#dorian x tristan trevelyan

[johaerys-writes]

A World With You | Dorian Pavus/ Trevelyan | E | Ch. 57: Secret Memories

Read on AO3 | Read from the beginning

Whatever was going on in the Royal Wing was very, very wrong.

Tristan could tell the moment the key clicked in the lock and he set foot in the dimly lit hallway. His skin prickled, and a deep unease settled within him. There was an eerie sort of silence that permeated the space, yet the deeper they ventured into the dark halls, he thought he could catch faint whispers, just at the edge of hearing.

“The Veil… is thin here,” Tristan murmured. The Mark buzzed restlessly beneath his glove.

“Oh, goody,” Sera said with a roll of her eyes. “Where the heck is it not?”

“I’d be surprised if it wasn’t, frankly,” Dorian said. “There are so many horrors around here, both in and out of the Fade— and I can’t quite decide who’s better dressed.”

“Somebody, help me!”

The cry that pierced the unnatural and whisper-filled silence made Tristan jump, his blood running cold. They all sprinted towards where the cry came from, the door at the far end of the corridor. Tristan kicked open the door, only to see an elf crouched on the ground in an effort to avoid the assassin that was viciously attacking her.

“Please,” the girl cried, “save me!”

Tristan’s knives were out of their scabbards before the elf had finished her sentence. He slashed at the assassin’s wrist, rendering her grip on her dagger useless; then, he kicked her hard in the stomach, sending her plummeting out of the window.

“Are you alright?” He offered the girl his hand, who took it and gratefully let him haul her upright.

“I… I don’t think I’m hurt,” she panted, shaking all over. “Thank you. She would surely have killed me had you not shown up.”

“What happened to wanting to keep one of the assassins alive for questioning?” Dorian asked, hinging his staff over his back.

“Oh. That.” Tristan bit his lip. In his haste to save the girl, he hadn’t spared any thought to that. Not that it would have made much of a difference; he didn’t doubt this assassin would rather poison herself rather than speak to him, like her predecessor had.

But he did have one of Briala’s agents.

A few moments of questioning the elven girl didn’t yield much fruit. She didn’t know anything about why she was there, or what she had been sent there to do. One of Briala’s coded messages had led her to this place, but for what purpose, she could not say.

“I shouldn’t have trusted Briala,” she said, and by the way her voice trembled as she spat the words, it was plain to see that her leader’s betrayal weighed heavily on her. “I should never have come here.”

“How did you even get in here?” Tristan asked. “This wing is sealed.”

“There are secret passageways beneath the palace… many of them only known to Briala, and some members of the Royal family. Briala’s been watching the Grand Duke all night; no doubt she wanted me to search his sister’s room.”

Tristan and Dorian exchanged a meaningful glance. Perhaps Briala had reason to suspect Florianne as well— if it was truly Briala that had issued the order.

“I should have known this was a setup. The message said nothing of what I was supposed to find here, or that there might be assassins I’d need to look out for. She sent me here to die.” She took a deep, shaky breath, colour returning slowly to her cheeks. “I knew Briala. Before. When she was just Celene’s pet. Now she wants to play revolution— but I remember. Many of us do. She was sleeping with the Empress who burned our alienage.” She glanced timidly up at Tristan, hugging herself tightly. “If… if the Inquisition will protect me, I’ll tell you everything I know about our ‘Ambassador’. Everything.”

“Most Orlesians would think this is Celene’s scandal,” Cassandra murmured, crossing her arms before her chest. “Not Briala’s. I don’t see who a confession like this would benefit.”

Tristan pondered this a moment. He wasn’t convinced of Briala’s guilt just yet, from what the girl had said, but it never hurt to have options.

“Go to the ballroom,” he told her. “Find Commander Cullen. He’ll keep you safe.”

The elf nodded, relief evident on her features, then quietly padded away from them and out of the room. Tristan glanced around him after she was gone, at the room that had belonged to Grand Duchess Florianne since she was a child.

What could Briala be looking for here?

Celene’s former lover had nothing to gain from having one of her agents killed, by a Venatori no less. Unless she was working with them… but no. It didn’t make sense.  Why would they have killed a third of her people if she was one of theirs? That couldn’t be it. There was something else at play. There had to be.

“Perhaps Briala is suspicious of Florianne, and is looking for whatever she can use as leverage against her by searching her room,” Vivienne offered, when Tristan explained his thoughts to the team. “Or—and this is where things get interesting—Briala didn’t send the girl at all. Someone else did, someone who wanted to incriminate Briala and get her out of the picture. Briala’s coded messages aren’t as sophisticated as she’d like to think—a child could put two and two together and decrypt them.”

“Gaspard springs to mind. Or Celene. Or Florianne herself. Or— ugh, this is getting way too complicated. Find me one person in this whole damn palace that isn’t trying to kill or incriminate someone else.” Tristan turned around, striding out of the room. “We won’t find any answers standing here, that’s for sure. Let’s keep looking.”

Read the rest on Ao3!

#dorian pavus #dorian pavus x trevelyan #dorian pavus x inquisitor #pavelyan #dragon age #dragon age fanfic #dorian x trevelyan #dorian x inquisitor #inquisitor trevelyan #tristan trevelyan #a world with you #johaerys writes

[oftachancer]

This is a public service announcement.

