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todisturbtheuniverse · 19 days ago

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before it pops out of the queue later and surprises everyone: i got into X-Men in a big way in the back half of 2024 and it has not really stopped yet, so that stuff might make an occasional appearance here.

this still sort of baffles me because i've always had a hard time reading comics (of all kinds, not just superhero stuff). books, sure, i chew through 50-100 of those every year with no problem. the visual language of comics has always really stumped me, though. i found it hard to figure out how to travel across the page. i never felt like i lingered long enough on the images, just reading through the text and only glimpsing the art. i felt bad about basically shorting the artist the attention they're due, but i am not a visual person, i'm a word person. it didn't come naturally to me.

and i fell off marvel stuff years ago. i still go to the newest release with my husband, usually, or watch the newest show, but no engagement beyond that.

but, anyway, this is what happened: my husband's birthday was in july, and he wanted to watch a movie after dinner. since Deadpool & Wolverine was arriving imminently, he picked Logan. i saw about 30 minutes of X3 in theaters as a teenager and had basically no other X-Men knowledge that had not been absorbed through cultural osmosis.

but Logan was really good. in a sad and depressing way. and so (voluntarily) i went back to the beginning and watched all the other movies, good and bad. it was july and work is always trying to murder me in july, and it was good to have something shiny and new (to me) that would keep my attention at the end of the day or week. husband has a marvel unlimited subscription, so i also started reading the comics. i read up on good entry points and started with Giant-Size X-Men #1 from 1975. i've gone pretty much chronologically from there, picking up other series as they interest me (New Mutants, X-Factor, Excalibur, Wolverine's solo stuff). i basically didn't read books for 3 months; i read almost 500 issues of comics instead. i've reached 1989/1990-ish. 15 years of mutant stuff in about 5 months. i just could not stop. there is something about these characters and their struggle(s) that really, really speaks to me.

i'd originally told husband i was not going to Deadpool & Wolverine, because i truly despise Deadpool. this is so completely subjective, he is just not for me, we can still be friends if you like him! but after all the movie-watching i said, no, i'm going. and then we went a second time. and the sheer amount of joy i almost missed out on is astonishing to me. i maintained a mood level of "delighted" for probably a week.

later a friend of mine was like, "i'm not surprised. X-Men is just politics and sadness, of course you like it." and i had to sort of reel from that psychic damage, lol. he's right, but there's also a lot of joy in it, all the more precious for what's been lost--that there can still be joy at all is incredible.

going back to 1975 was actually really helpful for me, in terms of comic literacy. the page layouts were much more straightforward, then. and so as i kept reading, things continued to change and become more complex, but i had the baseline understanding of how to read them that allowed me to sort of grow with the format. now it is no longer hard for me to read a comic, a skill that i had pretty much given up on ever learning, which i'm happy about.

i am finally getting to the point where i'm a little like, "enough, i have to drop some of these series," because despite this excellent website and having a custom order for everything i want to read it is just too much. and i have picked books back up, so that's competing for my time. never enough time to consume all the fiction i want to consume.

all this to say i watched the entirety of X-Men '97 yesterday. i liked it overall, and absolutely loved some bits. cool to see some stories i've read recently in comic form adapted. it was great to see the animation and voice acting leap from the original show (which i watched first, don't panic).

the biggest downside, and i know i'm never going to get my way on this, but if we could leave the scott-madelyne-jean-logan love square behind forever i would be really grateful. scott and jean are not my jam. this breaks husband's heart. he loves scott. i maintain that from what i've seen of both scott and jean, they are tragically lacking in personality, but again, this is my subjective and somewhat teasing take, lol. scott was dearest to me when he was verbally ripping that reporter's head off. i know sooooooome vague stuff about how his story goes in the comics, so i know he'll change over time, and i'm perfectly willing to give him another chance when he does. characters i've liked have certainly gone through phases where i hate them. this is inevitable.

ANYWAY. new obsession unlocked. gifsets may appear here. etc. i kind of doubt i will ever write fic for this situation because the sheer depth of lore seems so daunting to me, but i guess you never know.

