat. Then again, Evelyn could also know exactly what’s going on here and if he writes to her she’d write back with ruthless teasing. But she’d still tell him what he wants to know, anyway.

It’d be faster than trying to go through the others at the high table.

Josephine and Leliana are neatly dodging his attempts to get more details. Rutherford, when asked about who was coming down to Morrin, responded with a dry list of troop profiles.

Knowing Rutherford, it could go either way. Either the man is ignorant of the current gossip regarding Bull’s quest and the one woman who seems to be going through it like it was made for her to do in her spare time — which is entirely feasible. Rutherford isn’t the type to willingly gossip. And when he catches any of his soldiers doing it he’s always sure to break it up and remind them of their duties. — or he’s fully aware and reacting like this on purpose. That’s more likely. If he works in close quarters with Leliana and Josephine there’s some gossip that’s bound to make its way through his thick head.

It’s hard to tell on paper. The man’s sense of humor is so dry and rarely used it might as well be a withered husk buried in sand.

Thankfully, before he can make a decision on which pit viper he’s going to try and get information out of next to try his luck with, Grim unceremoniously throws his door open.

“Are you all just savage animals wearing people skin?” Bull asks as Grim points down the hall he came from. “What? I don’t hear anything breaking. It can’t be that bad.”

Grim rolls his eyes like he’s a sixteen year old, cranky teenager who’s got the weight of the world on his shoulders and an immaculate genius that’s being tarnished by breathing the same air as other people. The man should’ve been an actor.

Grim points again, free hand exaggerated as he spells out a name.

Bull it walking past him before he can sign the second ‘l’.

Someone (Stitches) has had the sense to ask the woman to stay put in time for Bull to get there and actually see her with his own eye. Or at least, that’s what it looks like when Bull bursts out of the dim hallway into he large public front of the Herald’s Rest.

He sees her in profile, first, examining the notice boards. An arm leans on the reception desk counter, fingers drumming on it. She doesn’t look irritated, though.

When he comes into the room she turns. There’s faint recognition in her eyes and nothing more. Unsurprising. That’s what he usually gets.

The Iron Bull is a famous name and with an easy to match description attached to it.

He breathes.

This is the person who collected the herbs for his vitaar. And brought in the hide of a fade touched great bear. This is the person who slayed an unannounced high dragon.

Bull approaches the counter. Stitches quickly makes himself scarce.

Dalish immediately takes his place — shoving Aclassi out of the way with a burst of magic that causes the man to go down with a high pitched yelp and a curse — because she’s nosy.

Bull ignores her in favor of studying Ellana Lavellan up close.

Dark eyes. Vallaslin for Dirthamen. Narrow lips, but the bottom is fuller than the top. Wide cheek bones. Straight lashes.

“Ellana Lavellan,” Bull says. It isn’t a question. It’d be one shitty question if so. Who doesn’t know Ellana Lavellan’s name, at this point? If he didn’t know her by now he should be sacked.

“The Iron Bull. Do you have business with me? Your man told me to wait for you,” Ellana says.

“After a fashion.” Bull wordlessly holds his hand out to the side. Dalish, with a certain amount of unearned glee, hurls the ledger at him. Bull quickly opens it. He knows the pages he needs by heart.

“Are you familiar with the running quests of Morrin Keep?” Bull asks. “The repeatable ones that are up all year?”

There’s only three.

There’s only his.

But Ellana frowns, mouth thinning further as she thinks it over. “I can’t say I am. To be honest with you I don’t pay much attention to the dates for the quests pinned to the board. I just pick whatever strikes my fancy at the time.”

Bull nods. He isn’t surprised by that.

“There’s a quest chain specific to the Morrin branch,” he explains. “Collection of felanderis, blood lotus, ghoul’s beard. Collection of one stone’s worth of fade touched hide.” His eye watches her as her eyebrow start to raise, mouth parting in a soft “oh”. “And lastly. Slaying and procuring the tooth of a high dragon.”

Bull turns the ledger to face her, tapping the next empty spot.

“Do you have one?”

Ellana slowly reaches towards her waist, hand sliding into what must be a bag of holding, as he watches her hand, then wrist, then arm up to her elbow, slide in. She pulls out a single tooth. Whole, wicked sharp, as thick as Bull’s wrist and as just as long as his forearm.

She places it on the counter between them, pushing it towards him with her fingertips. She slowly raises her hands to her neck and pulls off her adventurer’s tag, placing that next to it.

Bull holds his hand out and Dalish nearly stabs him handing him the pen.

With steady hands he records Ellana Lavellan’s name, and the new details of her upgraded tag.

“And what happens now?” Ellana asks, dark eyes cutting him down to the bone to examine him and appraise him and his intent. “As I am unfamiliar with this line, I don’t know what the reward is.”

“If you wish to claim it,” Bull answers, “The reward is myself. My time. The only question is if you want it. Do you?”

[pikapeppa]

Felassan/f!Lavellan: Ar Lasa Mala Revas

Chapter 27 of The Love That Grows From Violence (post-Trespasser Felassan x Tamaris Lavellan) is posted!

100% fluff, smut, and more feelsy fluff. ALSO GIFT ART, which needs its own post because I am beside myself with feels. 😭❤️

~9700 words so long omfg. Only the first part is posted here. Read the whole thing on AO3. 

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

A few days later, when the sky was a curtain of deep midnight blue studded with stars, Tamaris sat on the roof curled into Felassan’s shoulder, watching as the smoke of their shared joint drifted from his mouth in delicate wisps and curls. 

He offered her the joint, and she took it and brought it to her lips. “What do you think we should do when we finally leave this house?” she asked.

He leaned back casually on one hand. “It depends on what’s happening in the world by the time we are ready to leave. Who knows? Maybe the qunari will start moving south by then. Or maybe Tevinter will succeed at pushing the qunari back.” He smiled cheekily. “Maybe someone will assassinate the Emperor of Orlais in a sudden coup d’état.”

Tamaris lifted an eyebrow and blew out a stream of smoke. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were trying to set up for such a coup.”

“Would that I had the resources to set up something so devious,” he said. “But that would probably plunge your world into even more chaos, so I wouldn’t recommend it.”

“Thank you for that very wise spy advice,” she said wryly.

He nodded politely. “You’re very welcome.”

She smirked and took another drag from the joint, then blew out a little cloud of smoke and held out the joint. “Seriously though. Isn’t there anything you want to do? Barring the stuff that we might have to do. Isn’t there anywhere you’d like to travel to?”

