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ziskandra · 2 years

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I received two extremely delightful gifts in the The Black Emporium exchange for Dragon Age rarepairs, and they have just tossed me right back into the depths of my Mac Tir feelings!

So Tangled Up Its Hard to Know (Loghain/Female Cousland) Set during the Inquisition era! I just love the intimacy of two old comrades reconnecting and it leading into something more 💖

open your heart like the gates of hell (Anora/Morrigan) Morrigan and Kieran end up living at the royal palace after Morrigan becomes Anora’s arcane advisor, and there is PINING and COMPLICATIONS in regards to Kieran’s parentage 👁

Looking forward to reading more of the collection and collating more recs over this coming weekend!

#dragon age #loghain mac tir #female cousland #anora mac tir #morrigan dragon age #morrigan #warden #cousland x loghain #warden x loghain #anora mac tir x morrigan #fic recs #asha reads

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ocean-in-my-rebel-soul · 2 years

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For the DADWC: “You’re always on my mind.”

Thanks for the prompt! @dadrunkwriting

Rhiona Cousland x Loghain Mac Tir

-:- -:- -:- -:-

He's surveying the city from the palace battlements when he receives the letter, worn in the corners and the address almost smudged off the front of the envelope. Loghain shoves it beneath the neck of his chainmail shirt, hidden and protected by his armor. It slips his mind as he works, watching busy people in the market square, the Chantry sisters outside their cloister walls. Ser Cauthrien watches his back with a list to check off. Together they assess the defenses of the city, of the palace. Having seen the darkspawn at Ostagar, he knows they can ill afford to be caught unawares.

The letter sits against his breastbone for the day. He only sees it when it falls out of his shirt when he settles at his desk for the evening's work in the late hours of the night. With a frown, Loghain picks it up to read the envelope's stained face. The script is steady, familiar, though he can't quite place it despite his running through recent memories. The letter itself looks like it was stomped by a bronto into a mud pit on its way to him. Sure enough, he can make out his name. With a sigh, he slides his fingers beneath the seal and earns himself a fine papercut along his index finger.

Loghain, it read--

You sound so different now. It's hardly believable, to hear it all throughout the countryside. I can't help but wonder: is there any of the old you to hang onto, to remember you by?

I can't help but think of you. You're in so many of my thoughts. It's hard to bear, knowing what you've done, or perhaps have let happen. I hope it is ignorance that has prevailed, and not malice. I don't remember you being malicious--may it be that you are not.

Everything in me wants to storm Denerim and see you myself, to rage against your actions since Ostagar. You do not understand, Loghain: you need more than your soldiers to protect us. The darkspawn destroy all they touch. They roam the bannorn and consume everything in front of them. We cannot afford for Denerim to fall. You know this, I know.

Please, lift the bounty on us. Let us do our work unheeded, so that we may bring to Denerim an army to help protect our homes. To protect our queen, and our Landsmeet. To meet your soldiers as allies, not enemies. We need to do our work. Please, Loghain, do the right thing and let us work to end the Blight together.

I would say I'm still yours, but I have my doubts--I don't know how I can be yours after all this.

There are water stains amongst the pages, small droplets that warp the paper into very slight waves. The letter is unsigned, but Loghain knows by the pit in his stomach that she had sent it. Rhiona doesn't understand: the bounty is for her protection, not anything else. He needs her where he can see her, touch her. The bounty on any remaining Wardens was his attempts to find her.

But she's alive. Some unknown breath he's been holding for the long months since the massacre at Ostagar releases at the way her strong script marches along the discolored pages. Rhiona is alive, and obviously well enough to send a letter to him. Where was she when she'd sent it? Where is she now? The not knowing is a painful clenching in his chest.

He misses her. Maker, he misses her, far more than he'd ever thought. To him, she had died at Ostagar. He hadn't had time to mourn her, only having had scouts sent off to Castle Cousland for reconnaissance, but now the tears fall, slowly, one by one.

I don't know how I can be yours after all this, she wrote. A nail in his coffin. It cuts him to the core. How had he fallen so deeply for this young woman, that a single sentence can shake him so badly? They had only courted for a year and a half before the engagement notices were sent out.

Things are quickly spinning out of control. Civil war stands on his doorstep, no matter how much he tries to stem it. Anora is nowhere to be seen, mourning in private. The Landsmeet is restless and vocal in their opinions on his actions, but they have no idea of what he's dealing with in the fallout of Cailan's death. Howe has grown increasingly demanding of his time and attention, regardless of how little Loghain himself wants to see him.

But Rhiona is alive and, he hopes, well.

Loghain sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose, feeling the furrow there. He puts the letter away in his desk, in the left-hand drawer for important correspondence. There is no use in tears. He has work to do.

#da drunk writing circle #loghain mac tir #rhiona cousland #cousland/loghain mac tir #cousland x loghain mac tir #series: traitorous hearts #ocean writes #dragon age: origins #dao

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laurelsofhighever · 5 months

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Fandom: Dragon Age: Origins Characters/pairings: Alistair x Cousland Chapter: 11/? Rating: M Warnings: Canon-typical violence Fic Summary: The story of the Fifth Blight, in a world where Alistair was raised to royalty instead of joining the Grey Wardens.