If you haven’t read @johaeryslavellan ‘s beautiful story A World With You, you must. You must, because it is an awesome tale of daring dos and heartbreak and enormous love and snarky, slippery, smart fellows. And because it is just some of the best writing out there. And because the latest chapter is some kind of magic spell. If you have read it, and not caught up, go click your bookmark and skidaddle over.

Go. Do this. Do this soon. Thank you.

#dragon age #dorian pavus #dragon age inquisition #johaerys writes #a world with you #ao3 #tristan trevelyan #tristan is edible #dorian pavus x inquisitor #dorian x tristan trevelyan #i am dead #mutuals #dai #da ff #my heart #oh my heart

[in-arlathan]

Four fools daydreaming in the Dales

Dedicated to my dear friend @johaeryslavellan. Thank you for being a wonderful person and an amazing writer. ♥︎

#dragon age #fanart #trevelyan #tristan trevelyan #lavellan #elenara lavellan #dorian pavus #solas #dorian x inquisitor #dorian x trevelyan #solas x lavellan #solavellan #pavelyan

[jeannedarcprice]

Gift art commission from @tessa1972 for @johaeryslavellan of their Inquisitor Tristan and Dorian 💖

It was a pleasure to work on another cute piece, and honestly the joy they bring is the best! 💕

(You can get your own by supporting me through ko-fi. See this post for details 🤗)

#tristan trevelyan #dorian pavus #dorian x trevelyan #dragon age inquisition #male inquisitor #art commisions #gift art

[trisaran-adventures]

Fandom: Dragon Age 

Pairing: Dorian/Aran/Tristan 

Rating: E 

Summary:

Having recently moved from Minrathous to Ostwick to advance his academic career, Dorian finds himself with too much work and, sadly, very little play. Life in a new city can be terribly lonely, and it's not long before he starts feeling... restless.

Tristan and Aran, on the other hand, are university juniors on an exciting journey of self-discovery, and a newly-found interest in vlogging and live-streams. The paths of the three men cross in a way that none of them expects- and everything changes. 

A Kinktober prompt that took on a life of its own, this fic is collaboratively written by @oftachancer and @johaeryslavellan ! Check the Ao3 link below for full list of tags :)

Chapter 11: Masks

“When did you even have time to make this?”

Aran rested his cheek on Tristan’s shoulder, enjoying the soft puff of the sweater he’d been knitting during the classes he TA’d. Blue and red, with little bursts of yellow and orange throughout. “Keeps my hands busy when there’s pointless chatter. It looks good on you.” Everything did. The smell of their cocoa was rich and dark and made him want to curl up in front of a fireplace, but they were walking through campus instead, hauling the AV cart back from his last class before the holiday. At least Tristan had been able to come and meet him. Precious moments after weeks of barely seeing him outside of their scrambled video sessions and study dates. “I missed you. You’re so big and strong and you smell good. Tell me you love me.” 

Tristan paused midstep. He wrapped his arms around Aran's waist and lifted him off of the ground, pressing a smacking kiss to his lips. "I love you, damn it," he growled softly, in his ridiculous film noir accent. "More than anything in this world, and I've seen all of it."

Aran laughed outright, grinning down at him. “My hero . All the world? And still you love little old me?” He twined his arms around Tristan’s shoulders. “How am I meant to repay such a grand kindness, eh?”

"Easy." Tristan chuckled, setting Aran on his feet and bending forward in a dramatic swoop, holding Aran by the waist. "Kiss me, gorgeous. Kiss me until I can't breathe."

“Music to my feckin’ ears.” Aran kissed him hard, tugging his cap low over his ears in the effort, until they were panting and laughing in the middle of the walk. “Let me get this much back to the AV Lab and we can fetch the shite curry before your sister comes in and you make us eat all your fancy nonsense.”

"You love my fancy nonsense. There's no shame in admitting it," Tristan grinned, straightening. He gave him a last, deep kiss, then went back to pushing the cart leisurely forward. "So, are you officially on holiday now? Any more last minute classes I need to know of?"

“No!” Aran held up his phone and turned it off. “And if they try to call me back for anything, I’m saying this fell in a lake. I’m all yours for fifteen glorious days. So. Catch me up on everything that I’ve missed.”

"I missed you. It was terrible. I don't know how I managed." Tristan blinked at him with puppy eyes and a pitiful, adorable pout. "I demand all of your attention for the next fifteen days, and that's non negotiable."

“What about your Tuesday date nights? Those on hiatus?” He was too bloody cute; that was ecstasy. Every moment of every day; when the breeze blew his hair in his face or he burned his tongue on tea when it was too hot or he was cursing and digging through their drawers looking for just the right blue shirt as though everything didn’t look amazing on him. 

"I asked Dorian to reschedule our date for Thursday, when you're meeting with Miranda. And next week... we'll see. I might ask him to reschedule again. Unless..." He sneaked a glance at Aran out of the corner of his eye as he sipped on his hot chocolate. 

"Unless?"

Tristan swallowed, licked his lips and shrugged. "I don't know. I was thinking perhaps you might want to meet him. Now that you have time."

“Ooh. Meet him.” Aran waggled his brows. “Serious business?”

