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stardustandash · 3 months

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First of the Febuwhump stories has arrived!!

For @natsora, CPR featuring Cassandra/F!Inquisitor. I hope you like it!! It's been so long since I've played around in Dragon Age and this was very fun to write (and ended up way longer than intended lol).

Words: 2,012

Tags: near-drowning, hypothermia, hurt/comfort, Cassandra's gay panic

ao3 link

when is a kiss not truly a kiss?

The Emprise du Lion is always cold. Cassandra has been through a handful of times in the past, and those few times only because it lies on one of the main routes from Orlais to Ferelden. There is not much of anything here, aside from some stunning mountain vistas. Of course, the cold did lend itself to nights in the tent spent huddled for warmth, just her and the Inquisitor. Not that Cassandra thought of it like that. It was simply nice to be able to cuddle with a warm body and try very hard not to think about all the books where the heroine got lost in the snow with her handsome love interest and they needed to keep each other warm. The Inquisitor is the Inquisitor. She is fearsome and strong and above all else, untouchable.

Cassandra shakes her head to clear it and follows after said Inquisitor. Among the snow Lavellan’s armour shines bright as her smile as she laughs at something Dorian has said. She watches them, jealous of the easy camaraderie between the two. And with her eyes forward she can ignore the glances from Varric. He has been exceptionally annoying of late, making crude innuendos about the sleeping arrangements whenever Lavellan is just out of earshot or raising his eyebrows suggestively whenever Cassandra’s eyes linger too long. She has tried pointing out that she is not about to let the Inquisitor share a tent with a man she is not in a relationship with, and that she must keep an eye on Lavellan as one of her guards. Yet as always Varric never listens. Ugh.

Today the cold in their boots is for getting rid of the rift over the lake. Lavellan had been trying to put it off during the colder months, but now that spring is on its way they needed to get rid of it before they end up fighting demons in rowboats. Maker knows that Lavellan would try.

The rift is visible from the edge of the lake as a distant green glow. Sahrnia sits behind them, its people still present despite the red lyrium and red Templars and all the evil conjured in the valley. At least with the rift gone there will be no more demons wandering close to town. Lavellan is in agreement as she strides across the frozen lake with a sense of purpose that has Varric struggling to keep pace.

“Inquisitor, slow down. We should face them together,” Cassandra calls.

It is not the first time she has made such a request of Lavellan, and with her luck it will not be the last. The words fall on deaf ears as Lavellan only moves faster, unsheathing her greatsword as she closes in on the demons wandering below the rift. Cassandra sighs, and chases after her.

The battle is quick and messy. While Cassandra and Lavellan lay waste to the demons with their swords Dorian picks them off at a distance while Varric times careful shots. It is a dance they have perfected on the battlefield. And while Cassandra never did get used to the ballgowns and flowing movements of a nobleman’s soiree, here she thrives. She slashes at a shade and uses her shield to bash it towards Lavellan. The Inquisitor does not hesitate, barely finishing parrying a blow from a terror demon before spinning to hack the shade in two with her massive blade. The rest of the fight continues much the same way and only minutes later Lavellan has her hand raised to the rift to close it. The air hums with a low rumble as the rift pulses once, twice, then slams closed. As it does Lavellan deflates, shaking out her arm and trying to regain steady legs. Cassandra hovers close at her side but doesn’t touch her. Just close, so that the Inquisitor knows she is there if she needs someone to hold on to.

“Well, what say you we head back to Sahrnia and see what kind of food they can scrounge up for their saviour. The rest of the weird shit in this valley can wait until tomorrow,” says Varric lightly as he hefts his absurd crossbow onto his back.

Cassandra glares at him. He is not the leader of this party, and if it were not the Inquisitor, it would be Cassandra who made the calls.

“Sounds great,” says Lavellan in a tired voice.

“It is far too cold out here, and I would like to be back by a fire sooner rather than later,” agrees Dorian.

“At least we don’t have too far to go,” says Varric as he takes up the lead.

Walking while staring at the dwarf’s broad back is aggravating, but Cassandra will not let herself move too far from the Inquisitor. Just in case. This is why, as they reach the bank nearest the town, Cassandra is the only one to hear the ice cracking.

She pauses first as the low, snapping sound meets her ears. Her eyes scan for potential enemies sneaking up on their flank before she realizes that the Inquisitor is no longer moving behind her. That the sound came from below.

Cassandra turns slowly to see Lavellan frozen on the ice. A crack spiderwebs below Lavellan’s boot and Cassandra is suddenly aware of how much weight the armour and sword that grace the Inquisitor must weigh.

“Stay very still,” says Cassandra in a calm, commanding tone. “You will be fine.”

The panic on Lavellan’s face says that she very much doubts the veracity of that statement, but the trust in her eyes nearly undoes all the calm resolve Cassandra’s trying to cling to. She nods, muscles tense and frozen. They are only mere feet from the shore, Cassandra could reach and grab her and lunge the rest of the ten feet or so to solid ground. But that might send both of them through the ice. No, she needs to be more cautious about this, and it doesn’t help that Lavellan is staring her down with those big, trusting, beautiful eyes.

“Very slowly slide your foot forward. Don’t take steps, just shift your weight across the ice. Slowly.”

Lavellan follows her orders. Cassandra can hardly breathe as she shifts her weight slowly across the ice. Though she cannot reach the Inquisitor she holds her hand out like she might spontaneously gain magic and pull her to safety. Lavellan’s hand reaches back for her, the distance between them so close and yet altogether too far.

A low twanging sound echoes from the ice. There is a pause like a deep breath, before Lavellan disappears under the broken ice.

“Lavellan!”

Three voices chorus in their fear. Cassandra goes to surge forward, to dive in after Lavellan if she must, to get her out of the water but finds Varric’s strong hands holding her back. Instead it is Dorian who sprints towards the hole through which the Inquisitor disappeared.

“Let me go,” Cassandra all but growls at Varric as she struggles against him.

“No way, Seeker. Your muscles plus your armour would mean you’d go straight to the bottom too.”

Straight to the bottom too. Lavellan, straight to the bottom of the lake. Maker, she doesn’t even know if the Inquisitor can swim. Something bitter and fearful claws its way up Cassandra’s throat but she cannot act on it. She must be strong. Instead she digs in her pouch for potions. The town is not far, but too far for whatever healing Lavellan might need. She stands at the ready, watching as Dorian kneels carefully at the edge of the ice and plunges a hand into the water. He searches around for a moment before his face lights up with determination and he begins trying to pull something.

“Some help would be nice,” he shouts back at them, voice strained with more than just effort.

“Help him, Varric,” says Cassandra.

For once there isn’t some kind of sarcastic remark as Varric carefully eases himself onto the ice and dunks his arms in the water too. Together he and Dorian manage to heave a boneless, fully armoured Lavellan out of the water. She lies limp on the ice as Dorian and Varric drag her to shore. As soon as she’s in reach Cassandra rips her out of their hands and kneels beside her.