He took the joint. “It would be interesting to visit the Arbour Wilds — to see the Temple of Mythal again.”

She raised an eyebrow. “There’s no one there anymore.”

“Exactly,” he said. “It’s perfect for scavenging. There might be clues as to where Mythal’s dragon or her amulet are being kept, or whether her dragon is even alive anymore. It is possible that the Well of Sorrows was not the only sacred treasure they were guarding.”

Tamaris raised her eyebrows. “Oh shit. That’s true. Okay, we should go there.”

“We could,” Felassan said. “Or we could go somewhere else.”

She gave him a chiding look, and he smiled unconcernedly and handed her the joint. “Where do you want to go, avise? Which direction would we strike out in if you were given the choice?”

She sighed and gazed idly at the smouldering tip of the joint. “I… ah, I’ve been thinking for a while that I should go see my clan. Those who aren’t in Wycome still, I mean.”

“Where are they now?”

“They’re a short ways from Starkhaven right now,” she said. “It’s not that far from Kirkwall, so I don’t really have an excuse.”

He cocked his head. “You were avoiding them?”

She hesitated. She genuinely hadn’t had time to go see her clan after the explosion at the Conclave, and things had only gotten busier from a political and peacekeeping standpoint after Corypheus was dead. 

But if Tamaris was honest, it was more than just Inquisition business that had stopped her from visiting her clan. And there was a reason she had volunteered to spy on the Conclave in the first place, all those years ago.

She brought the joint to her lips. “I was avoiding them, yeah.”

“Why?”

“I was…” She sighed, then gave Felassan a hard look. “I love my clan, all right? I love them, and I think they’re great. But Dalish clans grow up knowing every bit of each other’s business. We’re very close, and it’s very hard to keep secrets. It’s part of what makes us such a tight community — the entire clan is really just one big family. There are no strangers in a clan, only family.” She ran her hand through her hair. “But it also makes it difficult to… to forget when something bad happens to someone.”

He tilted his head. “You were constantly reminded of Marin.”

“Yes,” she said. “And – look, it’s not that I want to forget him. I – I’ll never forget him. He’s been dead for years and I still think of him almost every day. But it’s one thing to think of him randomly because something reminds me of him, and it’s another thing to think of him because he’s all anyone ever sees when they look at me. When he’s all I ever thought about when I looked at my parents.” She exhaled hard and rubbed her forehead. “The Inquisition was a pain in the ass a lot of the time, but I was able to… I wasn’t ‘poor Marin’s sister’ anymore, and that was… gods, I feel like an asshole saying it, but it was a relief.”

“You had a chance to start over,” Felassan said.

She looked at him. His tone was neutral but his eyes were warm, and her shoulders loosened at his lack of judgment. “Yes,” she said. “I was able to… to be someone who wasn’t forever tied to my failure to protect my family. And as the Inquisitor, I became the opposite. I was the person they saw as the one who protected everyone.” She snorted and lifted the joint to her mouth once more. “Fucking ironic, isn’t it?”

“Did your clan really see you as someone who failed to protect your family?” he asked.

She blew out a mouthful of smoke. “I was someone who failed to protect my family. He got dragged off because I couldn’t talk the Templars into calming down.”

Felassan smiled faintly. “I hardly believe that the Templars were inclined to listen. Especially if Marin had already hurt some of them.”

Tamaris swallowed hard. “He, uh… he killed one of them, actually. And hurt a couple more. But he didn’t mean to.”

Felassan nodded an acknowledgement. “If that’s the case, his fate was sealed, and not by you. That wasn’t your fault.” He took the joint from her fingers.

She frowned at him. “What do you mean, his fate was sealed? You really think there was nothing I could have done?”

“Oh, something could certainly have been done,” Felassan said. “But I doubt your clan was willing or ready to start a war against the Chantry.”

Tamaris stared at him as he brought the joint to his lips. “You’re being pretty cold-hearted about this,” she accused.

He released a mouthful of smoke before replying. “Cold-heartedness is not my intention. My intention is to point out that it was not your fault. Look at the bigger picture, and you’ll realize that short of pitting your clan against the Templar Order, there was little you could have done.” He held out the joint to her.

She glared at him, then looked away and took a breath to calm herself. He wasn’t saying anything she hadn’t told herself at one point or another, though she never quite believed her own pep talks in this regard.

She believed Felassan, though. Galling as it was to admit, it meant more to hear him saying this than telling it to herself. 

He was still talking. “There was little you could have done at that time, at least. From what I read in This Shit Is Weird, you certainly had a hand in what happened to the Templar Order after the Conclave.”

She frowned slightly as she took the joint from him. “What do you mean?”

“You publicly supported the mages over the Templars,” he said. “The Templars’ ranks were decimated, save for those who came over to your side.”

“Yeah, but the Templars still exist,” Tamaris said.

“You tore them down to their foundations,” he said. “And the person who ultimately controls them now is your former spymaster. They may have taken Marin from you, but you saw that they were taken to heel. It took time, but you got your justice in the end. The hottest flames take some time to build, avise,” he said knowingly. He pulled from the joint, then exhaled the smoke and shot her a sly smile. “Some might even say you took the Vir’Felassan.”

The way of the slow arrow, she thought. She gazed at him with a combination of exasperation and affection. Trust him to find some way of seeing her haphazard stumbling with the Inquisition as a convoluted but purposeful path toward a bigger goal.  

She pulled from the joint, then let out a sigh of smoke and leaned into his side once more. “Anyway, that’s, um… yeah. That’s part of the reason I haven’t been back to see my clan.”

“What’s the rest of the reason?” he asked.

She lifted an eyebrow sardonically. “Um, that I was fucking the Dread Wolf and didn’t know it?”

He snorted a laugh. “Letting the Dread Wolf take you would have caused a stir, I imagine.”

Tamaris smirked and held out the joint, and his fingers brushed hers as he took it. “Are there none in your clan who joined his ranks?”

She sighed and ran her hands through her hair. “There were some. Maybe a dozen in total.”

Felassan smiled faintly. “Whatever happened to ‘the clan is family’?”

Tamaris tsked and punched him lightly in the arm. “Don’t be an asshole. We’re a family, not a bunch of single-minded drones like the qunari. If some of them got swayed by the messages that  Solas’s operatives were putting out, I can’t blame them.” She shot him a resentful look. “You know what does piss me off, though? Solas looked down on the Dalish so much, then he goes and recruits us anyway. That’s pretty fucking manipulative.”