Read on AO3!

Two more days of uneventful travelling brought the little group to the outskirts of civilisation, chilled and soggy under the pall of wet snow that had closed over them the night before. They had sheltered, shivering, in an abandoned barn, one of many along the old, paved road they were following, which had been in poor repair even before rumours of war had channelled carts and animals and the refugees who drove them out of the southern hinterlands. Now, it was a struggle to trudge through the lines of muddy, iced-over puddles where the flagstones left gaps, breath coming in harsh clouds of white fog and cold-numbed fingers tucked as much as possible under the folds of the oilskin cloaks Flemeth had been able to spare them.

“Lothering,” Alistair huffed when they finally paused for breath on a bluff overlooking the village. Thin banners of smoke rose from the hunched cluster of buildings in the settlement proper, and from the damp campfires dotted between the mass of grubby tents that spilled out over the southern boundary like flotsam from a shipwreck.

“Pretty as a painting.” He shot a sidelong grin to Rosslyn on his left. “I almost didn’t think we’d make it.”

“It’s a real sight, isn’t it?”

The new, reedy voice came from just off the road, from a small campsite set far enough back into the bushes that any travellers heading north would miss it on the way past. The thin, gaunt man it belonged to stepped out onto the path in front of them. Four others emerged after him, in front and behind to block their path, all in similar states of beggary with weapons drawn. Rosslyn’s own hand reached for her sword at the same moment Alistair stepped closer to guard her flank. The shiver of air along her spine told her that Morrigan, too, readied for an attack. She hoped it would not come. Though her shoulder had knitted together far faster than should be expected even with the aid of magical healing, the dull twinges that flared with every movement warned of the permanent damage that could be done if she got into a fight before the muscles fully recovered.

“Let us pass,” she commanded from beneath her hood. At her side, Cuno growled his own threat, the sound a low vibration against her leg.

“Ah, the pretty one is in charge, I see,” the stranger cried, as if delighted. He looked malnourished, his hollow cheeks exaggerated by the cracked, ill-fitting leather armour strapped about his shoulders, the sour odour of his unwashed body an offence even from ten paces’ distance. Everything from his stance to the flashy, overly stiff grip of his sword screamed his lack of skill, even without the coating of rust on his neglected blade that would have gotten any squire in Castle Cousland flogged.

One of the other bandits shifted on his feet when she didn’t respond. “Uh… these ones don’t look much like them others,” he ventured. “Maybe we should just let them pass?”

“Nonsense,” the leader snapped, and turned a greasy smile on Rosslyn. “We have rules, you know. There’s a toll. A simple ten silvers and you’re free to move on.”

“You’re not very well dressed for tollkeepers,” Alistair noted. “Better hope Bann Dunstan’s militia doesn’t catch you preying on those fleeing the darkspawn.”

The man laughed. “Bann Dunstan went north with Teyrn Loghain, and took all his soldiers with him. There’s only a few templars left at the chantry now – so we’re taking the initiative.”

“You are fools to get in our way,” Morrigan told him with a sneer.

“Loghain came through here?” Rosslyn pressed, before the bandits could test the claim.

The leader shrugged. “Day before yesterday, leading his whole army and saying the Grey Wardens betrayed the king and got him and themselves killed.”

“That’s not –”

“No other survivors?” she interrupted.

“A few,” he answered. “Band of Ash Warriors came through yesterday – stayed right out of their way, I can tell you. But you aren’t Ash Warriors.”

“No?” she asked lightly. “We came from the south, we’re armoured and armed better than you, and I can tell you exactly how far the darkspawn are behind us. Are you really going to risk yourselves on a losing battle here when you could be running?”

“Uh… you don’t seem to realise –”

She feinted forward. He flinched, and she tilted a cold smile at him.

“Alright!” he huffed, throwing up his hands. “We’re just trying to get by, before the darkspawn get us all.”

“Then go,” she suggested. “And hope they don’t catch up.”

He risked a glance sideways at the campsite, one hand rising in a hopeless gesture that faltered with the deliberate step she took towards him, his eyes glued to the inch of white steel drawn from her scabbard.

“Those things don’t belong to you,” she reminded him.

“Yes, right.” He swallowed. “Of course. Come on, gents – it’s slim pickings here anyway.”

She kept her gaze on him as he stumbled backwards, tense in case of a double-cross, though she had spent enough time among her father’s hounds to know a beaten dog when she saw one. The patter of the rain fell heavily in the mud as he retreated with the rest of his miserable band slinking at his heels, reluctant, but not one daring enough to attack alone.

They would not remain cowed for long.

As soon as the last man retreated into the cover of the trees, Rosslyn turned and leapt the ditch between the road and the bandits’ makeshift camp, hissing a curse as her boot slipped on the landing and wrenched her shoulder.

“Uh… what are you doing?” Alistair asked, coming closer.

“Outfitting,” she replied. “Before they come back.”

“If they do, I say teach them a lesson,” Morrigan scoffed. She had stayed on the road, vigilant as a wolf with the distant scent of deer on the wind.