The Inquisitor’s lips are blue. Her eyes closed and the lids are darkened to purple. Yet the most concerning thing is that Cassandra cannot tell if she is breathing. She unsheathes her dagger and holds it under Lavellan’s nose. Seconds pass but no air mists the blade. They did not have much time. Cassandra uses her dagger to slice the leather straps of Lavellan’s armour and tosses it aside. Without it she seems so small, but Cassandra cannot stop to think on it. Instead she tries to remember every bit of her training for such a scenario as she folds her hands together over Lavellan’s breastbone and presses down in what she hopes is the correct rhythm.

“What are you doing?” asks Dorian. He sounds on the edge of hysterical but if this is going to work Cassandra cannot stop.

Instead she murmurs to Lavellan. “Breathe, Lavellan. By the Maker you are not meant to die here. Please, breathe.”

Lavellan, ever ignoring Cassandra’s suggestions, only moves in small jolts as Cassandra presses down on her. After what she hopes is the correct amount of presses Cassandra leans down to breathe for her. Lavellan’s lips are icy cold against her own and Cassandra tries to ignore every thought in her brain that isn’t about trying to save her life. The world shrinks down to her, Lavellan, and the count of compressions and breaths. Varric and Dorian could be yelling blasphemy or dancing naked in the snow for all she knows. All that matters is trying to bring back Lavellan.

The cycle continues. For how long Cassandra cannot say. She cannot stop, she cannot let Lavellan die. The hope that Lavellan will breathe again fades with every compression, yet she will not stop. Then, at last, there is a tiny gasp before the body under her hands is suddenly alive and convulsing with coughs. Cassandra quickly rolls her onto her side and pats her back in a hopefully soothing manner. As she does the world comes back into sharp focus. Her hands are icy cold, and her knees are stiff against the snow. Both Varric and Dorian have swooped down upon Lavellan, potion bottles in hand and cloaks ready to wrap around her. Cassandra practically snatches the cloak from Dorians grip to gently tuck it around Lavellan. She isn’t shivering, and Cassandra knows this is not a good sign. She presses Lavellan as close to herself as she can and tries to haul them both upright. It doesn’t work. Lavellan can’t get her feet under herself no matter the effort she puts in.

So Cassandra simply shifts so she can put her arm under Lavellan’s knees and pull her up into her arms and against her chest. Her knees protest, but she can ignore them. The Inquisitor is her highest priority, and right now she needs to get her somewhere warm, and preferably with a healer.

“Dorian, run ahead and find us a place to stay in Sahrnia and get a fire going,” orders Cassandra.

To his credit, Dorian obeys without any witty remarks. He takes off towards the buildings as fast as he can though the snow.

Unfortunately, Cassandra cannot think of anything to get Varric to stop his worried hovering at her side as she strides towards Sahrnia. She does her best to ignore him, instead focusing on Lavellan. Her cheeks are pink with cold, even as her lips remain more purple. She’s far too cold. Cassandra tries holding her tighter, closer, and is rewarded by a cold nose against her neck. Feeling the Inquisitor’s skin against her own brings an odd heat to Cassandra’s cheeks. Yet she cannot let herself think on it. For now, she must take care of Lavellan.

(I intend to post this one to ao3 @natsora, if you want to give me your ao3 handle i will gift this to you there!)

#dragon age inquisition #dai #da:i #fanfic #fanfiction #febuwhump #cassandra pentaghast #female inquisitor #f!inquisitor #lavellan

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jeeb-roski · 5 months

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There's something about writing fanfiction for a -- moderately -- dead fandom that is both depressing and vaguely fun. Like Christ Almighty, only two people are going to read this but also like I'm providing ✨content✨ for those two people

#the question is am i ever going to actually post it or am i going to let it sit in my word doc for 23 years?#da:i #dragon age inquisition #fandom #writing #fanfic

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hawkezone · 1 year

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[[ RETURN TO HALAMSHIRAL - PART ONE ]]

A missing Queen Cousland, whispers of an elven rebellion, and one hell of a party: Hawke, Fenris, and Varric attend a lavish ball at the Winter Palace celebrating Empress Celene and Marquise Briala's alliance, where Hawke finds himself enlisted to help by a man with a strong Fereldan accent and a deep-seeded fear of swooping. A Trevelyan-Dorian & Fen(m!)hawke imagining of the events leading up to Dread Wolf, sequel to The Seat of Power.

CHAPTERS: ♕ [1]

♕

“I cannot believe you’ve talked me into this, Hawke.”

Fenris, frowning, fidgeting uncomfortably in his velveteen guardsman’s uniform. It was the closest thing either of them had for formalwear - Hawke, being a man of habit, had smuggled some amount of finery out of the Hawke Estate when they’d escaped Kirkwall that night so long ago, but, much like Hawke’s usual escapades, he neglected to pick up a few key items - such as britches that actually matched their doublets, and shoes. Any shoes. At all.

“I think you look handsome,” Hawke smiled, impishly, knowing that Fenris, while grumpy, had a little room left in him for some light teasing. Unlike Hawke’s usual methods of heavy teasing, which typically led to even heavier petting when the two were left alone.

Fenris didn’t take this well, but he merely sighed, tugging the uniform so its creases unfolded. “My least favorite part of going undercover,” he said, solidly and glumly, “is that the rest of us have to play-act while you always get to be yourself. Do you remember when we went to Chateau Haine? You had to accompany that awful Tallis, and Varric and I were assumed to be your manservants.”

“I remember,” Hawke chuckled. “You almost threw that guard in the moat outside the formal gardens.”

“I should have!” Fenris pouted. “Manservant. The gall.”

Hawke turned, and swept Fenris up by the waist. He smiled, from ear to ear, and Fenris - very briefly - forgot what he was mad about. Briefly.

“I promise. This ball will be better. And if anyone calls you a manservant, I’ll punch them in the face,” Hawke smiled.

Fenris, despite himself, let out a crooked smile, too. “That would blow your cover, I think.”

“Who’s to say the Champion of Kirkwall doesn’t go about punching random nobles in the face for calling his boyfriend a manservant?” Hawke said, defensively.

“You’re ridiculous,” Fenris said, but he didn’t let go of Hawke. Or stop smiling.

The gardens at Halamshiral were abuzz - it was a hot, breezy, summer night, and the fireflies were out in full force. The sun had set not but an hour ago, and the coolness of the evening had just begun to lay down on the stuffed shirts in attendance at the Winter Palace. The hum and splash of the magnificent fountain, forming the centerpiece of the front gardens, made for a soothing backdrop to the idle chatter and excited gossip of the guests. This was a much less fussy affair than the Winter Ball - but as an afterparty of sorts, to greet guests cordially as one of the first “informal” parties of the social year, and to introduce the Empress Celene and her recently reconciled lover, the elven Marquise Briala.

Hawke and company, however, had alternative goals in mind.

“Thanks for coming, Hawke,” Varric muttered, feeling rather out of place at the soiree.

“You still haven’t told me why we’re here,” Hawke replied, a little suspiciously. “You’re not one for parties. Well, not this kind of party, anyway.”

Varric sighed. “Just - trust me when I say I’m glad you’re here, all right?”