“It is, yes,” Felassan said.

She frowned. “That’s all you have to say about it?”

He gave her a knowing look that was tinted with melancholy. “Don’t tell me you never manipulated anyone during your time as the Inquisitor. Don’t tell me such a lie.”

She wilted. “Fine, fine, you have a point.” Truthfully, she didn’t have it in her to be particularly angry anymore about the little things Solas had done. With everything that was brewing across the continent these days, it almost felt like she should save her anger for when it would serve her the most.

There was another brief and slightly morose pause as they passed the joint back and forth. Then, as usual, Felassan broke the silence. “So you want to go visit your clan, then?”

“I should,” she said.

He nodded and blew out some smoke, and there was another pause — one that felt loaded this time. As the silence stretched between them to an increasingly awkward degree, Tamaris’s heart began to thrum with nerves. 

Just fucking ask, she scolded herself. She chewed the inside of her cheek, then took a deep breath. “Felassan, will you come visit my clan with me?”

“Of course,” he said easily. “What else would I be doing?”

Her heart flipped in her chest. She stared incredulously at him until his lips curled in a smile. “Why are you gaping at me?” he asked.

“I…” She trailed off for a second, then gave him a skeptical look. “What, no questions, no complaints? Just yes?”

He lifted one eyebrow. “Was I unclear when I said we would be travelling together when we leave this house? If you’re going to see your clan, then so am I.”

A warm feeling spread through her ribcage and up to her cheeks. “But you don’t like the Dalish,” she said weakly. “You think we’re close-minded and all that shit.”

He shrugged and extinguished the butt of the joint on the roof. “It’s possible that I was wrong. About your clan, at the very least.”

She scoffed. “Possible, huh?”

He gave her a chiding smirk. “I can eat my own words, avise. They’re especially tasty when you slather them with evidence of the ways that I was wrong.”

She grinned goofily at him, then laughed and tucked a stray lock of hair over her ear. “A man who happily admits when he was wrong? What a catch. Maybe I shouldn’t take you back to the clan. All the unattached hunters will try to snap you up.”

“They can’t snap me up,” he said. “You’ve already caught me.”

Her heart leapt. She suddenly remembered the conversation she’d had with Dorian — that conversation where she’d described her feelings for Felassan: he caught me thoroughly. Now, to hear Felassan describing himself in a similar way…

He chuckled. “Tamaris, if you smile any wider, your face may split in two.”

She laughed giddily and shoved him. “Fuck you.”

He hooked his arm around her neck and pulled her close to kiss her temple, and they scuffled playfully for a moment before settling together once more.

Tamaris sighed happily and patted his thigh. “My mother might ask what your intentions are for me.”

“Hm,” he murmured thoughtfully. “Then I should probably come up with an answer that won’t make your face turn a deep and charming shade of red.”

She scoffed. “You’re such a fucking menace.”

“Thank you, Tamaris,” he said pleasantly. “I try.”

She beamed at him, then settled snugly against his side. They were quiet for a moment, and Tamaris indulged herself in a girlish fantasy of Felassan meeting her parents and telling half-sarcastic stories to her clan, then curling up with her in an aravel in the fragrant quiet of the woods: a stolen moment of peace before they went on to do more important things. 

She eventually squeezed his thigh. “Is there anything else you want to do when we leave the house? Like… trying to find Briala, maybe?”

He huffed in amusement. “You really want me to find her, don’t you?”

“I just think it’s sad that she doesn’t know you’re okay. Or that you’re even alive,” Tamaris said. “Whether you think she needs your help or not, I bet she’d want to hear from you.”

“She will,” Felassan assured her. “We’ll get a message to her.”

“How?” Tamaris asked.

“I was thinking of scratching obscure symbols into trees for her to find.” He smirked at Tamaris. “It’s the kind of thing she used to think the Dalish would do.”

She gave him a chiding look. “Felassan.”

He sighed dramatically. “All right, since you insist. I was thinking about coded letters, sent to different places where her most loyal cells used to be. The code would have to be premised on knowledge that she and I share, but not something Fen’Harel would know as well.”

She straightened with interest. “Do you have a code like that already?”

“Not exactly,” he said. “But I’ll think of something.”

Tamaris nodded, then hesitated before asking her next question. “Do you miss her?”

“Does a dandelion miss its seeds when they drift away to conquer new fields?”

Tamaris tsked. “You’re dodging.”

He smiled faintly, then leaned back casually on his palms. “Truthfully, I didn’t have time to miss her. I was made Tranquil the same night that I left her. Then I had no capacity to miss anyone or anything. When Cassandra restored me, I was… I felt too much of everything. How can I know if I missed her when I was caught in a cycle of euphoria and misery and rage?” He glanced at Tamaris. “A better question might be whether I thought of her, and the answer is yes; I thought of her often.”

Tamaris nodded. “I bet she misses you.”

Felassan gave her a chiding smile, and she nudged him with her shoulder. “I’m serious. I bet she would love to see you.”

“She doesn’t need to see me,” Felassan said. “I taught her to stand proudly on her own bare little feet.”

“Who cares about needing to see you?” Tamaris retorted. “I’m sure she wants to see you. Besides, you can’t possibly think the only value you had to her was as her teacher.”

Felassan made a mock-sad face. “That almost feels like an insult to my value as a teacher.”

Tamaris turned to face him fully. “You’re not just a tool, Felassan,” she said fiercely. “You’re not just here to be useful to people. There’s no way Briala spent sixteen years learning from you and didn’t give a shit about you.” She lifted her chin belligerently. “I think we should find her.”

Felassan smiled. “Is this going to be your mission, then? To broker a reunion between me and Briala?”

“If that’s what it’ll take for you to see that you’re worth more than your value as a spy or a teacher or a source of fucking information, then yes,” she snapped.

His smile softened, and he gently chucked her chin. “Easy, avise. You’ll set your hair on fire if you burn any brighter than this.”

She glared at him, irritated by how dismissive he was being. “You’re important, okay? And not because you’re a good spy or a useful ancient elf or any of that shit.”

His eyebrows rose. “Only a good spy? You wound me.”

“Shut the fuck up, will you?” she snapped. “I don’t care about the spy stuff or the mage stuff or the fact that you know shit about the past. I… those things don’t matter. You’re…”

She faltered, feeling awkward about the depth of her feelings, but Felassan’s smile only grew wider. “Go on,” he said. “Don’t stop yourself before you get to the good bit.”