Tristan smiled, a spot of colour blossoming on his cheeks. "I like him," he said softly. "I like him a lot. And now that Vivienne's coming back and he won't be my advisor anymore, we could start dating more openly. I think... he'd like that, too." He reached for Aran's hand as they walked, squeezing his fingers lightly. "He's been asking about you. He hasn't asked to meet you yet - he's too shy to do that- but I believe he's curious about you. He's watched all our videos. He won't tell me his username, though," he grinned. "Perhaps, with you there, we'll be able to pry it out of him one way or another."

Shy . Shy wasn’t something he paired with the other parts of Tristan’s stories about his dark, handsome temporary advisor. “If he’s b1gc0ck, I can’t blame him. Some people are so boring on the internet.” Aran handed his ticket into the AV desk and waited for them to stamp it as a girl with bright blue hair emerged to retrieve the cart. “What did he ask about me?”

"Just a couple things. Where we grew up, what we used to do as kids, how we got together... When I told him you work at the university too, he asked me about your field of study. He seemed quite fascinated with your dissertation topic. Though I'm not sure I explained it very well," he said, his eyes narrowing in a perplexed little frown. "It does have to do with those Neromenian tablets that were discovered a couple years ago, right?"

“Aw, you do love me.” Aran leaned up on his toes to kiss his cheek. “Look at you, listening when I drone. Warms the cockles of my heart.”

"What, you thought I was sleeping during that half hour impromptu lecture on Neromenian runes while we were in bed last night? You wound me." Tristan laughed as he wrapped one arm around Aran's shoulders and leaned down to kiss his head.

“I ought to wound you more for staying awake.” Aran tucked himself against Tristan’s side, squinting up at the high gabled roofs of the university buildings. “What’s he doing for Satinalia?”

"I'm not sure. I... don't think he's doing anything, actually. He hasn't got any family in the Marches, and his friends... Well, from what I've gathered, it's the kind you go out for drinks with after work, not those you'd spend holidays with. He'd never admit it, but I think he's a little lonely. Still hasn't really built a life here. You know?" Tristan let out a soft sigh, tightening his hold on Aran ever so slightly. "I just want him to be happy here. With me."

“With you,” Aran echoed thoughtfully. “Alright. Let’s have him over then. Home-cooked meal and the like.” Aran turned them towards the Political Sciences building. “Aye? No time like the present.”

Tristan slowed down just a little. "Are-are you sure? You really want to invite him over for Satinalia dinner?"

“You like him. He’s lonely. It’s a holiday. Why not?” Aran tilted his head back to peer up at him. “Unless you don’t want me to meet him yet?”

"Of course, I do. I suggested it, didn't I? I just thought... it might be too big of a step for you. Satinalia dinner is usually just us two, or Tilly and the lads. We've never really had any of our... you know," he lifted his brows, "coming over for such an occasion."

“Well, no, but our ‘you know’ don’t usually last longer than a week, if that. This has been… nearly three months now?” 

"Is three months the preferred time frame after which one gets to meet the parents? Or the boyfriend, in this case?" Tristan grinned. He fished his phone out of his pocket and typed a quick text. The answer came back almost immediately. "He's almost done with work, he says. We could go grab some coffee, warm him up a bit before the grand invitation," he smirked. 

Read the rest on AO3!

#dragon age #dorian pavus #tristan trevelyan #aran trevelyan #modern au #college au #dragon age fanfiction #dorian x trevelyan #pavelyan #johaerys writes #oftachancer writes

[midnightprelude]

Cinnamon and quilt! 💖

I HOPE YOU DON’T MIND MY BORROWING YOUR SWEET BELOVED BOYO FOR A HOT SECOND AS A LIL GIFTO FOR YOU! <3  Cinnamon is definitely Dorian and for some reason I see Tristan as a MAJOR blanket hog.

Tristan Trevelyan was many things. 

Heir to to a Banndom, the Herald of Andraste, Lord Inquisitor, a right sneaky bastard, an avid reader of poetry, a bit saccharine when drunk, and prone to very long bouts of ill-humor at the slightest provocation.

He also was, undeniably, an irredeemable blanket thief. 

No matter how many extra covers Dorian happened to stack upon the Inquisitor’s bed before they lay down together, and what a wonderful thing it was to fall asleep next to Trev-Tristan, Dorian reminded himself. What a wonderful thing it was to fall asleep next to his lover, to hold Tristan’s internal furnace against his skin, nose buried in long wavy locks that smelled of lavender, and drift off into the Fade. 

Such a simple wonder, he’d scarcely experienced before coming to the castle dotted with snow in the Ferelden Frostbacks. A gift he was eternally, unimaginably grateful for. To be loved, by the Maker’s light. Loved. Held. Touched. Wanted. Gods, the way Tristan gazed at him from across the ancient stone halls was enough to set his veins ablaze. 

Distracted, again. 

Just the thought of the man made him dizzy, even shivering in the cold morning light. Huddled in his little pile of blankets like a cozy little rabbit. Albeit, a very handsome, muscular, maddening-

At the sound of teeth chattering, Tristan began to rouse from his slumber. Lethargic and languid, a panther stretching beneath furs. Dorian shivered again, though less from the cold.

The Marcher grumbled something in his general direction.