This time, unlike at Chateau Haine, Varric was wearing an unusually formal shortcoat, and he seemed ever so slightly nervous, shuffling from one foot to the next - which piqued Hawke’s interest, as his best friend almost never showed any signs of things getting to him. Especially social affairs.

Bethany was dressed in an Orlesian gown of periwinkle blue and white, in lush velvet, with a high collar in delicate gold filigree, embellished with designs of leaves and rings, reminiscent of the Circle. It had been a gift from Leliana, sent by courier when she had heard the Good Lady Bethany would be attending her first party at the Winter Palace. Hawke had interpreted this as a nice gesture, but Varric was quick to point out that the Nightingale had probably gifted her the dress as a sort of measure against the Inquisition’s acquaintances, however distant, being played as rubes in the dangerous machinations of the Game - especially when debuting.

Varric seized a beignet from the tray of a passing masked server, staining his gloves immediately with powdered sugar. The server either didn’t notice or pretended not to.

“Are those the ones with the chantilly cream?” Hawke asked, with interest. “Last time I was in Orlais, they had these tiny little beignets full of chantilly cream. And dusted with sugar, just like that. Only I think they had little swans made of gold foil on the top, too.”

Fenris rolled his eyes. “Nobles,” he said, scoffing. “Always trying to outdo one another.”

Varric bit into the beignet, and made a face. “Nope. No cream. It’s filled with something, though.”

“Hmm,” said Hawke, eyeing the server who’d gone off with the tray. “I could go for some something.”

Before he could pop off in search of the most ridiculous food the party had to offer, Varric grabbed him by the coat.

“Have you noticed,” Varric began, very slowly, “That this party is filled to the brim with people who have pissed off the Tevinter Imperium?”

Bethany, who had taken a beignet of her own and was nibbling with interest, nodded along. “Isn’t the majority of Orlais an enemy of the Tevinter Imperium? That’s like saying the Qunari and Tevinter are in a little spat.”

“No,” Varric continued, slowly, looking around again. “I mean, this party, specifically, is full of people who have made specific enemies of the ruling magisters of the Tevinter Imperium.”

Hawke, listening, subtly reached for one of his sheathed daggers, which he’d kept on his attire for an emergency. Most people saw it as a bit of a Hawke-esque flourish, just another quirk of the Champion of Kirkwall. But it comforted him - as both an accessory and an accessory to a quick escape.

Varric, who had finished his beignet, patted down his coat as well - just to make sure Bianca was in play. “We’ll keep an eye out. Could be the Empress just keeps really good company.”

“I’ll admit, it’s a bit of a who’s who of people I’d like to meet,” Hawke said. Was that even a hint of being impressed in his voice?

Fenris, in the meantime, had not let his guard down for one second since entering the gardens, and was stationed just to the back of Hawke, in a position, he subconsciously realized, to thwart any surprise attacks on his charge. What was he to call Hawke, now that they were together, but he still felt compelled to protect him? What did Donnic call Aveline, do you think?

“I don’t trust a thing anyone at this party has put forth,” Fenris said, muttering, darting poisonous glances at the nearest group of nobles, who huddled together and began to giggle, which only infuriated Fenris more.

“Keep it together,” Hawke advised, patting Fenris on the arm. “They’ll probably kick you out if you try to rip out their organs. Although it is rather salacious when you do.”

Fenris frowned, but Hawke winked, boyishly, and he found himself smiling, despite himself.

Towards the group came a meandering group of ladies, all dressed in triplicate; the Empress’s Ladies in Waiting each curtsied lightly, one after the other, like a set of ascending piano keys.

“Messere Hawke,” the first one said, curtseying lowly. Her golden mask glinted in the gaslights that dotted the garden’s walls.

The second one giggled at Varric, and bowed to Bethany, who began to wave, then began to proffer a hand, then, finally, attempted a sort of curtsey, which was rather hard to tell in the voluminous dress Leliana had lent her.

“Why didn’t Mother ever prepare us for this sort of thing?” Bethany hissed, turning ever so slightly to Hawke.

“Mother was trying to run away from this sort of thing when she met Father, I think,” Hawke said, with a smirk.

“It is most pleasurable to see you, Lord Tethras,” the second one continued, to which Varric immediately held up his hands, which were still powdered with beignets.

“Please,” he said, shaking his head. “Just Varric. Thank you. This is hard enough.”

“We’ve read the Tale,” the third one said, nodding at Varric, who - Hawke could tell behind his mask - was already sheepishly shrugging in extreme apology for the fracas that he was about to invite.

“Yes, the Tale,” the second one went on, animatedly. “Is it true, then, that the Champion really defeated the Arishok in hand to hand combat?”

“Well. It was more knife to knife,” Hawke shrugged, with a lopsided grin.

“And is it true, too, that your fellow Isabela ran off with the sacred texts of the Qun?” the first one asked, leaning in, with genuine curiosity.

“Just one book of the Qun, but yes,” Varric admitted.

“And is it true,” the third one said, earnestly, leaning in even further, “That you fought a High Dragon on the outskirts of the Bone Pits?”

Hawke, shrugging again, gave them a bit of a grin. “Fenris was there for that one. Varric, too.”

Tittering, the Ladies all looked at each other, flapping their fans at premium speed. A quick rush of whispers went through them, before they turned again to Hawke.

“We shall have to return, then,” the first one said, smiling coquettishly under her mask.

“And hear more of you and Lord Tethras’s stories,” the second one went on, as Varric winced at the “Lord Tethras” comment once more.

“It was a pleasure, truly,” the third one said, and all three of them curtsied, deeply, again, as Hawke bowed as they took their retreat, into the throng of the gardens.

It was as if they’d narrowly had a brush with a storm - or a windfall.

“Ugh,” Varric groaned. “Remind me to never tell people who I am or what I do, next time.”

“...Did they ignore you?” Hawke asked, looking back at Fenris, who was still standing a small distance away, his heavy, two-handed sword almost dragging in the garden lawn.

Fenris, sighing, barely looked up at Hawke as he dusted off the sword’s hilt. “I believe they are accustomed to people of your stature bringing elven servants as part of your coterie. Perhaps it would have been impolite to acknowledge my existence.”

Frowning, Hawke crossed his arms, glaring after the trio of Ladies-in-Waiting. “Perhaps it’s impolite to ignore you, at all,” Hawke said, scoffing.

Sighing heavily, Varric dusted the last of the beignet sugar off his hands with a clap.

“Well, I’m going to get just drunk enough to forget what’s going on, while being sober enough to remember why I’m here,” he said, stalking off with the firm purpose of a man who’s on a mission for nothing but the worst Antivan wine.

“And I would like to meet some new people,” Bethany said, with enthusiasm. “Is that the Marquess du Pompadour? Do you know her? Can we be introduced?”

“No, but I’m sure she’d be enchanted to meet the great Lady Bethany of House Amell,” Hawke smiled, as Bethany squeezed his arm excitedly before bounding off to introduce herself to Orlais’ best and richest.

“Have fun,” Hawke beamed, wagging his fingers at Bethany as she bounced to the next group of nobles, who already began chatting with her excitedly about the gold filigree neckline and the status of the party’s hors d’oeuvres.