“The best way to win a fight is to not fight in the first place.” Busy hunting through the meagre spoils the bandits had managed to scrounge together, the adage came to Rosslyn’s lips almost without thinking. It crowded with others in her head, the stories retold by the hearth on winter nights that spoke not of the glory of battle but of the hardships that went between, nights of cold and hunger where morale wavered like a candle flame by an open window. There had been days, her father said, where the Orlesians had forced them to choose between the tired army and starving civilians.

Behind her, Cuno whined. A small animal, perhaps a yearling lamb, lay poorly spitted over the fire, its flesh half-cooked and the tips of its shanks beginning to burn. Drops of fat hissed as they surrendered to the flames. In the few days of travel from Flemet’s hut, the dog’s share of their meagre rations had been smaller than she would have liked, stretched as far as possible with grains but limited by all the things he couldn’t eat.

“Such a good boy,” she crooned, leaving off her inspection of a tatty bedroll to cut away one of the haunches for him. The heat of the bone warmed her numb fingers through the thick leather of her gauntlets, gone again the instant she wiped the juices away on the inside of her cloak.

“Are we taking this stuff, then?” Alistair tried. “You know it was stolen.”

“We’re taking what we can carry, what we need,” she corrected, without looking at him. “I don’t like it either, but you heard what he said about Loghain just as well as I did – we need all the advantages we can get.”

Morrigan delicately flicked a cleaning rag away from the rim of an engraved silver bowl so she could inspect it. “If the former owners of these items were foolish enough to allow themselves to be robbed, ‘tis no concern of ours.”

“The people who passed through here were desperate,” he insisted. “They had nothing else.”

“Neither do we,” Rosslyn reminded him, and sighed. “We can pass word in the village once we get there – maybe someone will come for what’s left.”

A long moment passed as he wrestled with his conscience, as the snow thickened overhead and Cuno crunched down the bones of his impromptu meal, until necessity overcame nobility and with a snarl at nothing in particular he tramped over to the bandits’ tent to dismantle it. Even through the thick layers of armour and cloak, the tension in his shoulders screamed loud enough that Rosslyn had to grit her teeth and turn away. She swiped a bag of dried provisions and a coinpurse from the bottom of an unlocked chest, and an extra cloak and bedroll that she hoped weren’t infested with lice, before hunting around for something that might serve to wrap the rest of the meat.

Further into the trees, they found a pair of tacked-up horses tied to the branch of a bare oak. One was of much finer quality than the other, with the tall, strong-boned confirmation of a knight’s charger, but both had been neglected, left to stand with no sign of fodder in a slurry of mud up to the fetlock.

“Ah, I see we are to rescue every pathetic creature that wanders across our path,” Morrigan commented as Rosslyn ran her hands over the destrier’s legs to check for swelling.

She shot a glare over her uninjured shoulder. “Would you prefer to carry the tent?”

With their baggage now strapped to the horses, the last stretch of the journey took less than an hour. By the time they reached the outskirts of Lothering, the blizzard had eased and a glance of pale sunlight managed to slip past the bars of cloud. The squalor it illuminated rose bile in the back of Rosslyn’s throat as surely as the smell. Families huddled beneath scavenged yards of cloth trying to stay dry as the few campfires still burning billowed acrid curls of smoke, their meagre possessions kept within sight and easy reach.

“I wonder, Alistair,” Morrigan commented as they passed through the gauntlet of wan, wary stares, “why do none of them recognise you? You passed through Lothering on the journey south, did you not?”

“I was considerably better dressed then,” he pointed out, but pulled the hood of his cloak lower over his forehead nonetheless. “It’s probably for the best that we’re not recognised, if what that bandit said about Loghain is true. It does make you wonder what all these people are waiting for, though. They have to know the darkspawn aren’t that far away.”

Morrigan clicked her tongue. “‘Tis not our concern if they wish to sit like rams waiting for the wolf.”

They trudged further in silence, until the cobbles of the road once more emerged from beneath the quagmire of the squatters’ field. In the distance, the tower of the village chantry rose above the lines of shingle roofs, its pennants flashing with gold-embroidered sunbursts. If any organised retreat existed, the templars would have charge of it, though to judge from the blasphemous ravings of the merchant they passed arguing with a lay sister, their grasp on order was tenuous at best.

“Please, sers – have you seen my mother?”

Rosslyn stopped cold. A small boy, older than Oren but not by much, and with lighter hair, huddled under the eaves of an empty doorstep, clutching a scrawny, point-eared mongrel about the neck. His clothes were thin and ragged at the hems, smeared with the dirt that also smudged its way across his cheek.

“Your mother?” she repeated, fighting back the shake of double vision.

“She’s really tall, and she has red hair,” the boy said hopefully. “Some mean men with swords came and Mother told me to run to the village as fast as I could, so I did. She said she’d be right behind me, but I’ve been waiting and waiting and I can’t find her.”

“Do you know where your father is?”

The boy’s gaze turned briefly to Alistair before settling on the dirt. “He went with William to the neighbours’ yesterday, but he didn’t come back.”

“‘Tis likely your parents are dead,” Morrigan told him, without sympathy. “Waiting for them here is pointless.”

“That’s not true!” The boy wiped his nose on his sleeve. “She said she’d come.” But his lip trembled, and he drew his arms tighter around the dog.