“I beg your pardon?” Dorian purred in his ear, trying to keep his voice from shaking. 

“Blanket.” Trevelyan - Tristan - grumbled. “Your side. Table.”

Dorian disentangled his arm from Tristan’s warm side, reaching across towards the table, sliding the drawer open. 

Inside was, indeed, a thick quilt, made of a strange variety of fabrics, all with something very familiar-

“Wait, I recognize that tunic!” Dorian chuckled, pulling the blanket closer, pulling it to his nose and breathing in Tristan’s warm, floral scent. He’d grown so accustomed to it; Tristan’s wet hair against the pillow in his tent, sneaking kisses between meetings, and then these blessed nights he spent inhaling his lover’s scent like a suffocating man. 

“Old clothes,” Tristan said with a small smile, turning towards him. “Don’t fit after my training with Heir.”

I love you, Dorian wanted to say. I adore you more than you can ever know.

Instead he pressed a kiss to Tristan’s temple and murmured something clever about stealing the blankets. 

#dorian pavus #inquisitor trevelyan #dorian x inquisitor #dragon age fanfiction #dragon age inquisition #tristan trevelyan #dorian x trevelyan #midnight writes

[ferelden-loser]

My @fic-or-treat submission for @johaeryslavellan starring Tristan Trevelyan! It was a pleasure to write, so I hope you enjoy it 💕

#johaeryslavellan #dorian x inquisitor #inquisitor x dorian #dorian pavus #tristan trevelyan #fic_or_treat_2019 #fanfiction #dragon age fanfiction

[freethemages]

Thought since I’ve never done so, I’d list all my favourite DA ships (though inevitably I’ll forget some). Multi shipper here ofc.

Mains are in bold

Featuring one of my OCs:

Tristan Amell x Alistair Theirin

Garrett Hawke x Anders (Handers)

Tristan Trevelyan x Cullen Rutherford (Cullevelyan)

Mahanon Lavellan x Dorian Pavus (Pavellan)

Asharel Lavellan x The Iron Bull

Asharel Lavellan x Josephine Montilyet

Tristan Trevelyan x Dorian Pavus (Pavelyan)

Tristan Trevelyan x Alistair Theirin x Cullen Rutherford (Cullistairvelyan, OT3)

Tristan Amell x Zevran Arainai

NPCs:

Cullen Rutherford x Alistair Theirin (Cullistair)

Alistair Theirin x Zevran Arainai (Zevistair)

Cullen Rutherford x Dorian Pavus (Cullrian)

Anders x Nathaniel Howe (Nanders)

Anders x Karl Thekla (Kanders)

Carver Hawke x Isabela

Carver Hawke x Alistair Theirin (Carvistair)

Isabela x Merrill (Merribela)

Dorian Pavus x Anders (Dorianders)

Dorian Pavus x The Iron Bull (Adoribull)

Cassandra Pentaghast x Varric Tethras

Josephine Montilyet x Thom Rainier

Anders x Hawke x Nathaniel Howe

Anders x Alistair Theirin (Anderstair)

Honourable mentions:

Anders x Fenris (Fenders)- I don’t actually ship them, but a lot of the content is so damn good I love it anyway.

Garrett Hawke x Varric Tethras

Jowan x Anders

Jowan x Amell/Surana

Cullen Rutherford x Amell/Surana

Maric Theirin x Fiona

Sten x Shale

Single characters that I love and just want more stuff of in general:

Bann/Arl Teagan Guerrin

Warden Commander Duncan

Lace Harding

King Cailan Theirin

Finn Aldebrandt

Krem Aclassi

Professor Bram Kenric

Felassan

Abelas

Avvar mages!

Daveth

Tamlen

#about me #dragon age #not tagging all the ships that woul take forever oml #ships i enjoy #ships #multishipping

[weekendwritingmarathon]

This weekly roundup includes fics written (at least in part) during the 1k1h sprints and/or the Weekend Writing Marathon events.

Fics are ordered first by fandom, then by word count from smallest to largest.

***

Out of the Wilds by @dafan7711

Dragon Age || Pavelyan (Dorian Pavus x Inquisitor Trevelyan) || General || Author chooses not to give major warnings || 1,277 words

Summary: Passing through an Eluvian was not a terror Dorian ever wished to repeat. It is Karl, however, who falls apart afterward. The weight of saving the world has caught up with him.

Other tags: Dragon Age: Inquisition, What Pride Had Wrought, Eluvian, Comfort/Angst

***

Under the Stars by @alecjmarsh

The Kingston Chronicles - Witchmark || Tristan Hunter/Miles Singer || General || No major warnings apply || 366 words

Summary: Tristan and Miles take a moment away from an Amaranthine party.