Looking back at Fenris, Hawke frowned - but not at him.

“I don’t mind. Truly,” Fenris said, but his anger betrayed him in the way he wore his face.

Hawke frowned even harder.

“Well, I do,” he said, crossing his arms again. “One of the reasons why I agreed to come to this silly thing was to make up for Chateau Haine in the first place.”

Now, it was Fenris’s turn to frown. “Chateau Haine? I had assumed we came here to pry information out of the Inquisition. To assure their allegiance against the magisters. Or whatever strange twisted plan Varric has fished up.”

Nodding, Hawke waved a hand in the air. “I’m as eager to fight some magisters as the next man,” he said, continuing, “But I really wanted to come and show you a good time. I don’t like how things worked out at Chateau Haine - and I know how you feel about Tallis. I just supposed - perhaps - I wanted to take you to a party, and have you by my side. Properly. For once.”

Hawke looked rather embarrassed at this, and shrugged a little, in his reclaimed part-Hawke Estate part-leftover-guardsman-formal-uniform combination of attire.

“Hawke…”

Fenris’s eyes glinted in the moonlight. He reached for Hawke’s arm, and squeezed it.

“If you wish to have me by your side, you need only ask.”

Hawke, smiling, sweetly against the honeyed air of the garden, squeezed his hand back.

“I always need you by my side, Fenris,” he said, softly.

Meanwhile, at the other end of the party, Dorian Pavus was getting drunk. Very, very drunk.

He had harangued Josephine for an invitation to the Inaugural Ball, and, despite her best efforts, he had finessed his way into blackmailing, cajoling, and, in one case, outright bribing assorted members of Skyhold staff into bugging the Ambassador straight into sending Dorian one of the Inquisition’s coveted invitations to Empress Celene and Marquise Briala’s first ball, formally thrown together. Not counting the last one, of course. He felt he deserved it, after all, since he was both the life of the party and present for when they got together. The second time, anyway.

Dorian was engaging in one of his favorite pastimes - flirting with the masked drinksman serving the flutes of violet cocktail - when he was jostled by another patron, elbowing his way in.

“Ale, please. Not dwarven. Please tell me you have ale that isn’t dwarven. Everyone says it’s top notch but it just tastes like piss, and I know it does, so don’t tell me otherwise.”

Dorian’s ears perked up. That voice. It sounded weirdly familiar. Weirdly… Fereldan.

Looking over, the man next to him, wearing a simple silver mask with blue silk piping, slumped over, sighing, putting his head in his hands. His dirty blonde hair was just barely poking out of the back of the silks of the mask, and he had the stature of someone who had spent a long, long time training as a warrior - and an even longer time sitting around afterwards, getting all antsy as those muscles waited for their next workout. The man tapped his fingers on the table - and his heavy rings clanked against the delicate, white-lacquered wood. One demon head ring, as big as two knucklebones. One thick, silver sigil, like the symbols carved on the tunnels in the Deep Roads marking the location of Darkspawn. And, on his ring finger, a delicate, tiny silver band, with the smallest of silver roses, inlaid with flakes of mother-of-pearl and red ruby.

Dorian raised his eyebrows.

“You’re not very subtle, Your Highness,” he said, leaning against the bar, rolling his R’s. Loaded, like bait.

Startled, the man turned around, coughing and straightening up, making sure his mask was covering his face.

“We’ve met,” Dorian went on, somewhat relishing in the man’s uncomfortableness. “However briefly. I believe you know my paramour, Lord Angus Trevelyan? He has nothing but good things to say about you. King Alistair.”

The man, startled, whipped his head back around to the bar, to make sure nobody was listening, then, as best he could, made an extremely frustrated gesture at Dorian, hunching over, clearly annoyed.

“Have we met?” he said, irritably. “Because you are absolutely blowing my cover, here. …Which would make you, I suppose, a likely candidate for Angus’s new boyfriend. Which is who I suppose you are.”

Alistar sighed, and put his elbows back on the bartop. The server returned with a large flagon of ale, and Alistair placed several sovereigns on the bar. The server sniffed.

“We don’t take Fereldan currency, messere,” he sneered, pushing the coins back towards him. Alistair - even with a mask on - looked utterly defeated.

“Here,” Dorian said, hiding a smirk, pushing a handful of shiny Orlesian gold pieces towards the server, who nodded curtly, and disappeared back behind the bar.

“Thank you,” King Alistair groaned, putting his head between his arms. “You would not believe the amount of social faux pas I’ve racked up tonight. If I’d gone as myself, Orlais and Ferelden would be back at war by now.”

Dorian looked at him curiously. “Why are you here, if I may ask?”

Alistair shook his head. “Ale first. State secrets later.”

Dorian laughed. “You’re cute. I see why you’ve got the whole country wrapped around your little finger.”

“I do?” Alistair said, surprised.

“Not this one. They seem to think you’re a gauche little imp, here,” Dorian said, airily.

Alistair frowned.

“Ferelden,” Dorian clarified. “I hear you and your little wife are something out of a fairy tale, a Grey Warden King and Queen alike. Must be some sight to see. Does seem rather romantic, in a way.”

Alistair paused, then, slumping even further, let out a sigh that seemed to shake the very foundations of Halamshiral, let alone the bartop.

At that moment, Dorian remembered the other thing Angus had told him about Alistair - the important thing.

“Ooh. Ah. Sorry. I - I know it must be difficult, with your wife missing, and all. I’m sure - I’m sure she’s busy doing, ah. Grey Warden. Things.” Dorian thought about this for a moment. “Ah. Oh dear.”

Alistair looked hopeless, but downed his entire ale in a resolute gesture of bravery. “Lord Dorian of House Pavus, right?” he said, straining his last Kingly muscle to make the most out of the situation.

“Yes. Please don’t tell anyone I’ve so successfully put my foot in my mouth,” Dorian said - charmingly. As charmingly as possible, under the circumstances.

Alistair sighed. “You’re part of the Inquisition, then. You - were at Adamant.”

Dorian shook his head. “Not personally, no. …And don’t get me started on how I feel about that. Have you ever had your boyfriend go off into the Fade and have you think he was dead for almost twenty-four hours? No, I suppose not.”

Alistair gave him a withering look.

“...Right, missing wife, right,” Dorian said, hastily. “Here. I shall buy you another ale, and I’ll answer everything you wish to know about our visit to Adamant, as told by Lord Trevelyan himself. But no promises on me remembering everything correctly. I’ve had quite a lot of champagne.”

Alistair sighed, then nodded, solemnly. “Everything?”

“Everything.”

Finishing off his ale, Alistair motioned to the bartender for another, while Dorian slipped over another handful of silver coins.

“Then let’s begin,” Dorian said, with a raised eyebrow and a mischievous grin.

#dragon age #return to halamshiral #god i love fuckin' writing fenhawke. gaaaawd #and also fancy parties.#dragon age fic #dragon age fanfic #fenhawke #m!hawke #purple hawke #da:i oc #da2 oc #dorian pavus #alistair theirin #fenris #bethany hawke #varric tethras #andey hawke #antoinette cousland #queen cousland

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ferindencadash · 16 days

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@spectre-requisitions-exchange is officially over for 2024! Not gonna lie, I'm a little sad. It was so much fun!!