“Here,” Rosslyn interrupted, reaching to her side before the tears could truly come. “Get yourself something to eat, then go to the chantry. It’ll likely be the first place your mother will look for you.”

With a hearty sniff, the boy peered dubiously at the offering before lighting up in glee, his worry forgotten. “A whole silver!” He made to grab for it, then remembered his manners. “Thank you – you’re a really nice lady, kind of like mother.”

“Go on,” she commanded with a rough jerk of her head, and watched him disappear through the crowd.

“Poor thing,” Alistair muttered. He rounded on Morrigan. “Did you have to do that?”

“I only spoke the truth,” she retorted.

“And what good did it do?” Rosslyn demanded.

“What good is a silver to someone who will likely soon be prey to the darkspawn?”

In terms of cold practicality, the point was well barbed; it fired clean and struck true, even if the silver for the boy’s meal had come from an already-stolen purse. Rosslyn’s hands curled into fists nonetheless, the image before her eyes smeared not with mud from the gutter, but with blood.

“You don’t know that,” she growled.

“Denial will not –”

“I won’t argue this.” She drew in a steadying breath and clucked at the horses to walk on. “We should get to the chantry.”

Morrigan scowled at her. Alistair, too, held a wary edge in his posture, as if daring himself to ask whether she was alright, but she ignored them both to push on through the crowd of people milling about without much seeming purpose at all. Most wore the simply stitched clothes of farmholders, bundled up against the cold in cloaks of thick wool. A few, wealthier, had rabbit or squirrel trim about the collar, but none could be considered truly rich in their dress, and like the refugees beyond the village boundary they all kept close watch of their belongings, heads bowed like workhorses at the plough as they hurried about their business. Clearly, any with the means to leave had already made their escape.

Further on, a crowd had gathered in the lee of the chantry wall, their number shifting uneasily as a wiry man in the leather tunic and cross-tied cloak of a Chasind trader gesticulated at them from atop an overturned crate. His hair was lank and matted, his hose stained with mud to the thigh, and wild exhaustion creased the sun-darkened skin around his eyes.

“The legions of evil are on your doorstep!” he cried. “They will feast upon our hearts!”

“At last, someone who seems to understand the situation,” Morrigan noted dryly.

“There! One of their minions is already amongst us!”

Several faces turned in the direction of his point, and murmured amongst themselves as their eyes landed on Rosslyn, trying to guide her horse to the quieter side of the road. Travel-worn she might be, and scowling like a thundercloud, but a disappointing comparison to the monsters that haunted the dark edges of their bedtime stories.

“Prettiest darkspawn I ever saw,” someone laughed. “If they’re all like that, maybe I should join up.”

“This woman bears their evil stench!” the man insisted, spit flying from his lips. “Can you not see the vile blackness that fills her? The darkspawn will cover the world like a plague of locusts, and she is but the beginning! There is nowhere to run – better to slit your children’s throats now than let them suffer at darkspawn hands!”

Rosslyn stopped. Her lip twisted in a moment of indecision before she dropped the leading rein and started into the crowd with Cuno at her heels. Above, a bank of cloud shifted again and covered the sun, so that as she advanced, with onlookers scrabbling out of her way and drawn in her wake to see what would happen next, the sky darkened and the little warmth left bled from the air.

“I am not your enemy,” she declared, when she finally stood before her accuser.

“You are but the first of those who will destroy us!”

“What’s going on here?”

The Wilder shrank from the bite of the new voice, from the two soldiers in Gwaren Black fighting through the ranks of people, shoving with the hafts of their polearms when someone was too slow to move.

“You again!” spat the taller one, who had a sergeant’s band around his upper arm. “We’ve warned you. Move along, and stop causing trouble.”

“You would punish me, but not this thing of evil?” the wilder demanded. “Look on her! See the corruption thick in her veins.”

The soldiers were already looking, eyes half-lidded in affected disdain as they measured her. She stood, half a head taller than either of them, and glared coolly back.

“You’re well-armed, traveller,” the sergeant said. “Come from the south, did you?”

“Most recently,” she allowed.

The man scratched his chin. “No sigil, and no company. No mercs that I saw at Ostagar, and an honest soldier would wear a liege lord’s colours. Corrupted, you say?” he added, turning to the Wilder. “That sounds like a Grey Warden to me. I think we’ve just been blessed.”

“In what manner?” Rosslyn asked. These were not desperate farmers driven to banditry; all reports said Loghain trained his soldiers hard, ever fearful of a new invasion from Orlais, and they would not tuck their tails like scolded mongrels if she merely bared her teeth. She stood relaxed, drawn up to her full height despite the pain it brought to her shoulder.

“There’s a bounty out for traitors,” he leered.

As his hand shifted for a firmer grip on his polearm, his gaze slid to a point to Rosslyn’s left and widened in disbelief. A red-haired woman in the dawn-coloured cloth of a lay sister slipped into the open space the crowd had drawn around the confrontation, her graceful fingers splayed palm to palm in the sign of the sunburst as she placed herself gently as a feather between the soldiers and their hoped-for prize.