#universe rambles

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todisturbtheuniverse · 23 days ago

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FIC: A Pretty Lie

Rating: G Pairing: f!Mahariel/Zevran Word Count: 2,454 Summary: Zevran has traveled with the party for a week now, and despite Mahariel's reassurances to Alistair, she hasn't let her guard down. Her trust is put to the test when she sustains a wound that won't heal...and Zevran offers to help. Also on: AO3 Notes: Back on my Dragon Age bullshit: played Veilguard twice, decided the whole series needed a replay, returned to Origins/Zevran hell. I missed this Thedas place.

Hours had passed, and still, the wound stung. That boded ill. The healing poultices that Lyna carried, made by her own hand, had always done the trick before, numbing the pain and closing the wound quickly. She wondered what filth had been on that bandit's blade.

She filled a small bucket from the cold, clear stream near their campsite and carried it to the spot she'd prepared on the bank: a large burlap sack to protect from the cold and damp; her wound kit, all the pockets that she might need unfolded; fresh linen, cut in useful lengths for more bandaging; her weapons, axe and dagger, never far out of reach. She set the bucket down on level ground beside the cloth, and then sat down herself.

Her feet gave a little throb of relief. They never seemed to stop aching, these days. She'd roamed far and wide with her clan, but not at this pace, not without respite. But the Blight was on their heels; there was no time to rest.

Carefully, she peeled up the edge of the bandage, dismayed to find the wound still bleeding. She ladled a bit of water from the bucket and poured it over the gash. With some of the blood washed away, she could see that the wound had widened since that afternoon, the edges ragged.

"And here I thought I would have to carry out my chores in lonely solitude. You, dear Warden, are a sight for sore eyes."

By the Dread Wolf, she hadn't even heard footsteps. She covered her wound with a clean bandage and silently admonished herself. She could not let down her guard, not even for a moment. These were not the forests and wilds of her youth; these were ugly, desolate places, danger waiting around every corner.

Danger like this new stray, Zevran, who sauntered up to the stream lugging a bag and a bucket, as guileless as if he hadn't tried to kill her a mere week ago.

Alistair thought she was mad for taking him in. Sometimes she, too, wondered about her own judgment. Her reasoning had convinced her fellow warden, at least for now: the Crow had sung his secrets very willingly and readily, had sworn an oath, and had proved incapable of overpowering four of them on the road even with all of his hirelings. What chance of success did he have here, alone, if he still intended to kill her?

He could have done it, just now, if he'd kept his mouth shut a little longer. He hadn't, which Lyna told herself counted for something.

Instead of carrying out an assassination, Zevran set down his bag and bucket. The bag clanked a little with the impact. He untied a length of burlap from around his neck—he'd been wearing it like a cape—and spread it on the ground beside hers. She'd assigned him several camp chores, hoping it would at least give her a break from Alistair and Morrigan's constant squabbling over whose turn it was to do the washing. Hoping, too, that it would reveal some character flaw, some impatience or bitterness, that would show her more of who he was—or at least keep him too busy, too tired, to plan her death.

Zevran had not complained. He had taken up the tasks assigned to him with good grace, and she'd been left watching him out of the corner of her eye, wondering if this would finally be the decision that proved her undoing.

"Stay with us long enough," she said finally, "and you will crave lonely solitude."

He chuckled good-naturedly, laying out the battered plates and cups. "Do you speak of the relentless attacks on the road? Or perhaps your companions, bickering over how to properly roast a rabbit?"

"Either," she said. "Both."

He flashed a sidelong smile at her, as if she'd amused him, and she told herself to harden her heart. It was not easy. His warm charm had undoubtedly saved him from many scrapes before, and he was not hard on the eyes: the moonlight gilded his blond hair, cast intriguing light and shadow on his well-muscled shoulders and arms, and even in the relative darkness, his eyes sparkled like the glint of a copper piece polished to full shine.

"It's still bothering you?" he asked, now looking at her arm, where she still held the bandage to the wound.

"It should have started closing by now, with the poultice I used earlier," she told him. "It just won't stop bleeding."

"Might I have a closer look?"

She hesitated, studying his face. He looked back at her, meeting her eyes without flinching. There was no trickery in that gaze that she could see—but what did she know of the world? Until the disaster at Ostagar, until the long, bitter weeks on the road, she had never known how sheltered she'd been.