BUT! Authors have been revealed, which means I can start hyping all the incredible people who took part this year! (And my own stories, but that will be a separate post.)

My gifts this year were PHENOMENAL. And I swear I am not just saying that to be nice. I got SPOILED ROTTEN this year. Like holy shit. 🥰

First up is my official gift! Mimicry by @keriweird featuring Kaidan and MShep's Clone.

First of all, I almost lost my mind when I saw the length. 25k?? That someone would write that much for a gift blew me away. Impossibly generous. Then I started reading and GODDAMN. This is, legitimately, one of the best Mass Effect fanfics I have ever read. Easily in my top ten now. They took my prompt and ran with it in the most creative and mind bending ways.

The DETAILS in this story. Holy crap. Talk about world building. And the way they turn a phrase?? 🥲Beautiful. I cried. A few times. And also laughed out loud. There is some top notch humour in here. GO READ THIS STORY!

On top of the masterpiece that I got for a gift, I got a treat!! (Seriously. Spoiled.) And I nearly peed myself (sorry) when I saw which prompt they had picked!

We have: Mother****ing Dragons!! By @thedaselcor featuring FemShep and The Iron Bull!!!

I didn't think anyone would jump on board with my crack fic pairing but I really hoped they would. You KNOW Shep and Bull would hit it off!! Come on! And holy shit did they ever deliver!!

This has got to be the most FUN I have ever had reading a fic. I was literally BOUNCING while I read this!! Giggling like an idiot the whole time. It is everything I could have possibly hoped for when I dreamt this up, and then some.

You have to go check this out! You will not regret it. What an absolute blast!

Honestly. I am so beside myself with joy. The biggest thank you possible to both my authors. I utterly adore you both. ❤️❤️

#specrecs2024 #mass effect #fanfic exchange #rarepair #MShep Clone #Commander Shepard Clone #kaidan alenko #shenko #sort of #FemShep #commander shepard #the iron bull #dragon age #da:i #femshep/ironbull

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tragicvictories · 18 days

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Ziphrane burst out of her tent with a desperate gasp for cool, fresh air. The moon and stars loomed protectively above her, watching the wayward elf as she forced slower breaths through herself. The dream—no, the nightmare had been so real. Standing on some sort of dais, an army of rot growling just out of reach beneath her. And in front of her, a creature she could only assume was the Archdemon. A dragon with a terrifying glare, fangs sprouting where they shouldn’t be, and then—

A shuddering roar that made her quake even still.

She stumbled and fell to her knees, letting the air lick the cold sweat that coated her skin, using the night to force her body to calm down. Slow breaths, grounding herself in reality by muttering aloud what she could see around her, tracing the vallaslin that stretched down to her palms. When she was herself again, she went back into her tent and found a salve of lavender and a length of string.

Sitting again, closer to the fire, she spread the salve over her arms, basking in the calming scent as it washed over her. And when her hands still itched for something to do, she retrieved the length of string and began practicing old knots. Either hours or minutes passed like this, a blanket flung loosely over her shoulders, before a reprieve came.

“Bad dreams?” Alistair’s voice eased across the empty camp to Ziphrane, who soaked in the cool night air in front of the slowly dying fire, a length of knotted string between her fingers. Bad dreams didn’t begin to cover it; she could still feel the spray of saliva, could feel her bones shake with its voice. She had had dreams before, intensely vivid, pulling her into the Fade and letting her dance with spirits. This was not that.

Still, she nodded, offering a sheepish smile.

“Me too,” he admitted, mirroring her smile and settling near the fire, near her. Silence stretched between them for a time as they both took in the crackling flames, until it began to grow dim enough that Alistair went to fetch another log for it.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he offered as he sat down again, a tad closer to her than he had been before.

Ziphrane’s face contorted in response, a mix of pain and hesitation. Talking about it would certainly help, and Alistair would come closest to understanding, if only because he shared the nightmares. “I’ve always been very comfortable in dreams,” she admitted softly, thoughtfully, omitting why that was the case. “Sometimes more at home there than I am in the waking world. It feels like… like an invastion.”

“Like we can’t escape the Blight, even when we’re sleeping,” he supplied, nodding. “I know.” A moment of pause, a beat of thought. “I wonder if it’s worse for you, as a mage,” he mused.

It was too risky to explain why it was worse, how it had nothing to do with her being a mage and much more to do with her being a dreamer. He was no longer a Templar-in-training, but those teachings were hard to unlearn, and even her own people didn’t take kindly to those who dallied with spirits, as she did. Though, to his credit, he had taken her being a so-called ‘apostate’ rather well so far, and showed no inclination to turn her in, even when they were near one of their Circles.

“Hard to say. I don’t know how bad you have it.”

“True enough. Though I think I’d take these ones over my dreams about the Maker when I was a boy. The teeth, you know, sharp as fangs. And he was always trying to eat me.” A beat. “Come to think of it, not unlike my dreams about the archdemon now. But I’m sure that doesn’t mean anything.”

Ziphrane couldn’t help a small chuckle, shaking her head. “Every day I find new reasons to be glad I don’t worship your Maker. He sounds terrible.”

“Oh, just the worst,” Alistair replied with a wry smile. As simple as that, they were both smiling again, for however brief. That was his own form of magic, and one Ziphrane was glad to rely on whenever he was willing to offer it.

It was her turn now, to scoot closer to him, and once she was near enough, she rested her head on his shoulder. Peering up through her lashes, she asked, “Is this alright?”

A nervous chuckle escaped him, but he nodded, wrapping his arm around her shoulders and leaning into her. “Yes, this is just fine.”

She wouldn’t remember when exactly she fell back to sleep like that, but she woke the next morning in front of the ashes of a long-dead fire, a blanket tossed over the both of them. The ground was cool beneath them, but they found warmth in each other’s arms. And at least this time, there were no nightmares.

#ch. || you may not be interested in war; but war is interested in you. (ziphrane mahariel)#//consider this an excerpt from a fanfic i may write idk #//my issue is that i don't want to rewrite the whole events of da:o #//but you kind of have to already care about ziphrane and alistair before the events of da:i #txt. || drabble.

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lgvalenzuela · 1 year

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Part one…

It had been a week since they found him. No sign of Solas, just the Inquisitor missing a body part, the arm that used to hold the Anchor. Could've been the pain or maybe the shock, but he hadn't awakened since the accident.

So there was no information, just a good excuse to keep postponing the Exalted Council, at least they knew he trusted lady Montiliet to handle such matters, or at least Aeryn and Dorian were quite sure of it.

Cassandra wasn't that sure, Aeryn looked for any excuse to sing praises for her lover. And Dorian saw the Inquisitor screaming in pain while his arm…what would be a good word for it? Disintegrated? He hadn't been the same since then, he barricaded himself in a room with the Inquisitor, only coming out under extreme need, or to send messengers to his homeland, that his arrival would be postponed once more.