Other tags: huntsong, sappy kisses

***

Something So Precious About This by @alecjmarsh

The Penumbra Podcast || Peter Nureyev/Juno Steel || General || No major warnings apply || 854 words

Summary: Coming home is Peter's favorite part of his travels

Other tags: Comfort, Cuddling, Epilogue, Sequel to Shadow of Your Heart

***

In the Shadow of Your Heart by @alecjmarsh

The Penumbra Podcast || Peter Nureyev/Juno Steel || Teen & up || No major warnings apply || 3,913 words

Summary: With the image of Juno’s soft smile in his mind, Peter is reminded again that he wants a home, too. He is too scared even to ask for it. Or: Peter returns to Mars, but discovers he still isn't ready to face Juno Steel

Other tags: Post-Episode: s01e18 Juno Steel and the Final Resting Place, Canon Compliant, Post S2, I don't know how season 2 ends but I'll just assume it works out okay, Juno Steel, Peter Nureyev, Rita, Sequel to I Masquerade

***

Have you posted a fic written at least partially during a WWM event? Submit your fic here by midnight EST Monday and it will be included on next Wednesday’s WWM Fic Roundup post.

#wwm fic roundup #dragon age #the kingston chronicles #witchmark #the penumbra podcast #fanfic

[johaerys-writes]

A World With You | E | Dorian Pavus/Trevelyan

Ch. 59: A Cruel Mistress

Read on AO3 | Read from the beginning

Tristan dashed through the dark and empty passageways. The air was stale and smelled dank and musty, and the stone walls were slightly damp with humidity. He was half-blind, searching for his way in the darkness. Though his memory of the layout of the palace's secret network of underground passages was fairly good, it was impossible to fully orient himself when he could not see. The only source of light was the Anchor in his palm, and that was too faint to be of much help. 

He stopped short at an intersection, trying to make out any sign of Maliphant. 

“Where did you go, damn you,” he murmured, squinting in the dark. He lifted his left hand and focused all of his will on the Anchor, hoping it would make a difference.

And it did. The Anchor sputtered and pulsed, until a small halo of green light formed around his palm. It pulsed rhythmically, in sync with his heartbeat. Tristan stared at it in amazement for a moment. It was the first time that he remembered the Mark doing what he’d wanted it to. 

A faint shuffling, which could well have been his imagination, dragged his attention to the present. Right. Maliphant. He needed to find Maliphant. 

He stepped forward, his hand up lighting the way. In the hazy light that the Anchor spread before him, he could make out some dark stains on the floor and the wall before him. He touched it with his fingers; it was slick and warm, and bore the faint, coppery smell of fresh blood. 

Tristan lunged forth, following the left side of the fork, without wasting even a moment. He followed the blood stains to a small staircase—steep and easily missed—and climbed up. As he forged on, he could see more and more stains, and well as the shape of boot steps. Whatever wounds Maliphant had earned himself during his fight with Florianne, they must have been serious. 

The relatively fresher air of the corridor beyond the secret door was a welcome change. Tristan stepped out from behind a painting and glanced around him, trying to make out where he was. He couldn’t be very far from the ballroom; if his senses were correct, then he must be on the eastern side of the second floor, where the bureaucratic and domestic offices lay. The moonlight slanted, silvery and soft, through the tall windows overlooking the hills beyond Hallamshiral. A few statues and busts graced the length of the hallway, but other than that it was completely empty. A bloody handprint on Emperor Florian’s impressive bust stood out, right in the center of his smooth marble face. 

Tristan took off, following the signs like a bloodhound. 

He didn’t have to run very far. As soon as he turned the corner, he saw a dark figure, huddled in a corner. Maliphant was sitting on the floor, his legs sprawled out before him as he leaned against the wall. He breathed heavily, his hand pressed to his side. 

“Inquisitor,” Maliphant said. “Finally, we meet again.”

Tristan narrowed his eyes at him. His hold on his dagger tightened as he stepped cautiously towards him, watching for the barest movement. Maliphant was fast and cunning; Tristan wouldn’t put it beneath him to simply pretend he was injured, so that Tristan would let his guard down. But that was not going to happen. Tristan knew how bloody dangerous the man was, especially when pressed. 

“I’d hoped this moment would never come, Maliphant,” Tristan said. “In fact, I’d warned you against it.” 

Maliphant chuckled softly. “That you did.” His breathing was laboured, and his hand that was pressed against his side was crimson, the fabric around it dark. The man looked up at Tristan, and through the slits of his golden mask, his dark brown eyes were darker still and more haggard than Tristan remembered them. 

Slowly, Maliphant took off his mask with his free hand and set it down beside him. His jaw was hard and cheeks sunken, and deep lines carved his forehead and the corners of his eyes. He looked… so much older than the last time they had seen each other. Old and tired, as if it had been years. 

“Wasn’t expecting you to be here, to be frank,” Maliphant said, with his customary teasing smile. “Enjoying the ball, I take it?”

“Very. Wouldn’t say the same about you, though.” 

“What could possibly make you say that?” Maliphant gave him a fiendish grin, which wobbled only slightly from a sudden stab of pain. “And here I thought we were both having a blast. Celene and Florianne outdid themselves.” 

Tristan gripped his dagger tighter, giving the man a hard look. “I don’t have time for pleasantries, Maliphant,” Tristan told him harshly. “Why are you here?” 

Read the rest on AO3!

#dragon age #dorian pavus #pavelyan #dorian x trevelyan #dorian x inquisitor #dorian pavus/inquisitor #dorian pavus/trevelyan #inquisitor trevelyan #tristan trevelyan #a world with you #johaerys writes

[johaerys-writes]

A World With You | E | Dorian Pavus/Trevelyan

Ch. 58: A Drop of Blood

Read on AO3 | Read from the beginning

“You’re such a challenge to read, Inquisitor. I had no idea if you’d taken my bait.”