She curled her lip. “Are you looking for me to list all your best qualities?”

“If you’re so inclined, I wouldn’t say no,” he replied.

She scoffed. He was so annoying. “You want me to jack you off while I’m at it?” she said snidely.

He burst out laughing. “How can I say no to a seductive offer like that?”

The treasured sound of his laughter rang straight to her heart. She tutted and folded her arms, and Felassan chuckled and pulled her against his side. “Are you aware that your pouting just makes you more charming?” he said.

“You’re smart, all right?” she burst out. “You’re so smart and perceptive. You can see both sides of things — well, most of the time at least, and when you don’t, you own up when you’re wrong. You make me laugh and you’re so fucking patient and–”

Felassan laughed and wrapped his arm around her. “Tamaris, you can stop. You don’t have to do this.”

“Yes I do, because you need to hear it,” she snapped. “Your value isn’t what you can do for people. It’s who you are. I don’t give a fuck if you never became a spy again or if you couldn’t cook or if you can’t totally control your magic. I’d still love you anyway.”

He grinned at her, and Tamaris’s heart somersaulted in her chest; his mouth was curled with mirth, but his beautiful violet eyes were glittering. 

He smoothed his hand over her hair. “Affectionate and abrasive at the same time. That is one of the reasons that I love you.”

It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him to shut the fuck up. Instead, she cradled his cheek in her palm and kissed him. He pulled her closer as he returned her kiss, and by the time he broke their kiss to pant against her parted lips, she was practically sitting in his lap. 

He brushed his lips to hers. “Let’s go inside,” he murmured.

Read the rest on AO3 because I’m a monster and a horrible tease. 😂

[x688plsloveme]

Parallels

An elven mage closes the breach with the assistance of the other elven mage and the demons finally stop pouring out. Varric would be more ecstatic if he wasn't so exhausted. He catches his breath and looks up at he new "Hero™" of this journey just in time to see her turn around and-

He chuckles to himself. All that's different from her is the dark red vallasline that accents her left eye and the shape of her ears.

Otherwise, she's a spitting image of one Marian Hawke. Same beautiful raven hair, if a bit longer, and captivating bright blue eyes that draw you in immediately. The confidence that oozes off of her every move that comes with years of experience and discipline as a mage that battles with her mind just as much as other people. There are differences too but - Seeing her still gives him a pang of homesickness that he quickly covers up with his standard charm before anyone is the wiser.

Solas goes on to tell her that she's the key to their salvation. Varric didn't need to see what that mark could do to notice that, she's got all the makings of a great hero already - from her demeanor to her fighting prowess - looks like he found himself in another big story for the ages. But for now, he's just glad to get rid of the demons.

"Good to know. Here I thought we'd be ass-deep in demons forever." He turns his gaze directly on her and is suave as can be when he introduces himself.

"Varric Tethras. Rouge, storyteller, and occasional unwelcome tagalong." He throws a wink at Cassandra ad he says that, she gets riled up so easily it'd be a crime not to ruffle her feathers a little.

He almost laughs out loud again when the first thing the hero says to him is, "That's...a nice crossbow you have there." Hawke said the same thing when they first met, her face was entirely lit up in youthful wonder and mirth. They were both young and optimistic then but years would pass and she never stopped looking at him like he was the coolest thing in the room. Hell, she could be fighting a dragon and would stop if he started telling a story. Nothing could beat having her full attention on him as he exaggerated every detail of everything he said up until it was so ridiculous it would make her laugh and laugh until she was leaning against him fully or had fallen off the chair altogether while all he could do was stare and wonder how he could be so lucky-

Maker he missed her.

It's reflex more than anything when he replies fast with, "Ah, isn't she? Bianca and I have been through a lot together."

Cue the question about the name-

"You named your crossbow Bianca?"

There it is.

"Of course. And she'll be great company in the valley." The two smile pleasantly at each other and Varric can already tell he'll get attached too quickly like he always does-especially when she backs him up when Cassandra objects to him going with them. He got so caught up in his own head that he doesn't even realize he didn't catch her name until she tells it to Solas.

She smiles sweetly at the apostate. "My name's Verania. It's a pleasure to meet all of you," he catches Cass looking skeptical. She catches it to and laughs-that at least is different from Hawke and he's glad for it. It wouldn't be good for his heart.

"Yes even you Cassandra. I would be suspicious of me too if I were in your shoes." The woman mentioned rolls her eyes and walks a bit away but they can tell she's pleased with that answer.

The trio get back to talking while they catch their breath and heal up for a bit and they all get along well for the most part, but what isn't picked up by the rest of the party is the immediate interest Verania has in their friendly neighborhood apostate elf. She tries to keep the conversation with him going as long as she can and of course he sneakily slides in the fact that Solas kept her alive while she was knocked out. Can you blame Varric for helping? He loved playing matchmaker.

After a few more moments the trio walk over to the warrior, who was a powerhouse and didn't need to rest so insisted on keeping watch for the five minutes they were talking, and they begin their short yet eventful walk to the forward camp.

_______________

As Varric watches Verania stand in the middle of a dozen demon corpses surrounded by magic and glowing green light as she holds her hand up high without hesitation or fear, blue eyes standing out in the sea of colour, he realizes that Hawke will have to wait for his return. Something about her is so inspiring he can feel fate tugging on him to follow her wherever she'd need him to go. This is going to be bigger than him, bigger than Kirkwall, bigger than even his closest loved ones. The woman that stands before him defying logic and radiating hope for the first time since all this began is going to make or break the world. And he knows he wouldn't dare miss it for all the gold in Orlais.

At least it'll make a good story.

[trvelyans-archive]

remembrance

commission of solas and avira for the wonderful @lavellanlove ! i’ve stanned avira for several years so the fact i got to write for her is RIDICULOUS to me, maia from 2 years ago wouldn’t believe it lol. thank you for commissioning me, lovely ! i hope you enjoy <3 

solavellan, 5000 words, fluff/romance/angst

-

Varric has made a habit of befriending the new recruits.

They always have questions, and he’s always happy to answer.

Tonight, in the mess hall, it’s a short, red-headed elf with big ears and enough freckles to replace all the sand on Antivan beaches and then some. She’s from Orlais, she told him, from the Val Royeaux alienage, and even though he probably has even more questions about her after learning that, he doesn’t get the chance to ask them.

Because, of course, all anyone wants to talk about is the Inquisitor.