"Why?" she asked guardedly.

"Your poultices are good." At her raised eyebrow, he shrugged. "I looked them over. They should act quickly on a normal wound. On a poisoned wound, though, they would only stave off the inevitable, not heal."

Was this just an excuse to close the gap between them, to get close enough to strike quickly and without warning? Would the wound make her too slow—just a hair too slow—to scoop up her axe and dagger and defend herself?

Just then, there was a rustle in the bushes, and Assan pranced happily into the open. He carried a bone in his mouth, which he settled down to chew, his back end on Lyna's burlap sack. Instantly, some of her fear eased. She'd seen the mabari tear a man's throat out; if Zevran made one false move, Assan would spring to action.

Besides, Zevran was mostly unarmed. Only a small, utilitarian knife hung at his belt, sheathed. He'd left his daggers back at the campsite.

"Ah, a chaperone," Zevran sighed, and tsked at Assan. "I will only sully your lady's honor with her enthusiastic permission, this I swear."

Assan pointedly ignored him, though he did pull back his lip to show a bit more tooth than was strictly necessary as he gnawed on his bone.

Lyna, too, ignored the comment. She held out her arm to Zevran. "You have experience with poisons, then?"

"Am I a Crow," Zevran said, with a wide grin, "or not?" He shuffled a little closer, just enough to take her left hand gently in his, and peeled away the bandage to inspect the wound.

She tensed; she could not help it. She was still afraid of him, despite his warmth and flirtations, despite his oath. She did not know if she would ever stop being afraid of him.

But he held her hand so delicately, and when he leaned over her arm to inspect her wound, she felt the ghost of his breath on the back of her wrist. She had not felt another's touch very much at all since leaving her clan, and this was…nice. To feel taken care of.

If only she could be certain exactly how he would "take care of" her.

"No clotting," he murmured, frowning; a wrinkle formed between his brows. She hadn't yet seen him look quite so focused, so serious. "You have a fresh bandage?"

She picked up a short length of linen from the pile beside her. He took it from her and pressed it, hard, to the wound. She hissed; the pain sharpened significantly when pressure was applied.

The hand still holding hers squeezed, lightly, as if to comfort her. She didn't know what to make of that.

He looked up at her. "Describe the pain?"

"Sharp," she said. "Worse when water touches it, or with pressure."

"Radiating?" he asked. "Do you feel it when you flex your fingers, or make a fist?"

She did both; his fingers moved with hers, captured against her palm by her own. "No," she said, shaking her head.

"Any headache? Dry eyes?"

"No," she said again. "What would that—"

"Ah, good," he said. "You will live."

"What does that mean?" she asked, trying not to betray her alarm. Assan stopped chewing, lifted his head, and gave a low growl.

"Keep pressure on this," he told her, indicating the wound and bandage, and took his hands away. "Relax," he added, this directed at Assan.

With her free hand, telling herself she could still reach her dagger plenty quickly, she applied the same pressure he had. He, meanwhile, unbuckled a little leather pouch from where it was fastened at his hip. He flipped the metal buckle on the front open and began to carefully rummage through the contents. She heard soft, gentle clinking, like glass bottles brushing one another. Assan watched with curious eyes, but he'd stopped growling.

"There are a few poisons that could produce such an effect," he told her. "The worst of them would have spread by now. That one would be beyond my power to fix." He pulled a tiny vial from the pouch and held it up, squinting; reading the slip of parchment affixed to it, perhaps. "This, though, is just the aftereffect of a very strong acidic coating. Keeps the wound open, the blood from coagulating. Not nice, but rarely a death sentence."

"And that vial is…?"

He lowered it and patted the pouch. "I keep treatments and antidotes handy for all the common poisons, just in case. This one will neutralize the acid, encourage clotting, and allow that excellent poultice of yours to do its work."

"That's clever," she said, impressed.

He had the nerve to wink at her. "I have many talents, I promise you. All at your disposal."

She had to suppress a groan. He laid it on awfully thick, but she was only flesh and blood, after all; she was not immune to that brief, wicked look in his eye, like he was sharing a joke only the two of them knew, like she would laugh at the punchline.