Tristan gazed at the figure above him calmly, though inside he was seething with anger. The rift in the midst of the garden sputtered threateningly; he chose to ignore it.

“Did you not, Grand Duchess? You weren’t being particularly subtle.”

Florianne’s lips curled in a small moue of amusement. Her fingers brushed the polished marble of the railing with lazy indulgence. “Such a pity. You could almost be Orlesian, if you were just a little quicker.”

“Funny you should say that. I remember my mother telling me something of the sort, though her choice of words was much more colourful than that.”

“You fancy yourself quite clever, don’t you?” She chuckled under her breath. “It was kind of you to walk into my trap so willingly. I was so tired of your meddling.” 

The rift crackled again, just short of breaking. The Mark pulsed in Tristan’s palm, in time with the rippling of the Veil. Tristan flexed and curled his hand discreetly, his impassive expression belying the jolt of pain the Anchor sent through him. 

“Corypheus insisted that the Empress die tonight, and I would hate to disappoint him.”

So his suspicions had been right, not that it made much of a difference anymore. Corypheus had managed to sink his claws into the heart of Orlesian royalty, and worm his way into the Empire. And from there, it would be easy as pie to clear a path to the rest of Thedas, cutting it down bit by bit. And once again, the Inquisition was one step behind. 

Tristan clenched his jaw hard.

“What’s in it for you, Florianne? What did Corypheus promise you? Celene’s crown? Gaspard’s armies? What?”

Florianne laughed shrilly, tossing her head back. “Oh, Inquisitor, you think so small. Why settle for a crown and a dilapidated army, when I can have the world? I’ll deliver the entire South of Thedas, and Corypheus will save me. When he has ascended to godhood, I will rule all of Thedas in his name.”

“All of Thedas?” Tristan scoffed and shook his head. “There seems to be quite the competition for that position. I’ve lost count of how many Venatori agents Corypheus has promised this to—but I guess it will all be sorted out once the time comes, yes?” He gave her a sickly sweet smile that dripped venom.

Florianne’s grin wobbled uncertainly. It was barely noticeable and polished away in an instant—Tristan might have missed it if the rift hadn’t crackled at that moment, illuminating her face—but it was there all the same. The evidence that Tristan’s words had struck a chord. 

“A pity you won’t be there to see it,” she said scornfully. “It will be glorious. As will Celene’s death, by my own hand. They’ll be talking of it for years.” She glanced down at the men, whose arrows where pointed right at Tristan’s heart. “Kill him, and bring me his marked hand. It will make a fine gift for the master.” 

Florianne glided away with an amused chuckle, just as the arrows aimed at Tristan released. 

He rolled away as they whistled past his ear only to crash uselessly against Cassandra’s shield and the aegis Dorian and Vivienne had called forth before themselves. Tristan tore off his glove and raised his hand, the Mark sputtering green sparks as it disrupted the rift above them. It pulsed and crackled wildly, blinding in its brilliance when it tore apart. 

The mercenaries—for mercenaries they must have been, judging from their uniforms that didn’t resemble those of either Gaspard’s Chevaliers, or Celene’s guards—gasped in shock as demons started streaming out of the rift, tossing balls of fire and ice and shrieking bloody horror. They swiftly abandoned their formation in a panic, glancing left and right and clutching their weapons in shaky hands. 

“If you want to be helpful, stay out of the path of their attacks and engage them from a distance,” Tristan yelled at the mercenaries, reaching for his daggers and swerving out of the way of an incoming beam of ice. “Unless you’re going to be a nuisance about it, in which case stay out of our damn way!” 

The men blinked in confusion. Their leader, a grizzled and short, yet still well built man of about forty, nodded sharply at his men. “Do as he says!” he barked at them, then drew his bow. 

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[johaerys-writes]

Dorian Pavus/Trevelyan

A World With You, Chapter 54: The Great Blackmail Hunt

When in Orlais, do as the Orlesians do— or so the saying goes. In Halamshiral, everyone has to wear a mask... even those who don’t. 

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Tristan stood at the top of the stairs. The ballroom floor stretched before him in shiny and exquisitely patterned marble; and across from it, the Empress of Orlais. Celene, in the flesh.

She looked small from that far away. Not quite the stately, imposing presence he had expected. She was slender and quite lanky, her delicate wrists bent in the characteristic pose of Orlesian high nobility. She spoke little, observing the festivities, yet there was something about her that demanded attention. There was a shrewd, stubborn strength that radiated from every minute movement which was in line with what Tristan had heard of her.

Powerful. Calculated. Ruthless.

“It is your time to shine now, Inquisitor,” Gaspard told him, close to his ear. His body language was relaxed and amicable, confident, and a touch too familiar for Tristan’s liking.

The herald behind them discreetly cleared his throat.

“And now, presenting: Grand Duke Gaspard de Chalons, and accompanying him Lord Inquisitor Trevelyan, son of Bann Trevelyan of Ostwick. Champion of the Blessed Andraste Herself!”

A collective intake of breath rippled through the vast room. Tristan could feel the weight of a thousand eyes on him as he slowly descended the steps, piercing him like arrows.