So clearly their tevinter companions were quite blinded by love, which was terribly romantic, and horribly misplaced given the circumstances.

Cassandra made her rounds around the palace, walking near the Inquisitor's quarters often enough that she would be the first to have news. Well except for Dorian, obviously.

Who was engaged on a well too known scene once more:

"The Imperium will have me for the rest of my life! They can wait a couple of months until I've made sure the Inquisitor is okay! So you can tell them to shove every other messenger down Corypheus dead arse!" he shouted to a messenger

But this time he wasn't alone, the dwarf put a hand on his arm reassuringly:

"Come on Sparkler" said Varric with a softer tone of voice

Dorian sighed, exhausted, rubbing his eyes:

"That…was uncalled for and I apologize… It's not your fault, but please tell them to stop sending people" he explained apologetically

The messenger bowed and left the scene in a hurry, while Varric rubbed Dorian's arms:

"I did tell you not to get involved with a protagonist" he said, Dorian exhaled a faint laugh

"That you did…"

"He'll be happy to see you there when he wakes up"

"I…don't know if happy would be the word…"

"Yes…the arm, his hand…"

"He'll be glad to see the Anchor gone" said the Seeker, invading the conversation "He seemed… quite uncomfortable since he got it, followed by sporadic bouts of pain in particularly stressful situations…and now…"

Varric rubbed his neck, looking desperately at Dorian, but the mage was just starting furiously at what was once his companion. Varric coughed awkwardly:

"Yes it was…killing him…"

"But Cassandra-" started Dorian, quite visibly trying to calm his nerves "You do notice finding himself one-armed now…will also kill him, right? Maybe not literally but-"

"Will he really be that upset that he won't be able to go close rifts anymore?"

"Oh Seeker…" Varric shook his head disappointedly

"That's all you ever did see, huh?"

Dorian tried to leave, who knows what stopped him in his tracks, maybe he'd been mulling over this feeling for way too long now:

"Do you really think Vaelaan is going to keep the Inquisition running? After everything?"

"Everything?" she asked, she covered her mouth slightly

Remembering the Battle with Corypheus, the shock in his face when he hell his horn in his hand, his face covered in blood:

"Sparkler don't take it there" Varric tried to mediate

"I try to…because it's not my place, it shouldn't be me saying it but…Seeker do you really think we were discussing the ability to close rifts when we talked about the loss of his arm? After all this time…did you understand nothing? It's been two years and you still don't know Vaelaan at all?"

"What-? Of course I-"

"Yes? Did you just remember why Varric calls him Mandolin!?" he looked at her, intently, with his hand still holding tightly on the doorknob "Or did you just care about how he was useful for the Inquisition?"

Varric looked down, heartbroken. While Cassandra stood there in silence. She frowned slightly, couldn't tell if she was disappointed in herself or just angry at the sudden burst of passion:

"Why do you care what happens to him or the Inquisition Pavus? Aren't you going to abandon them both?"

She covered her mouth immediately, but the damage was already done. Couldn't tell if Dorian looked more angry or sad, but he held the doorknob so tightly the palm of his hand was turning red.

Whatever friendship they had gained over the years, gone just like that, in a few seconds.

Could probably say the same for Varric, shaking his head, disappointed…and hurt:

"Playing dirty I see…" said Dorian with a shaky voice "I'll refrain myself because…It still isn't me who needs to have this discussion with you…and the rest…" he explained repressing a quiet sob "Consider yourself lucky I've decided to keep to myself some choice words…"

Whatever else they could've said was interrupted by the sound of a loud crash inside the Inquisitor's chambers. Dorian bursted through the door with Varric and Cassandra following close.

This is precisely the reason Dorian wanted to keep an eye on him, to make sure he would be there when he woke up…

Images flashed through his eyes when he saw the man he loved, tired and defeated. Images of a future he long thought they had avoided, when he met that very same man, this very same moment. And he was different, but so similar…

So young, and still looking so old, so miserable…He wanted to protect him from so many things, but…some things are inevitable…

"Amatus…"

Vaelaan smiled weakly:

"Hey…sorry I worried you Beloved…"

He tried to laugh but…he just stared down, motionless, dead…

With the remains of a broken down mandolin on his hand.

#my writing #mine writing #fanfiction #fanfic #dragon age #dragon age inquisition #da:i #dorian pavus #cassandra pentaghast #varric thetras #the inquisitor #adaar #vaelaan adaar #adaarian #dorian x inquisitor

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macgyverbooks · 9 months

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Dragon Age: Inquisition FanFic

The Lies In Which We Linger - Chapter One

Summary: As Aza struggles under the weight of the Inquisition and her growing responsibilities she finds solace in the arms of a fellow Qunari. But not all is well in Thedas, as the threat of breach grows, old enemies from Asa’s past to threaten everything she’s built.

Word Count: 3500

Warnings: None

The gob of spit landed squarely on my boot. Suspiciously yellow it dribbled into the cracks of the flagstone in a thick ooze

“Ox-bitch,” I glanced down at the owner of the spit who snarled from under his Andrastian helm. He stood straight and proud in his polished armour, chin raised and jutted foreword with aggression.

The Valo-kas to my right didn’t move, not even bothering to acknowledge the slight. Holding my stare the muscles in the soldiers neck and shoulders tightened in preparation. He was young, almost too young. A few pale yellow whiskers sprouted from his chin as a feeble attempt at a beard while his skin remained smooth and unmarked bar the angry red of his cheeks against the cold. The boy leered showing crooked teeth eyes flashing with male pomp like a skinny cockerel fluffing its feathers daring me to respond. It was going to be a long day. Remaining silent I resisted the grin that tugged at the corner of my mouth and looked ahead readjusting the grip on my simple stave.

The view truly was lovely. A panoramic vista of snowy mountains and wooded valleys with an immense clear blue sky above. If you squinted you could almost make out the herd beasts slowly making their way along the slopes below snuffling through the snow for roots and old grass.

From my vantage point on the parapets I had a good view of the main gate of the Conclave as a river of people flowed through. Even from this distance I could make out the many coloured garbs from across Thedas. Every now and then I could even spot the telltale tall and broad body of a Qunari topped with their great curving horns. More than likely they were only bodyguards or soldiers but the excitement of seeing so many my kin in one place was still thrilling.

An angry stomp of an armoured boot brought my attention back to the little boy.

“Oi, you hear me goat face? Or are you as deaf as you are ugly?”

Mulling over my options I glanced about checking for any other Guardsmen but non were about. He was small and no doubt light, a simple kick and I could send him neatly flying over the balustrade and tumbling down to the rocks below to meet his precious maker but I thought better of it. We were, after all under special instructions to “make nice”.

Sending a withering look to my right I dropped my chin letting him feel the full force of my attention as I stared down unblinking. Gripping my stave I let the crackle of magic fizzle around my fingers. Stinking of ozone and singed wood I leaned over him, baring my sharpened teeth and growled.

“You say something, Imekari?”

Turning even paler the boy soldier bolted with an undignified whimper. Straightening up I listened to his boots clomp away and sighed again.