Especially nowadays. It’s hard to ignore the tension in the air when it hangs there, so hot and thick like it’s breathing down the back of your neck. Avira and Solas – if Varric can really even call him Solas anymore – are at a stalemate, and everyone’s just waiting for one of them to knock the other off the chessboard. And then, of course, for the entire board to explode into splinters and leave nothing but dust behind.

Tonight, though, everyone’s drunk or tired enough to pretend things are peaceful, and Varric isn’t going to pass up an opportunity to feel the same. Especially when there are plenty of recruits looking for company, and Varric’s looking to give it.

The elf’s chin is practically to the table with how far she’s bending in her chair to avoid Avira’s watchful eye as she strolls through the room. “She’s scary,” the girl comments.

“Is she?” Varric turns around in his chair to look at her. “Didn’t notice.”

“What?” she says. “How can you not notice? She’s… she’s…”

“I don’t know, kid,” he replies, turning back around to smirk at her. “Once you know someone long enough, see them at some low, low points -”

“Like what?” She pushes herself off of her chair, practically throwing herself across the table to get up-close in Varric’s face as she whispers, “Like when the Dread Wolf Fen’Harel abandoned her?”

He chuckles. “Hey, it wasn’t quite like that –“

“Well, what was it like, then?”

Ah. It always comes to this. Normally, Varric’s not one for gossip, but – well, okay, that’s a lie. But normally, he’s not one for gossip that could result in him getting his ass kicked by one of the most powerful women in Thedas, except, this time, it feels like it’d end up being pretty beneficial to the cause. All things considered, these young recruits they’ve wrangled up are probably going to end up doing a lot better for Avira if Varric strikes the fear of the Maker into them first. Even if it’s just a little. Also, it can be pretty entertaining (and sometimes Varric needs desperately to be entertained). When it comes to talking about Avira, people flock to Varric like they’re a bunch of little kids and he’s a grandmother reading them a well-worn copy of The Seer’s Yarn with a plate of elfroot cookies cooling off in an open windowsill.

Varric leans back in his chair, crossing his arms behind his head and kicking his boots up onto the table.

“I thought you’d never ask,” he replies, grinning. “To be honest, kid, they were weren’t always like this…”

-

Solas didn’t ever really leave his little corner of Haven.

If he wasn’t reading in his cabin (the one he unfortunately shared with several other members of the Inquisition, to his unspoken but very obvious dismay), he was outside, watching. Watching the hustle and bustle of the small town that had been thrown chaotically into the middle of the greatest catastrophe to grace the face of Thedas in recent history (including the Blight); watching the soldiers, young and old, mill about their day, occasionally sporting a new limp or cradling their newly sprained arm against their chests in a sling; watching, more often than not, the new Herald of Andraste – not that she ever liked to be called that - wander around between the buildings, talking to people, talking to herself, too, sometimes.

Maker, did that elf watch her.

Varric couldn’t help but watch him do it, either. No matter how long he did, he couldn’t tell what Solas wanted from her (though that was mainly because he couldn’t tell much of what Solas wanted at all, and that was after he’d spent more than enough sleepless nights with him). Did he want money? Connections? A promise that the Templars wouldn’t go after him if he changed his mind and left?

Something… more?

Not that the elf seemed like he was looking for that kind of thing, especially not right now. Still, Varric couldn’t quite put his finger on what Solas wanted.

And he was dying to know.

But one night, it just so happened that he was hanging out in the grumpy apothecary’s Adan’s cabin when, through the open window, he heard the Herald and Solas talking.

So he waved a hand at Adan to shush him and listened in curiously as he stuffed his salves into his pocket.

“The advisors are pleased with the outcome of our expedition to the Fallow Mire, I take it?”

Avira tugged on her glove, fitting it more smoothly over her hand. “Yes, they are,” she answered.

Solas nodded. “I am glad to hear it.”

“I agree – it was not an easy journey…”

“No, it was not.”

Varric could’ve told them that much. He still had water in his boot.

They were facing away from each other, staring out at the town as the sun set, slanting orange-pink light across the freshly fallen snow. That seemed like it should have been the end of the conversation, but both of them lingered, anyway.

“A crow flew in this morning for Leliana,” Avira continued after a long moment of silence. “Attached to it was a message from a scout. They explored the Fallow Mire further after we departed for Haven, and found an old road that leads to the mountains.”

“Hm. That will prove to be useful, I suspect.”

“It will,” she replied, “though the advisors have left it up to me to decide what the route should be used for.”

“I see.” Solas tilted his head to look at her. “What are your options?”

“Josephine claims that merchants will pay a great deal for the knowledge of the road,” Avira explained, “and, knowing merchants and traders well, I agree. Commander Cullen suggested we use it as an easier travel route for Inquisition soldiers. The Spymaster, however, suggested we hide all records of it away and use it as a route for her agents.”

He nodded thoughtfully and said nothing more, looking back out at the town.

“What do you think?”

Solas turned to her again. “You wish to hear my opinion?” he asked.

She turned to him, too. “Yes,” she replied. “I do. Unless you do not wish to give it –“

“Hm.” Solas clasped his hands behind his back and looked skywards. “I think that the Spymaster’s scouts could make good use of it.”

“Yes, I agree.”

He raised an eyebrow, just slightly enough that Varric almost missed it. “Is that your decision?”

“I was considering it.” She tilted her face towards the town once more. “I have until tomorrow morning to decide.”

“I believe that you will come to a suitable conclusion.”

“I do, too.” Avira nodded in his direction. “Thank you for your input. Have a good night, Solas.”

“You as well.”

Varric heard the next day that they designated the route for Leliana’s scouts.

-

Everyone in the travelling party had paired up with someone else to wind down for the night. A fire was burning, the ale was about as cold as it could be when it had been carried around in a bottle at the bottom of Varric’s pack for the past week, and the food, while not entirely appetizing, was filling, which meant they would all have enough energy to continue on their journey the next morning.

Varric didn’t have any energy left, so he was kind of glad, for the moment, that everyone had decided to ignore him, and he was left sitting by himself in the middle of one long, cold log beside the campfire, listening. (Maybe taking notes of lines he could us in his next book.)

The Iron Bull’s chair was tipped back against a large tree, and Enchanter Vivienne stood in front of him with her hands on her hips as they exchanged some sort of heated discussion. On the other side of camp, closer to the cluster of tents at the mouth of the shallow cave, were Solas and Avira, plucking handfuls of bread from the same loaf and eating it while the other spoke.