Gaspard chuckled warmly beside him. “Did you see their faces? Ah, priceless.”

Tristan clenched his jaw tight, determined not to let the disquiet take hold. He felt like a butterfly pinned upon a corkboard, held beneath a magnifying glass. He couldn’t shake the feeling that despite his cool facade, those eyes were cutting him open and looking into the depths of him.

“And accompanying him…”

The names of his companions were called, one after the other. Tristan didn’t dare look behind him for fear of breaking stride, but his heart still fluttered when he heard Dorian’s name being called, and the faint echo of his boots clicking on the marble floor.

“Lord Dorian Pavus, member of the Circle of Vyrantium, son of Lord Magister Halward Pavus of Asariel.”

The nobles that stood at each side of the oblong ballroom floor inclined their behatted heads at them, smiling beneath their masks. The eyes of some of them slid from Tristan, to Dorian, then back at him; it was the tiniest of giveaways, but Tristan caught it all the same. Whether it was rumour of them having reached the court, or the fact that Tristan had brought a Tevinter into the very heart of Orlais, he didn't know. A part of him ached to slow down, to let Dorian catch up to him so that they might walk side by side. To prove all those damn rumours and whispers true, if he had to, and burn them down once and for all.  

He took a sharp breath and stood even taller, eyes fixed ahead of him towards the far end of the room. He couldn’t let anything distract him from his purpose. The Orlesians might all be hiding behind their glossy veneers, but he wasn’t going to let his expression betray any of his thoughts or emotions either. If they hoped to find some evidence of discomfiture there, they could well search for it.

“Cousin,” Gaspard said as he ascended the steps to the dais. Then, he turned to the woman standing beside Celene. “My dear sister.”

Empress Celene curtsied with such elegance that seemed impossible in her rigid and bulky gown, then straightened with a tiny graceful smile— a twitch of the lip, really.

“Grand Duke. We are always honoured when your presence graces our court.”

“Don’t waste my time with pleasantries, Celene,” Gaspard cut her off with a sharp gesture. “We have business to conclude.”

Tristan almost flinched, resisting the urge to cast a sideways glance at the Duke. Instead of the charm and wit he had employed earlier with Tristan, before his cousin the man had as much finesse as a blunt butcher knife— even Tristan himself couldn’t imagine being so candid. Part of him still feared his mother would materialise from the crowd and shake her finger at him. You are a Trevelyan, boy, he could almost hear her tell him, and you will behave as one, whether you like it or not.

As it was, Celene didn’t seem quite as keen on putting her cousin in his place. She only smiled sweetly at him, as if pleased with his obvious blunder. “We will meet for our negotiations after we have seen to our other guests.”

Gaspard bowed, then— thorough, ostentatious, and only a little mocking— before taking his leave. Celene barely paid him any mind before her attention zoomed in on Tristan once again.

“Lord Inquisitor, we welcome you to the Winter Palace. Allow us to present our cousin, the Grand Duchess of Lydes, without whom this gathering would never have been possible.”

Florianne, a blonde woman of short stature who only resembled her brother in the sharp, hawk-like quality of her gaze, curtsied. “What an unexpected pleasure. I was not aware the Inquisition would be part of our festivities. We will certainly speak later, Inquisitor,” she said, before turning to leave, following her brother.

“Your arrival at court is like a cool wind on a warm summer’s day,” Celene said pleasantly, accompanying her words with a slight flick of her wrist.

“A cool wind can often herald a storm, Your Majesty,” Tristan said. “Never underestimate it.”

“Even the wisest mistake fair winds for foul. We are at the mercy of the skies, Inquisitor.” From the corner of his eye, Tristan caught Vivienne watching them carefully from the stair landing, to his left. “How do you find Halamshiral?”

Telling the Empress herself that this place was the most unnecessarily opulent and oppressive he’d ever seen would probably not go over the nobles gathered here very well. He smiled, and gatehred as much of the little charm he possessed as he could muster.

“I have no words to suffice, Your Majesty. Halamshiral has many rare, fascinating beauties," he said, inclining his head. "I couldn’t possibly do them justice."

He had heard Leliana say that Celene not only invited playful flirtation in her court; she expected it. It had become something of an unspoken rule that any man or woman in her presence acted as if he were there to woo her, whether through words or actions. Tristan was a piss poor candidate for that and he knew it, but the least he could do was try. When was he ever going to put everything his mother had taught him to good use, if not now?

Celene rewarded him with the warmest of smiles he’d seen on her yet. “Your modesty does you credit, and speaks well for the Inquisition. Feel free to enjoy the pleasures of the ballroom, Inquisitor. We look forward to watching you dance.”

It was a performance, and they both knew it. Tristan bowed deeply, then turned to leave.

Instead of his companions and advisors, there was a throng of ladies of the court waiting for him at the head of the stairs. Tristan only managed to catch a glimpse of Dorian ascending the steps behind him before he was whisked away.

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[johaerys-writes]

Dorian Pavus/Trevelyan

A World With You, Chapter 55: Herd of Halla

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The lock on the door leading to the servants’ wing was —quite unsurprisingly— very hard to pick. Tristan’s fingers had gone sore, even through his gloves, trying to turn the pick inside the sturdy mechanism. After several minutes of persistent effort, it had not budged. 