“They get younger every year,” I muttered.

“You’re losing you’re edge, Aza.” The Valo-Kas to my right mumbled, “you would have flung him off the parapet not so long ago.”

I chuckled and leaned my stave against the wall readjusting my pauldrons, shrugging the tension from my shoulders.

“Not so long ago Meraad, you would have beaten me to it.”

Meraad shook his head, his twisted ivory horns exaggerating the motion

“You insult me” he huffed. I raised an eyebrow in mock disbelief. “He was too small, there would be no challenge.”

Ignoring my look he dug in his pouch producing two pipes and a small bag of tobacco. Packing one neatly he handed one to me then packed his own

“If you could do the honours” he grinned as I rolled my eyes at him.

“Only cause its you,” with a snap of my fingers a flame leapt to life dancing about like a mad firefly lighting both pipes with a flick of my wrist.

Leaning against the stone balustrade looking out over the mountains puffing sweet smoke it was almost romantic. Had it not been for the armour and weapons at our hips.

Taking a deep puff I blew it out into the wind watching it twist and swirl away. Without letting myself really think about it I lent gingerly against Meraads broad shoulder, testing the waters, fully expecting him to pull away. He didn’t. In fact he leaned into me in return, staring straight ahead. Satisfied I allowed myself a small smile, fiddling with the stem of my pipe.

“Don’t celebrate just yet,” Meraad rumbled still staring out at the mountains. “We’ve still got a lot to talk about, you and I.”

A ball of emotion squeezed my throat and I had to clear it a few times before replying lightly

“Allow me one small victory.”

He grunted in response. Turning his head in a sweep of his board horns he glanced at me and grimaced, the corners of his full mouth pulled down in thought as he seemed to wrestle with his words. Opening his mouth to speak a single shriek of fear echoed from somewhere deep down in the conclave.

Both of us jerked upright on full alert heads on a swivel trying to pick up anymore sounds. The terrible cry came again, this time filled with pain. Hairs on the back of my neck prickled as tiny almost imperceptible shock waves of foreign magic began pulsating beneath my feet echoing up through the thick stone walls. Oh, that’s not good. Grabbing his shoulder I motioned to Meraad quietly

“I’m heading to the eastern stairs. Alert the Captain of the guard and start perimeter sweep with the others, now!”

Turning to leave I stopped when Meraad grabbed my wrist and pulled me close letting our foreheads gently knock together

“I will meet you at the campfire tonight,” he whispered “for that talk.”

At that he left hurrying around the corner to the steps leading down into the main hall. Staring after him I couldn’t help feeling hope bloom in my chest. He wanted to talk, after all this time he was finally ready. Turning to take a more direct route down through to the library and more private chambers of the Conclave following the steady thrum of magic I couldn’t stop the smile. Nothing could ruin this day. Nothing.

— A few weeks later —

Sat uncomfortably on the too low chairs I tried not to stare as the delicate elven barmaid served Cullen another beer. She hid behind her serving platter all blushing cheeks and doe eyes while Cullen, still suited up in his bright armour and fur mantle laughed and rubbed the back of his neck at her bashful tittering

Rolling my eyes in a painful groan I felt the pit of my stomach twist with embarrassment. Like I even had a chance. Glancing over I made the mistake of comparing myself to the beautiful elf. Where she was short and dainty I was long and broad. Her bright clear face only marked by the delicate lines of her tattoos, or Vallaslin, while mine was freckled, weather beaten and tattered with scars, some small some not so small. Running my tongue over the corner of my mouth I felt along the raised line of scar tissue that ran from eyebrow to chin, cleaving my lower lip on its way, and frowned swirling the dregs of my ale. I don’t know why I’d allowed it but my traitorous, stupid heart had leapt at the mere sight of the sweet and oh so charming commander. Like the hero in some star spangled folk tale he had appeared and like some idiot I had tried to flirt with him. What I had forgotten was that I more resembled the evil creature in the woods than the love struck, doe eyed heroine.

Not that my motives had been entirely pure. I’d wanted a fling, something light and inconsequential that wasn’t going to haunt me later. A chance to feel close to someone again. Perhaps it was a poor attempt at consoling my damaged pride but, after some time observing the commander I had decided he wouldn’t appreciate the occasional one nighter. In fact the more I’d thought about it the more he seemed like the settling down type, the kind who would’ve picked out kids names and drapes by the morning after. Maybe I was a closet masochist, at least that would explain a few of my horrific life decisions and downright inappropriate taste in men.

An image flashed through my mind like a ghost. A frozen scene of Meraad tending to the campfire looking over his shoulder with a grin tugging at his mouth. Shivering I shoved the memory aside and downed the last of my drink. Drowning out memories had become a habit of mine over the last few weeks. It was unfortunate the weaker human beers and ales were hardly enough to get me tipsy. Dropping some coins onto the sticky table I shuffled out, sidestepping around the crowd of drunk soldiers and servants.

Out in the cold night air I breathed deep letting it out in a great puff of vapour. Like a dragon I thought with a somber smile. Hushed whispers to my left had me ducking my head, my shoulders tensing up as the three sisters bowed muttering “go in peace, Herald of Andraste” as I passed. Offering a tight lipped grimace of a smile I moved away quickly, heading for my quarters.

Herald of fucking Andraste. What a joke. Not that it really mattered what I thought. Soon as someone figured out I wasn’t deliberately trying to blow the sky open the rumours spread like wild fire. Prophetic. Messiah. Heaven sent. It was enough to make my skin crawl. Even worse was the way they looked at me, staring up in either wide eyed wonder or deep sneering suspicion. I wasn’t sure which one I hated more. At least Varric is here I thought, skirting past his tent were a small crowd had gathered, no doubt wanting to hear his stories.

The dwarf had appeared from nowhere with enough suave confidence to think he’d seen this all before. He was gentle if sarcastic in his manner and had quickly gained my approval much to Cassandra’s exasperation. With his sharp eyes and clever tongue I was keen to keep him around, though I sensed there was much more going on with him than he let on. Split loyalties could prove problematic if this “inquisition” grew anymore momentum.

Approaching my temporary home I paused noting the door was open a crack, warm candle light spilling onto the snow. Old instincts rang in my head like an alarm and I approached warily, hand on my daggers before I could really think it through. Nudging the door open with a boot I cast my gaze about only to jump back, ripping the curved blades from their sheaths as a small figure dashed around the corner and through the door in a flurry of gold and purple.

“Oh!” Josephine gasped, stepping back and nearly dropping her note board as her back connected with the door frame. Sighing in relief I quickly replaced the blades and raised my hands placatingly

“Sorry, sorry,” I muttered, curling my shoulders and bending at the waist so I was closer to her eye level. “Thought you were a thief or something.”

“No need to apologise Herald,” Josephine waved airily, straightening her pristine gold cravat. Herald. I winced at the title, just use my name I wanted to say but I bit my tongue and nodded instead. “I was only dropping off some papers for you to look over.” If Josephine had been anyone else the following beat of silence would have been awkward. Instead she smiled, having to crane her neck up despite my efforts. “It is late, you should get some rest while you can. Tomorrow will be busy and we will need you at your best.”