“… And so he gave me half of his stock,” Avira said, smiling at the memory. “Half of all of it. The Clan was fed for weeks… Some of the older members didn’t like it, mind you – they thought that it tasted too differently from the food they were used to – but the children…”

“I am sure they enjoyed it.”

“They did,” she replied. “Absolutely, they did. I had to learn how to make a few of the recipes from scratch just so they’d stop pestering me about it – well, I suppose I didn’t make it for them, but… well… you know what I mean.”

“Your clan,” Solas said after he swallowed a mouthful of bread he had been chewing. “Have you heard from them?”

She nodded. “I’ve received a few letters,” she responded. “Not as much as I’d like.”

He was silent for a moment before clearing his throat. “I’m sorry.”

Taken aback, Avira blinked at him. “What for?” she asked, her voice a murmur.

“It must be difficult,” he replied slowly. “To be so far away.”

“It would only be one ship from Denerim to Wycome,” she tried to say, forcing a smile before letting it falter and flicking her eyes away from him. “Yes, it is difficult. Do you find it difficult to be away from your home?”

Solas was staring at the ground while he plucked absentmindedly at his handful of bread. Neither of them were looking at each other anymore, but Varric could tell they were still tuned into each other’s movements. “I have seen far too many things to miss my past,” he responded.

“Yes, yes, you’ve told me all about your ancient ruins and lost civilizations,” she teased.

A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “I am sorry,” he told her. “Since you seem to think my stories are boring, I will try to act more like Varric in the future if that would please you.”

(Varric resisted saying anything about that, because he was actually slightly flattered.)

“I was joking, Solas,” Avira replied, rolling her eyes when he wasn’t looking and reaching forward to wrangle another handful of bread from the loaf. “In truth, I think you are anything but. You - I mean, er, your stories – are… endlessly fascinating.”

He glanced over at her again. “Is that so?”

“It is.”

Before Avira could pull her hand away, Solas moved forward to grab a handful of bread for himself. Their fingers brushed. They both tensed.

And then Solas smiled, but it didn’t feel very honest. “Perhaps we should turn in for the night,” he said under his breath, grabbing the cloth that the bread had been wrapped in and stowing the rest of the loaf in his bag. “It is getting late, and you will need to be well-rested for our journey tomorrow.”

Avira frowned. “Solas, if I –“

“Please,” he interrupted, holding a hand up and tilting his head towards her. “You did nothing wrong. I have just realized how tired I am after the day’s travels, and would like to get some sleep before morning.”

“Liar,” she teased, standing up and placing her hands on her hips. “You’re just going to take a dance through the Fade and see if you can find anything interesting.”

“Perhaps I am,” he replied. “If I do, I will be sure to tell you about it.”

-

Now, in the mess hall, the short elf with red hair wrinkles her nose at Varric. “That’s it?”

He laughs and shakes his head. “Oh, no,” he says, “there’s much more to it than that.”

-

On a similar night a few months later, after Haven had been destroyed and the Inquisition had moved into Skyhold, Varric was on guard duty in their makeshift camp when he heard a rustling behind him.

He spun around in his chair, aiming his crossbow into the shadows between the Inquisition tents. As big of a disaster he was sure Hightown – and all of Kirkwall – would be at that time, he’d take that over sitting in the middle of the woods at night with his thumb up his ass any day. He breathed out slowly, standing up from his seat and looking for the source of his noise.

It came from his left. He spun around and, before his vision adjusted, leveled his crossbow at Solas’s chest, who had been emerging from Avira’s now-dark tent with a book in his hand.

“Oh,” Varric said as he pointed his crossbow to the ground. “Shit, sorry.”

“Did I scare you, Varric?” Solas asked with a coy smile.

“No,” he replied. “What are you doing awake right now? It’s my turn to take watch.”

Unfortunately.

“I was…” Solas let out a short huff. “I was speaking with the Inquisitor.”

“What, did an assassin get into her tent or something?”

“No,” Solas replied. “Nothing of the sort. She had posed a question to me earlier I wished to answer before she fell asleep. Anyway,” he said abruptly, clearing his throat, “good night, Varric.”

He headed off towards his own tent, clearly wanting to get away from the conversation, but Varric was grinning widely. “Not a chance,” he said, hurrying after the elf. “Seriously, what were you doing in there?”

“I told you,” Solas said, “I –“

“Yeah, yeah, she had a question, you answered it.” Varric pushed his crossbow into the ground and leaned against it. “What’s the deal with the two of you?”

“I do not know what you –“

“Oh, come on,” Varric interrupted. “You can cut the bullshit with me, elf, I’ve seen the way you look at her.”

“I do not know what you mean,” Solas said.

“Sure,” Varric said. “You can keep telling yourself that.”

Solas’s eyes narrowed. “I would appreciate it if you refrained from further discussion of my relationship with Avi- the Inquisitor,” he told Varric. “It is none of your concern.”

“Alright,” Varric replied, throwing a hand up in defense. “If you’re going to get your underclothes in a twist about it…”

“And I will take watch for an hour or so,” he continued, pointedly ignoring Varric’s taunt. “I am not tired, and I would like to finish this chapter of the book I am reading by the fire.”

“I can keep you comp-“

“I will take watch,” Solas repeated. “Good night, Varric.”

Varric stared at him coolly for a moment before chuckling, pulling his crossbow from where he had thrust it into the dirt to lean on and slinging it over his shoulder again. “Alright, I get the message,” he replied. “Just… be careful, okay? These woods can be… well, pretty scary.”

Solas nodded and sat down by the fire, opening his book to what seemed to be a random page and looking down at it while Varric, incredibly tempted to continue bothering about it, disappeared into his tent.

Not five minutes later when he poked his head out to make sure the elf was still there did he see him standing in front of Avira’s tent once more, moving his hands in circular motions and muttering something under his breath while wisps of green light floated in front of him.

It took some thinking, but eventually it hit Varric: Solas was casting wards over her tent. To keep her safe, presumably – after all, if she died, everything they’d accomplished so far would have been for nothing. But maybe there was another reason he was doing it. In any case, Varric was certain that the elf wasn’t doing it for anyone else in their party.

He laughed as he closed the flaps of the tent once more, shaking his head as he flopped down onto his bedroll and snuffed the light in his lantern out.

-

Solas had cut himself on the pages of his book.