“Surely there is no need for trouble, gentlemen,” she said, her voice low and melodic, lilting with the precise inflections of court Orlesian. “No doubt this is but another poor soul seeking refuge.”

The sergeant gestured with his weapon. “Stay out of our way, sister, or you’ll get the same, chanter’s robes or no. The Wardens killed the king, or haven’t you heard?”

The crowd tensed. Rosslyn didn’t move. Out of the corner of her eye, she spied Alistair hanging in the first line of onlookers, his stance and sword ready to aid her should any real fighting erupt, though he kept his hood low over his face, hunched to disguise his height. She could worry about his silence later, but for now she was glad neither Morrigan nor the horses were with him.

“It is no excuse for ambushing –”

“Loghain is the one who betrayed the king!” she called out over the Chantry sister’s misgivings, a clarion note on the dull air as she circled to once again stand before her opponent. “When the moment came for his support in the battle, he turned and fled, and left King Cailan and the Wardens to be overwhelmed. Their sacrifice is the only reason the darkspawn are not already swarming at your door.”

“Lies!” the sergeant spat. “This isn’t even a true Blight!”

“When the moment came,” she repeated, in a voice like winter, “he chose cowardice over loyalty.”

The insult struck. With a bellow like a bull the sergeant charged, polearm lowered to skewer her. She was ready. Whistling two quick notes, she stepped into the attack and drew her sword to parry the blow, the movement a graceful arc into his guard that slammed down into a pommel strike against his neck that sent him to the floor. His companion yelled a protest, but before he could intervene, Cuno’s massive jaws clamped around his arm. Surprise broke off into screams as he was borne to the ground and shaken like a dust rag. There was crack of bone.

“Alright!” the sergeant cried, as the crowd swayed, sickened by the sound. “Alright! You’ve won – we surrender!”

Rosslyn, her sword laid like a whisper against his neck, whistled once. In an instant her dog let go and backed off, though his thunderous growls still reverberated through the space, and left no doubt about his intentions should anyone else dare to attack his mistress. A few lost snowflakes drifted down against the stones.

“They have learned their lesson now, I think,” the Chantry sister said, calmly, as if the soldiers had lost a chess match and weren’t both lying in the dirt, the one cringing against a white steel blade and the other cradling his bloodied, broken arm. “We can all stop fighting now.”

“Can we?” Rosslyn asked of the sergeant.

Eyes wide, he nodded. “Maker bless you for your mercy, ser!”

“My mercy,” she repeated. “There’s precious little of it. I want you to be of use to me.”

“Anything – anything!”

“You’re going to take a message to Loghain,” she said.

“Uh, what –” He swallowed. “What do you want to tell him?”

She glanced up and met Alistair’s eyes, the lines of his mouth pinched in worry as he slowly shook his head to urge her to caution. For a moment, her jaw clenched around the desire to rebel, to issue a challenge like those her ancestors had laid down before their enemies, a bright, shining pennant to unfurl across a battlefield, a streak of midnight intent, but the urge bled from her as she once again felt the ugly itch of the whispers in the back of her mind. Loghain possessed an army, and in sacrificing the Wardens had excused it the obligation of stopping the Blight; for now, Alistair’s survival, and her own identity, were the only tactical advantages they had.

“Tell him there are those who know what he did,” she growled. “And that we will see justice done for it.”

She took her blade away, and kicked him for good measure as he scrambled to his feet His lackey stumbled after, cowering away as she flexed out the rush of the battle-blood that made her fingers shake. She would pay for that burst of action later. All eyes were fixed on her, or on Cuno nosing up under her hand for a scratch behind the ear. Even the Chantry sister, who seemed far less bothered by the violence than should be expected, watched with curiosity to see what would happen next.

Her father would have known what to say; he would have chided her for shrinking back from her duty.

“I am a Grey Warden,” she told the gathered crowd. “Listen to me – the darkspawn are coming. King Cailan bought you time, but it is falling away and they cannot be stopped. They do not reason. If you do not leave, you will die.”

“Coward’s talk!” someone shouted.

“We’ll show ‘em if they dare creep out of the Wilds!”

“Maybe the Wardens killed the king and you’re trying to cover it up!”

The Chantry sister raised her hands. “Good people, please –”

“If it is so safe here, then why did the bann flee north?”

The voice did not come from one of the villagers, but from Morrigan. Her disdain rang so clear that it might have been amplified by magic, and it blunted the anger of the crowd into a low, uncertain buzz that faded entirely into silence as the lay sister once more stepped forward to address them.

“Please, do not despair,” she said. “The Maker sent this Grey Warden as a warning, to help us in our hour of need.”

“Do you think we should tell her who actually sent us?” Alistair muttered in Rosslyn’s ear as he sidled up to her.

“It would be interesting to see how things could get worse,” she muttered back.

“You handled those soldiers pretty well – I’d almost forgotten how scary you were in the lists.”

Disbelieving, she glanced at him and found nothing but sincerity in his shrouded features, a soft trust that stung not least because part of her wanted to throw back his hood and show him to the people in all disregard for sense. Such a move would certainly make them listen, but if Loghain had truly put out a bounty for captured Grey Wardens, how much more would he be willing to pay for Cailan’s only heir? Perhaps, at least until they met with Arl Eamon, it would be safer to pretend he was another Grey Warden instead, to shield him with her own status as much as it was her duty as a Cousland to shield him with her body.