“When is it not busy,” I grumbled light heartedly with a polite smile, noting the way Josephines eyes flicked down to my mouth, my sharpened teeth no doubt catching the candle light. Shit. Though technically similar in structure to ours I found humans soft, fleshy faces difficult to read. I never knew how to judge their reactions and Josephine was no different, she was just more forgiving about my confusion than most, though the fact she and Leliana could manipulate their faces so easily still alarmed me. At least Cullen and Cassandra were more verbal and plain about their feelings though, in Cassandra’s case, I sometimes I wished they weren’t. Despite all that I noted the minute widening of her eyes at my feral smile, the way she raised her note board a fraction higher. Damn it.

“There is someone here to see you, Herald.” She continued breezily, “They’re waiting for you by the Chantry.”

Clamping my mouth shut I nodded, waving goodbye as Josephine disappeared into the biting winter night, the strange metallic fabric of her puff sleeves reflecting the cold moonlight. Turning toward the great stone hall I couldn’t stop the small shake of my head at the absurdity of my situation. Me of all people rubbing shoulders with templars, ex-royalty and ladies of foreign courts not to mention the multitudes of holy men and woman. A shiver ran up my spine thinking of the conversations with Lelianna in her tent. Her eyes razor sharp with intellect while she pondered and muddled over her words like a mad zealot, grappling with her faith. The awful way she had stared as I floundered for an answer to her questions, my face screwed up into a pained wince just remembering it. It was becoming a terrifying trend in my advisors, them asking for advice and me fumbling under the pressure. Wasn’t it supposed to work the other way round? And what did they really expect from me, some kind of divine wisdom just cause I survived a fucking explosion? I shook my head, that wasn’t it. For all their niceties the questions smacked of judgment, clumsy attempts at testing my character, drawing me out with their tales only to slap me with a moral dilemma and see what I’d do.

Solas was a fucker for it. I’d stood in child like rapture as he spoke of his experiences moving through the fade, what he’d seen and heard, the spirits he’d spoken with. He spun the stories in his gentle voice lulling me into a false sense of security only to pose an innocent question, then snark at my response. Bastard. All of them bastards. Everyone working so hard to put the world back together and stuck with me to lead them. Poor, poor bastards.

Approaching the hall I spied a soldier, a mercenary most likely, waiting by the doors. His armour though battered from use shined reflecting the last of the evenings sun. He was handsome I noted, short but stocky with close cropped brown hair and a soft unmarked face, not your typical looking merc for sure.

“You the Inquisitor?” He asked in a flat, matter-of-fact voice, his eyes looking me up and down.

“Depends whose asking,” I replied, eyeing him in return

“We’ve got word of some Tevinter mercenary’s out on the Storm Coast,” he continued unfazed. “My commander, Iron Bull, offers the the information free of charge.”

Containing a snort at the name, I folded my arms instead and tutted

“How gracious of him, but I doubt anything is for free. What does this Iron Bull want?”

“An interview. Come to the Storm Coast and see what the Bull’s Chargers can do for the Inquisition.”

Shaking my head I turned to leave. Any idiot with a sword can claim to be a mercenary and in all my time with the Valo-Kas I’d never heard of the Bull’s Chargers. I wouldn’t waste precious resources chasing what are most likely unskilled peasants with more bravery than sense.

“There is no shortage of mercenaries wanting to join our cause, I don’t have time to-“

“We’re the best you’ll find.” The merc stated. Glancing over my shoulder I squinted at him noting the lack of pomp or anger, just his plain stare meeting my gaze steadily. He wasn’t lying. “Come to the Storm Coast, see us in action, then decide if you need us.”

My lip curled at the wording but I nodded, grudgingly impressed by this soft spoken man.

“Fine.” I conceded with a tired sigh, “tell your Iron Bull we’ll be at the coast in a few days.”

At that the Merc nodded and left, walking off toward the ale house without so much of a backward glance.

Closing the door of my quarters I poured over the new paperwork Josephine had left. A scout report caught my eye detailing a particularly nasty fight that had broken out in a village in the Hinterlands between the mages and templars, only a few had escaped. It twisted my stomach just how fast things turned to shit. Everyday reports streamed in from every corner of new rifts opening, demons spotted in one place after another, missing people and rogue mages and templars causing havoc. That first trip through the Hinterlands still hung over me. So much death and destruction and not a damn person to stop it. Still despite it all my heart lifted at the prospect of going to the Storm Coast despite my doubt. I hadn’t seen the ocean since I was a girl. With a sigh I stood and grabbed the report needing to organise a few things before I went to bed. Time away from the Haven was time well spent and I was anxious to be out from under the many eyes of this place.

—

“This is bullshit.”

Varric cackled. “Not a fan of the rain, Lucky?”

“Rain. Rifts. Templars. Demons. Fucking giant spiders.” I listed staring down the beach, “what else am I forgetting?”

“Darkspawn.” Solas added dryly.

Nodding I hooked my thumbs into my belt and sighed. It had been one shit show after another, first the Hinterlands then that mess at Val Royoux and now this gods forsaken coastline. Looking down the beach from our little base camp the rain pelting down my neck all I wanted was to crawl back into bed. After the long gruelling trip over here, slogging through knee high mud and fighting off bandits we’d arrived cold, wet and tired and I’d stupidly spent most of the night going over notes, replying to messages from Scout Harding and looking over acquisition demands from Quartermaster Threnn. Now an ache had settled between my shoulder blades from hunching over my too low desk as exhaustion dragged at my eyelids.

Below the sounds of fighting echoed up the beach, the clanging of swords cutting through the roar of the waves that battered the rocks. Taking a long breath I nodded at Cassandra and started down the rocky slope. Scout Harding had let us know the Bull’s Chargers were waiting on the beach but I’d let them sit for a few hours, instead heading out to find the few rifts that had been reported on. Demons had felt more important at the time but now I regretted the decision, after being blown off my feet by a fire demon and attacked by giant spiders I was in no mood to play diplomacy with a bunch of mercenaries. Plus my hand ached, the throbbing going straight to the bone as the sickly green light flared and arced.

“Here we go,” I muttered under my breath as we emerged onto the beach right into the fray. Charging ahead I ripped my blades from their sheathes and tore into battle, all weariness forgotten, my blood singing. This I could do, rip and tear till the job was done. The simplicity appealed to some base part of my nature, the part that wanted to smash heads when some snotty peasant sneered “Oxman” to my face.

Plunging my daggers in the neck of a Tevinter a shadow loomed over my shoulder. On pure instinct I spun and raised my blood soaked blades braced to be blown away by the massive arc of the war axe that sang through air like quicksilver. Feeling the whoosh of air tussle my braids I lowered my knives an inch in surprise. At my feet lay a tevinter who’d been creeping up on me twitching in pool of blood, an axe imbedded in his spine. Glancing up and up and up I squinted at the massive Qunari, his broad horns and even broader shoulders blocking the weak sun.

“Well hello, Inquisitor!” The Iron Bull said with a blood splattered grin.

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