"Lucky me," she said. "I…suppose you should apply it, then. If you can spare some of your supplies."

"We can always find more," he said. The wicked gleam was gone; he eyed her thoughtfully instead. "From the right buyer, for the right price."

"I'm sure we can arrange that."

Lyna glanced at Assan, but he had gone back to his bone, clearly unperturbed by whatever the vials contained. Zevran gestured for her to lift the bandage; she did, this time without hesitation. Quickly, he unstoppered the vial and let three small drops of the thick amber liquid fall to the wound. Instantly, some of the sharp sting eased. She let out a breath of relief.

"You thought it might be poison," he said. There was nothing accusatory in his tone; he merely stated facts. He stoppered the vial again. It was still three-quarters full.

"It crossed my mind," she admitted. "There's writing on the vial, but I don't know Antivan."

She reached for another length of bandage. He brushed her hand aside and picked up the bandage himself; with practiced hands, he spread the healing poultice over the wound—the bleeding had already slowed—and wrapped her arm with just the right amount of pressure.

"That was a risk," Zevran commented. Before she could respond, he showed her the vial. "Coagulante/acido—roughly, a coagulant that also neutralizes acid."

"Ma melava halani," she replied. He cocked his head to one side, frowning a little. "It was a risk," she clarified, "but you helped me. And so, my risk teaches me something, as all risks do."

"Ma melava halani," he repeated, slowly, carefully. "That sounds…very beautiful."

"You don't know any Elven?"

"Very little. Andaran atish'an, ma serannas—that sort of thing."

"Perhaps you can teach me Antivan," she said, and began to pack up her wound kit. "And I can teach you what Elven I know. So much of it is lost, but…" She cleared her throat, letting the grief of missing her clan pass through her. "Andaran atish'an—enter this place in peace—is very formal, used with outsiders, primarily. We would say aneth ara to one another, instead."

He packed his kit of antidotes away and resumed the business of setting out the dishes for washing. "We would say buon giorno—good afternoon—for most of the day. Or ciao, bella, more informally, for both hello and goodbye."

"Ciao, bella," she repeated.

"Well, bello, if you are addressing me," he said, with another of those terrible grins. "Bella is for a beautiful woman, like yourself."

"Flatterer," she said, folding her wound kit back up.

"Only if it is untrue," he said mildly, "and it is not."

He got to his feet, picked up his bucket, and went to fill it at the stream. She tucked her wound kit away in her pack and scratched behind Assan's ear; he tilted his massive head into her touch, panting happily. Zevran returned with the bucket, got out the scrubbing brush and soap, and began the thankless task of cleaning the dinner dishes. She hesitated for only a handful of seconds before pulling her own scrubbing brush out of her pack and picking up one of the dishes.

"Many hands make light work," she said, only a little irritably, in response to the look he cast at her. "Or so they say."

"Mmm," he said, smiling. "Flattery will get me far in this camp, I see."

She rolled her eyes. "You know, if you know the ingredients, I could probably help you make some of the antidotes," she said. "I'm not bad at herbalism."

"A woman of many talents," he remarked. "You will have this archdemon defeated next week, I'm sure."

She laughed, because he sounded so warm, so certain, even if it was a pretty lie. She let her guard down, just a little. He taught her more Antivan as they scrubbed the dishes; she gave him pieces of Elven in return, watched the quiet delight on his face when he correctly mimicked her pronunciation. Assan eventually gave up his work on the bone and began to snore.

As with every city elf Lyna had met, she wondered. What was Zevran's story? The whole story? He'd told her, on hands and knees, at her mercy, that the Crows had bought him as a child—another pretty lie, the better to play on her sympathies, creating the possibility of a second chance for his blade to strike true? Or just a callous truth, one that rightly made her heart ache, imagining one of her people bought and shaped into a killer?

She did not think that this was a trick, but only time would tell.

#dragon age #f!warden/zevran #f!mahariel/zevran #pre-relationship #dragon age: origins #developing friendship #universe writes #i feel so. profoundly. rusty. i have not posted fic since 2021 apparently #i have written fic in that time! i just have not been posting #oc: lyna mahariel #using the default first name for a female mahariel because frankly i could not find one i liked lol

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