To be fair, it was dark out – which is why Varric didn’t even know he was reading in the first place, but that’s besides the point – and he was also sitting relatively far away from the fire compared to the rest of the group. (Well, compared to Varric and Dorian, who had slumped over against the log with his fingers still curled around the handle of a cup.) He was frowning but didn’t protest as Avira smoothed some sort of ointment over the cut with her thumb, holding his wrist in place with her other hand, occasionally stroking the pads of her fingertips over his veins.

He also didn’t protest as she kept on giggling.

“I can’t believe it,” she muttered. “You come out of fights unscathed every day and reading a book is what makes you bleed?”

“Yes, yes,” Solas replied, watching her, “it is very amusing, Inquisitor. Would it not be more efficient to use healing magic, instead?”

“I promise this will work,” Avira answered, looking up at him from underneath her eyelashes. “I made the salve myself, and I used it on a cut of my own last week.”

He didn’t seem to be convinced, watching her work with the slightest wrinkled nose. Avira picked it up on and swatted gently at his forearm, smiling in annoyance. “I do know what I am doing, Solas,” she said somewhat defensively. “My mother taught me how to make the salve back when I was child. I still have the recipe written down somewhere.”

“Did you learn much from her, working alongside her in the clinic?”

“Yes.” She sat back on her heels, reaching into her pack and pulling out a roll of bandages. “She showed me a few little tricks like this.”

Solas was still watching her, fiddling with the fingers of his folded hand which sat impatiently in his lap. “And your father?”

“He kept me sane,” she said with a gentle laugh. “Taught me how to fight, told me stories.” Her eyes flickered to his face. “Not as good as yours, of course,” she added with a hint of cheek.

Solas probably would’ve rolled his eyes if he didn’t seem so transfixed by her working. And if he wasn’t so exhausted. Maker, they were all exhausted. If Varric wasn’t eavesdropping on their conversation, he would have retired to his tent an hour ago. “Did you enjoy living in Amaranthine?” Solas asked.

“Yes,” she answered quickly, then frowned. “There were… parts of it I liked, some I didn’t. I wish my mother let me explore the city more.”

“She wanted to protect you.”

“I felt so… stifled.” Avira unrolled the bandages and tore a short strip off from the rest. “I know she wanted to protect me, but… Perhaps I could have found something to protect her with. Instead the Darkspawn assaulted the city, and I left without them…”

“I’m sure your parents would not regret their decision,” he said in reassurance, pushing his hand a little closer to her so she could wrap the cloth around his finger. “Saving you… That was most important to them.”

“I know that,” she replied. “I know that, I just… They were my parents.” Her eyebrows gathered together in the middle of her forehead while she concentrated on tying the bandage in a knot. “We were supposed to join the Dalish together… I was not supposed to nearly die on my way to find them and wake up in their camp days later by myself.”

“It was worth it,” he said. “That you lived. Everything…” He cleared his throat. “Everything was worth it because you lived.”

She secured the bandage tightly around his finger, but didn’t move her hands away. “Thank you, Solas.”

“I should be the one thanking you,” he said with a smile, pulling his hand out of her grasp and flexing his fingers. “You have better things to do than tend to my wounds, and yet you do so anyway.”

“Just out of the goodness of my heart,” she replied.

“Yes, I did not expect you to have done it for any other reason.”

He was still smiling at her. She didn’t seem to notice – she was too busy smiling herself.

Then Avira stood up and stretched her arms above her head, bending down to wipe the dirt from her knees afterwards. “Is it a good book you’re reading, at least?” she asked him, sitting down beside him on the bench and gesturing towards it. “Some Orlesian mystery novel, perhaps?”

“No, no, hardly that exciting,” he responded. They shared a laugh.

“Is it one you’d be willing to share with me?”

He glanced over at her out of the corner of his eye. “Perhaps,” he answered. “We have not finished our other one yet.”

“That’s because it isn’t very good, Solas,” she said. “Maybe I should pick the next book for us to read together.”

“Yes,” he replied, “maybe you should.”

“If you’re not reading, then would you like to come on a walk with me?” She stood up again and held out her hand, wiggling her fingers. “I saw a clearing earlier today that probably has a wonderful view of the moon…”

Solas looked at her outstretched hand for a moment before putting his book down on the log and standing up, taking her hand in his. “Let’s hope the bears do not attack our camp while we’re gone,” he murmured.

“Varric can take care of them,” she reassured him, intertwining their fingers together and swinging their hands back and forth in the space between them. “He’s a very good shot.”

“He would be were he not asleep, vhenan.”

“He isn’t.”

“Oh.” Solas chuckled under his breath. “I did not notice,” he said.

“That’s alright,” she replied. “I was trying to distract you, anyway.”

Before they disappeared through the trees, he leaned over and whispered something to her, and she threw her head back and really, really laughed. (It was probably loud enough to actually wake up any bears nearby.)

Varric had never heard her laugh like that before.

-

He was still sitting around the fire when they came back. They weren’t holding hands anymore, but Solas was looking down at the bandage wrapped around his finger with another smile.

-

It was their last night in Skyhold before they left for Halamshiral and Adamant, and Varric couldn’t sleep.

He was sitting at a desk in the library, trying to write, but no words came to him – not even bad ones, which he would have preferred over nothing. He had never been so uninspired for so long, and it was about as frustrating as you could imagine for a novelist not be able to work on – or even start – a novel.

He ran a hand through his hair and threw his quill down on the table, watching it skitter across the wood before stopping an inch away from the edge. With a sigh, he leaned against the railing, and was about to close his eyes when he saw movement in the rotunda below him.

Frowning, he pushed himself higher in his chair and looked down.

Solas held Avira in his arms on the loveseat, playing with the ends of her sleeves. The light in the sconces on the walls had been blown out an hour or two before – Avira wasn’t there when it happened – which left the room steeped in heavy shadow, save for the light streaming down from the rooms above them and the lone candle flickering on Solas’s desk. It was enough light to see them. It was enough light that anyone who walked into the room could have recognized who the two of them were and how close they were sitting together. Neither of them seemed to care.

Solas was whispering something in her ear. Varric couldn’t hear what he was saying, but it didn’t seem to be helping much. Avira stayed anyway.

Watching them together reminded him a little too strongly of someone else…

He had known this would happen since those first days in Haven, of course. The two of them had a connection that neither of them had with anyone else. Even though it made things a bit more complicated, and none of the advisors seemed particularly thrilled, Varric was thankful for it, actually. He didn’t feel very at home in the Inquisition – his home was still across the sea in Kirkwall, of course – and Solas had been prickly at first, but Avira… She softened him up. Smoothed down his edges. Made him the type of man who proved to be a cuddler.