As she mulled this over, the crowd succumbed to the lack of fresh entertainment and let itself be chivvied back about its business, clearing the path to Morrigan and the main doors of the chantry that had been their first destination. The lay sister remained, a demure smile upon her face as she waited for them to notice her.

“Thank you for intervening, Sister,” Alistair said. “We’re glad the crowd decided to listen to you.”

“I couldn’t just sit by and not help,” came the reply. “Though from your display of skill I see my aid was not required.”

“A welcome attempt nonetheless,” Rosslyn told her.

The woman smiled and dipped into a curtsey. “Then I am glad. Perhaps, if you wish it, I can offer further assistance by escorting you to the chantry?”

#dragon age #dragon age fanfic #dragon age fanfiction #dragon age: origins #dragon age origins #da:o #alistair x cousland #alistair x warden #warden x alistair #cousland #warden cousland #rosslyn cousland #cousland feels #morrigan #leliana #barkspawn #lothering

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v-arbellanaris · 1 year

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Re: rarepair Hell. I would like to know how many pits we mutually occupy, so. Could I get a list of like, idk, your top ten (based in enjoyment level) rarepairs? And/or headcanons but I would prefer "and".

okay i'll assume you mean dragon age specifically MFDSKJFSDKJF but okay, i'll list some!!!!

the obvious ones:

fenders (fenris x anders) : i love a good narrative foil

zevistair (zevran x alistair) : idk if this counts as a rarepair but!!! their canon flirting banters always make me go sooo insane. that you can include zevran in the foursome w alistair if alistair is hardened (lol) makes me INSANE. they are basically canon aND YET!!!!!!

warden x loghain : ive written so much abt them already. you get the idea

nanders (nathaniel x anders)

the less obvious ones:

anders/merrill (bonus: anders/merrill/isabela): for all the same reasons i ship fenders (which i would argue is still relatively a popular pair, so not quite rarepair??); they're such good mirrors, they're both encapsulate what the other fears. anders being 100% okay to hurt people despite being a healer vs merrill being a blood mage who has never wanted to hurt anyone is just *chef kiss*. you can take a look at this for more compelling reasons to ship them.

fenris/merrill: for all the same reasons as above. i think if u dont ship each individual LI of the kirkwall polycule w each other, u shouldnt say u ship the kirkwall polycule.

solavelyan / soladaar / soladash / solas x non-lavellan inqs: i still think it should've been a romance option for all inqs tho i suppose they didn't really have the time to develop a non-lavellan route for them, but i love thinking about it, and i love the vibes for it so much. again, i love narrative foils, and i think it's so natural to be drawn to someone who could understand you like that.

alistair x bethany: a not-templar and a not-circle mage, in the wardens together. i think they'd really like each other and have a very interesting kind of energy!!! they've both got these secret bitter/spiteful sides to them, there's a lot of parallels (like alistair thinking warden conscription is a good thing bc it was for him and bethany having v different emotions abt being a warden in general). i've also really enjoyed most of the fics i've read for them.

nathaniel x f!cousland: UNFORTUNATELY THOUGH i dont think i've been able to find the kind of fic i want for them in the tag. i've got too many wips as it is, but maybe one day i'll write the nathaniel/f!cousland fic of my dreams...

nathaniel x anora: this one is admittedly @rosella-writes' fault, but they've got me by the THROAT as a concept

m!hawke/cullen: LIKE ESPECIALLY IF IT'S ONE-SIDED FOR CULLEN it's something that can be SO fascinating to explore (esp in an amell worldstate). [shaking cullen] babygirl what is WRONG with you!!!!!!!

m!hawke/sebastian: sebastian grappling with his admiration for hawke vs his chantry vows but THIS TIME make it mlm..... i think this is probably baby vee coming through w how hard i used to ship d/estiel in the early 00's LMAO. fsr they hit the same beats in my skull.

morrigan/leliana: noooo girlies don't fight haha <3 they should dump the warden and kiss instead <3

josephine/the iron bull: i read a few fics for them that admittedly captured my interest. i think their dynamic is something that could really be interesting to delve into for so many reasons. i've read the evidence and i find it compelling enough to put on this list

#asks #i did not do headcanons but hopefully my lil blurbs make sense for why i ship them #this is not an exhaustive list this is just what i can think of/remember right now #BASICALLY. i'll ship anything if i find it compelling enough tbh

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rosella-writes · 1 year

Note

For the DADWC: “there’s nothing wrong with you, and there never has been.” for Anora x Nathaniel Howe?