Not that he wasn’t prickly anymore, but he’d actually started greeting Varric once in a while when he passed through the rotunda during the day. (Although Avira was around whenever that happened, so maybe that was why…) He smiled more. Laughed every once in a while.

He seemed happy. They both did. And Varric was happy for them, too. Things weren’t always as easy as it seemed between them.

Varric watched them for a few seconds, thinking, before reaching over and grabbing his quill once more, dipping it in his pot of ink and pressing the tip to the page.

All this love and romance left him feeling a bit more inspired than when he had trudged up here a few hours ago looking for something to write about. He made a note to dedicate his next book to Solas and Avira – and what would probably end up being their ten kids.

-

Unfortunately, it didn’t last much longer than that.

The night they returned from Adamant, Avira ignored Solas, sitting on the opposite side of the main clearing in the Inquisition camp than he did. He tried to reach out to her a few times after the healers had seen to their respective wounds – ones they had received in the Fade and in the fortress - but after the third time she turned him away, he clenched his jaw and gave her a curt nod.

“As you wish, Inquisitor.” That was all he said before backing away and retreating to his tent, and he didn’t come out again until the morning.

Varric wasn’t surprised, though. After the argument they had about the Wardens – after seeing how angry Avira had been at the suggestion to exile them - it didn’t seem like there was any sort of relationship left to be salvaged.

And what was left dwindled in the following months – from a burning fire to cold ashes. They spoke on rare occasions, but neither of them seemed to enjoy it. They shared meals at the same table on opposite ends, neither of them looking in the other’s direction. And they journeyed together – and sometimes they tended to each other’s wounds – but their interactions were not friendly. Their relationship didn’t seem as easy as it used to be. In fact, it seemed harder than anything.

Harder, still, when he left.

Varric never talked to Avira about it. After defeating Corypheus, he never found the chance. She was busy, and seemed, at least to Varric, like she wanted to move on, and who was he to stop her from doing that? She had more things to deal with than she had before they stopped Corypheus – more Orlesian nobles coming to visit, more Chantry scholars, more refugees and pilgrims and  people vying for her attention – and dwelling on what could have been, dwelling on what she could have done differently, would do nothing to help her.

Varric knew that much, so he let it drop. She probably wouldn’t talk to him about it, anyway. And he’d thought that was the end of it.

And then they went back to Halamshiral for the Exalted Council, and, well…

-

“That’s it?” the red-headed elf asks. She’s a couple more drinks into her night than she was before, and she stares at him with bulging eyes. “He just left?”

“Yep,” Varric replies. “He didn’t even say goodbye, didn’t leave her a note. I thought they were going to be together for a long, long time, but it wasn’t even a year before he up and left. He left all of us, too. I was starting to warm up to him, actually, by the end, even after things between them were finished.” He grimaces. “I wish I hadn’t.”

“No wonder she hates him.”

“That’s not why she’s doing this, kid.” Varric takes a swig of his own drink, looking over his shoulder to where Avira exchanges quiet discussion with Cassandra and Leliana. “She’s doing this because Solas – sorry, the “Dread Wolf” or whatever it is that people call him nowadays – has to be stopped.”

The girl bites her lip. “I find her even scarier now,” she whispers. “If she can live through that, she must be unstoppable.”

“I sure hope so,” Varric says. “If not… well, maybe Solas isn’t going to be the only one that doesn’t make it out of this shit alive.”

[battlesworn]

@madefromfade​  /  max  said  :    "I didn't have any siblings. I was an only child and usually a few years older than the cousins that tended to visit often. I got use to watching the children or being in responsibility. I didn't mind that, sounds boring now looking back." Said in responses to a question raised by Roth. No one else sees focused on the Inquisitor, so he spoke freely. Max mostly focused on pitching the tent for the night's rest on their expedition towards Orlais.

he  hardly  noticed  that  he  was  smiling  ‘till  his  face  ached  with  it   ;   the  longer  max  had  spoke,  the  more  it  grew  to  encompass  his  face  and  brighten  worn  features  in  its  wake.   he  dipped  his  head  in  a  futile  effort  to  hide  it,  nearly  dropping  the  tent  pole  they  maneuvered  in  his  compulsion  to  card  a  nervous  hand  through  his  hair.     ‘   boring ?   maybe,  but  it  sounds  pretty  nice  if  you  ask  me.   boring  sounds   -   perfect.   ’     there  was  an  odd  but  welcome  sort  of  warmth  that  began  to  build  within  him   ...   soft  and  comforting,  like  the  slow  crackling  flames  of  a  hearth.     ‘   i  bet  they  loved  you  !   you  seem  like  you’d  be  real  good  with  kids.  ’

he  tied  down  his  end  of  the  pole  and  jammed  in  the  spike,  nudging  it  in  deeper  with  his  foot.     ‘   there  weren’t  really  any  other  kids  ‘round  the  servants’  quarters  when  i  was  growin’  up.   just  me  n’  my  sister   -   but  she  was  older,  so  i  s’pose  i  was  the  snot-nosed  brat,  between  the  two  of  us.   caused  an  assload ‘a  trouble,  if  i  recall.   ’   

the  twinge  in  his  heart  was  all  too  familiar.   it  ached  to  speak  of  her,  but  not  as  it  often  did.   he  felt  safe  with  max   ...   his  long-buried  turmoil  felt  safe,  too.  it  grew  quiet,  no  longer  roiling  in  his  gut,  but  still  and  peaceful.     ‘   she�� would  have  liked  you,  y’know.   didn’t  take  any  shit,  but  had  the  biggest  heart   ;  taught  me  to  fight,  too.  she  could’a  kicked  both  our  asses  at  once.   ’     he  looked  tired  for  a  moment,  exhausted  even,  as  that  ancient  sadness  clung  to  him.   but  it  was  gone  just  as  quick,   and  that  smile  reached  his  eyes  once  again.   oh,  how  easy  it  would  be  to  surrender  to  the  anguish  and  spend  his  days  enraged   ( far  too  easy   -   he  would  know ).   but  she  would  kick  his  ass  for  that  too.

that,  and  something  about  max’s  presence  seemed  to  banish  the  ghosts  from  his  bones   ...   a  beat  of  silence   ...   ‘   do  you  miss  bein’  around  your  family ?   some  of  ‘em,  anyhow ?   ’