Thank you!! For @dadrunkwriting

~~~

“Did you really think all that time,” Anora muttered, “that he sent you away because he hated you?”

Nathaniel hummed. It was easier to answer her if he looked away — he leaned now against the stone windowsill, breathing in the cool spring air. “Well, you remember Rendon Howe. He chose his favourites.”

“But you were the one he wanted to see prepared! The one he invested time and training in.”

“But it was Thomas who remained at his side.”

Anora made a sound that reminded Nathaniel of her father. The last he’d seen the now-Warden Loghain, he had had precious little to be pleased about, and his scoffs of disdain were hereditary it would seem.

“Are you really trying to assure me,” Nathaniel murmured, pulling away from the window to turn towards the Queen, “that Rendon Howe, the man who massacred the Couslands and sent the country into chaos, had a single tender feeling in his heart for me? He would cast me aside if it served him, and you know it. He simply lacked the opportunity.”

Anora sat upon a settee in these, her apartments in the Keep. Her back was straight as an arrow, her shoulders square yet slim, and her graceful neck held her golden head high. She was adorned simply, wearing a mere gold band on her left ring finger, while her clothes were understated in colour and style. But he knew, if he touched her, that the fabric would be soft and luxurious. He knew that if he swept her into his arms, she would have precious little by way of garments beneath.

But her face was set, her mouth was stern, and reproach shone in her eyes. She brushed something invisible off her lap, as if cleaning away his very words.

“What I mean to impress upon you, Nathaniel,” she said quietly, “is that Rendon Howe’s opinion of you should hold no weight anymore. It does not matter what he thought. He is dead.”

Nathaniel frowned, swallowing down a retort. His chest felt tight.

Anora rose to her feet, and when she approached him he caught a glimpse of bare feet beneath her skirts. She caught his face in her hands as he tried to turn away.

“There is nothing wrong with you, Nathaniel Howe,” she said, her eyes fixed on his and liquidly blue. “And there never has been.”

#dadwc #anora mac tir #anora theirin #nathaniel howe #anora x nathaniel #dragon age #my writing

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couslande · 11 months

Note

oh pls tell i wanna hear your da fancasts! even if it's just for ocs 👀

ok! so my fancasts are super unfixed and very often its me watching something and going 'wow x would be a good y in the prestige dragon age adaptation that i would make and that would sweep the awards ceremonies.'

at the moment i've been watching a bunch of roman stuff so well. you'll see a trend here.

um this got long because i added pictures so its under a read more :3

oliver huntingdon as agrippa in sky's domina is who im currently vibing with for carver. in the show he just captures the perfect balance of gruff and caring which is carver to me

arnas fedaravicius is my faceclaim for antony (im aware picking a viking for a guy named after a roman is a choice and also there's like no visual similarities between hawke and carver but this is my mind <3)

jodie comer in the last duel is anora. to me <3

i have a post about this in my drafts but i'll just say it now. nadia parkes and kasia smutniak as livia in domina are blight and trespasser era tiarnan cousland

im kinda vibing with daryl mccormack as donnchadh trevelyan, my second worldstate inquisitor

and this one came to me while i was showering today and was tbh the inspiration for this post but. and hear me out (im aware this is the ultimate aforementioned 'this is because im watching this' cast) but ciaran hinds as caesar in rome is loghain to me.

ummm yeah thats all i can think of at the moment im sure i'll think of more as soon as i hit post though <3

#also pleeeease take this as an invitation to send me fancast ideas pleeeeease <3 #ask #anon #sorry you are getting a look at what's happening in my mind #when i compared loghain to caesar the other day that was just the tip of the iceberg #fancasting

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ell-vellan · 1 year

Text

about me

Hi! Call me Ell or Autumn (she/her). I'm a writer by hobby and profession. This blog is mostly Dragon Age and Baldur's Gate 3, but also a little bit of The Witcher Netflix, Shadow & Bone, Mass Effect, writing, and just generally media I enjoy. Probably going to include more Sleep Token in the future. Sometimes science. Rarely, my own meta and fanfic writing.

Ao3

My DA Meta Posts

My Writing

My OCs

I'm an adult and I write adult things, so follow at your own discretion. I don't knowingly follow back or privately chat with minors - nothing personal!

I try to curate a positive space here as much as possible for my mental health. I don't tend to post anti stuff, and I utilize the block function pretty readily.

I'm inconsistent at best with tagging, though I do make an effort to tag for common triggers. The only one you might see regularly is a cw for blood (in fanart, not real blood). If you need something tagged, you are free to ask, but I can't guarantee I'll never forget to include it.

I'm always happy to chat about any of our shared interests, be tagged in things, or get asks about my writing, characters, or media. But I'm not here to argue, and I don't engage with negativity.

My Canon Dragon Age Worldstates for fic purposes:

(List not exhaustive - major highlights only.)

"Happily Ever After":

DAO: female warrior Cousland x King Alistair, ruled together, dark ritual with Morrigan, killed Loghain

DA2: male warrior Hawke x Anders, templar Carver, sided with mages

DAI: undecided!

"Elfy":

DAO: Male rogue Mahariel x Zevran, King Alistair rules alone, killed Loghain, dark ritual with Morrigan.

DA2: Male mage Hawke x Fenris, spared Anders, circle mage Bethany survived, sided with mages

DAI: female mage Lavellan x Iron Bull (though my hc is Solas is an almost-maybe ex), allied with mages and Grey Wardens, Divine Leliana (softened)

Favorite DA Characters: (aka the ones you'll see most of my rbs about)

Zevran, Alistair, Fenris, The Iron Bull, Krem, Morrigan

Favorite pairings:

Zevran/Warden, Cousland/Alistair, Hawke/Anders/Fenris, Hawke/Fenris, Hawke/Anders, Bull/Dorian, Bull/Inquisitor

Not an exhaustive list by any means.

#about me #new pinned post

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quinttyz · 2 years

Text

extra piles of notes from the board (ARCHIVED)

page 3 here

(aka page 2 of the noticeboard lmao the og one was getting too long,,,)

Front of the noticeboard (basic info of the blog there!! + other ocs)

Quinttyz’s Compendium

(aka the masterpost of my OCS’ adventures continued!~)

PILLARS OF ETERNITY/DEADFIRE (Jinx/Tempest Withers)

“The things your father did… rest now, you are safe in my arms. I will never hurt you.”

tease adaryc all you want…just don’t bother him when he’s writing reports to his superiors!! or else~ (2/? Adaryc Cendamyr x Watcher)

Jinx/Tempest’s backstory (textpost)

How Jinx became Tempest Withers again (textpost)

Rambles about intimacy (textpost)

Waiting for a reply (fanfic)

At last, the watcher sleeps

A Fistfight to the Death with Thaos!!

Dancing

Team Gilded Vale laying massacre in Raedric’s Hold lmfaooo

the angriest prettiest girl i’ve ever seen

“Watcher, please tell me this is not just another dream I’m having…”

“Tch…you always saw right through me”

such a lover boy

MODDED TESV:SKYRIM SE (Avarice The Two-Faced)

long day

Looking out for you

“Caryalind…we’re not the good guys per se”

Resident Evil Village (oc: Buttons)

concept art of Buttons

Dragon Age: Origins (Calypso Cousland)

Do you really want to test the patience of the grey warden who never wanted to be?

“tell howe and loghain it’s on”

DOS2 (Tante Howle)

The Enigmatic Scholar of the Past and His Equally Enigmatic Lady Howle

darling, it’s you

Devil May Cry (Ace - The Scholar Nun, Unbound)

Ace - The Scholar Nun, Unbound (oc intro)

Concept: first meeting

the devil hunter, the scholar nun, and the mysterious one

COD: Modern Warfare II (Ellio - Worst Medic Ever)

Becoming a medic for 141 was a fucking mistake

some ghost doodles while taking down notes ~

💀 and ☀️

KorTac shenanigans

A lost in translation situation except they both barely spoke to each other (König x Ellio!!)

Various Random OC adventures!~ (oneshots etc.)

The Worst Expedition of All Time. (Seriously, they wasted the funding on this one.)

#quinttyz rambles #quinttyz draws #masterpost #ocs

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antivan-beau · 3 months

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idk if this author of this fic is even on tumblr, but this fic is so perfectly id-scratchingly angsty for me that i am still thinking about it years later. the lovesick hero worship! the super toxic hate sex but they both have feelings actually!! goddamn.

m!Cousland x Loghain, mind the tags

#listen it is NOT lightly that i recommend a fic about loghain okay!!

0 notes

ziskandra · 3 years

Text

Fic: a celebration of being alive

Relationship: Loghain Mac Tir/Female Cousland

Summary: Loghain thought Cousland deserved better than the attentions of a lecherous old man but she was the one who kept entering his tent.

Tags: Age Difference, Woman on Top, Broken Bones, Survivor Guilt

Words: 2697

Excerpt:

Read it on AO3!

#dragon age #loghain mac tir #loghain x warden #warden x loghain #loghain x cousland #asha fic #fic written outside of an exchange? it's more likely than you think!#by which i mean this is my second non-exchange fic in four years

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ocean-in-my-rebel-soul · 4 years

Text

An excerpt from a WIP Loghain/Rhiona Cousland fic I’m working on:

“It was never supposed to be you. For whatever that is worth,” Loghain says, once the silence becomes untenable.

Rhiona stills, her hands paused where she examines her swordbelt. His swordbelt, gifted to her on her last birthday, before the darkspawn, before Ostagar. It looks good on her, and an unreasonable sense of pride puffs up in his chest at the knowledge that it’s brought her this far.

“You signed a death warrant for any Grey Wardens remaining in Ferelden--”

“I ordered that any Grey Wardens, or those said to be impersonating them, were to be brought to Fort Drakon. Not a death warrant.”

She snorts. “Tell that to your thugs. I’m not sure they understood the nuance.”

Her words are like jagged glass, thrown at his face. He hums in empty acknowledgment. Loghain’s gaze drifts to the fire at his feet, with Rhiona kept snugly in his peripheral vision.

Quiet stretches out between them. It used to be easy, sitting with her. Before the war. Before the slaughtering of her family. Before she was stolen into the damned Wardens, taken under that fool Duncan’s wing and caught up in the machinations of a vainglorious king and an Order that only served to kill them all.

“It wasn’t personal,” he says. “Or, rather, it was. I was looking for...” He scoffs, scuffs his boot on a rock ringing the firepit. “It doesn’t matter. It wasn’t a death sentence. Not without trial, at the least.”

He once was told he was a fair man.

How far had Loghain fallen from that estimation?

#loghain mac tir #Rhiona Cousland #Loghain x Cousland #series: traitorous hearts #WIP #excerpts #soulrebel writes

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