“Just let me do it,” Sera huffed, exasperated, and nudged him aside. 

“Do you think Celene would mind terribly if I blew this thing up?” Dorian asked, idly inspecting his fingernails. 

Tristan stood up, dusting his knees as he let Sera work her magic. “I don’t know about Celene and her court, but Leliana would definitely have our hides if we drew that much attention to ourselves. Any luck with that, Sera?” 

The elf just grumbled her response, jamming her pick even deeper into the lock. 

“I understand that discretion isn’t a quintessential Tevinter quality by any means," Vivienne said behind him, “but I’d refrain from blowing anything up while we’re on palace grounds. Wouldn't do the Inquisition's reputation any good to alert everyone and their concierges as to what we’re doing here.”

“But why else are we here, Madame de Fer, other than to have all eyes on us?” Dorian said merrily, to which Vivienne responded with an amused, “Oh, trust me, darling, we hardly need any help in that department.” 

“I hate to interrupt, but this is hardly the time for small talk,” Cassandra snapped at them all. She looked quite stiff and uncomfortable in her uniform, a hint of perspiration glinting on her brow. She glanced cautiously behind her back as she added, “Anyone could pass by and notice us.”

“Whatever would we do without you to keep us in line, Seeker,” Dorian said in a saccharine voice, just as the lock finally clicked open. He didn’t even wait for the Sera to stand up before striding forward with a flourish of his cloak.

“Thank you, darling, marvellous work. Much appreciated,” Vivienne told Sera as she followed, quite pointedly brushing past Tristan as if he weren’t even there. Tristan gritted his teeth at the thinly veiled insult to his lockpicking skills as he made his way through the door as well. 

It hadn’t been Tristan’s idea that she should come. The last thing he needed was Vivienne’s tart remarks and the discreet yet still noticeable mocking smirk she always wore when she was in his vicinity, the roll of her eyes at nearly everything he said or did, but the woman was persistent, if nothing else. She had showed up, abandoning the post Josephine had appointed her close to the Empress's retinue, and, as things were, there’d been no chance for Tristan to argue. Besides, as well as he had memorised the layout of the palace from the blueprints Leliana had procured, it never hurt to have someone else on his team who might know some of the in-and-outs of the place.

In truth, Tristan suspected that Madame de Fer simply wanted some of the credit for having stopped Celene’s assassin for herself. But that was a problem for future him to consider.

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[johaerys-writes]

Dorian Pavus/Trevelyan

A World With You, Chapter 53: Death and Diplomacy

Where Tristan and Dorian go snooping around the Winter Palace before the ball, and discover way more than they bargained for 👀

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‘At home.’ Celene wanted them to feel ‘at home.’

Tristan squinted at the Lord Steward’s back, who was currently leading them through the maze of the palace gardens. The man had been chattering incessantly for the better part of the hour, explaining the story behind every rock, nook and cranny of the palace grounds in excruciating detail. As much as Tristan willed himself to focus on what was being said, the words of the attendant who had shown them to their rooms earlier kept swivelling in his mind. 

Why on earth would Celene want them to feel ‘at home?’ What could it possibly mean?

It could have just been said out of politeness. There was so much being said, all the time, that it could have simply been a figure of speech. Who didn’t want their guests to feel at home, after all?

But the Inquisition was no normal guest. And if Tristan knew anything, was that nothing was ever simple when it came to the Orlesians and their blasted politics. Everyone knew that the only reason the Inquisition was in the Winter Palace in the first place was because of Duke Gaspard: he'd been only too quick to send them invitations when he’d caught word that they were interested in attending. Whether they acted as his allies, or upset the balance of power, he would gain an opportunity, if not a clear advantage. His motives were clear, and understandable. But what did Celene have to gain from having them there? What did she want?

Tristan frowned to himself as the Lord Steward droned endlessly. ‘At home.’

“... commissioned by Emperor Judicael I to commemorate House Valmont’s historic victory against Xavier Drakon. The four lions represent Emperor Alphonse Valmont and his three younger brothers — Duke Isidore d’ Arlesans, Duke Yvon of Savrenne, and Duke Stephan of Val Montaigne— who took the field against the usurper,” the man said, standing proudly before the largest and most garish fountain Tristan had ever seen in his life. The winged lions made of pure gold that faced each cardinal direction were the least of it.

“Judicael I, you say?” Tristan asked, trying his best to look invested. “Isn’t this the one that built the palace?”

“The very same, Your Worship. The Winter Palace was originally built for the emperor and his immediate family, but Emperor Florian, and Empress Celene after him, have substantially expanded it.”

“Interesting. Very interesting,” Tristan hummed, nodding along. “So, did Emperor Judicael build this before, during or after quelling that extensive elven uprising? It was among the bloodiest in Orlais’ history, I hear, and subdued at great expense of both life and coin.”

The Lord Steward’s painted lips tightened ever so slightly, the only part of his face clearly visible underneath his mask. “You must be referring to Emperor Alphonse, Your Worship,” he said politely. “The one who built Chateau Lion, on whose ruins the Winter Palace was built.” 

“Oh. Well, nevermind,” Tristan laughed, waving his hand negligently. “So many quellings of elven uprisings, one starts confusing them after a while.”

The Lord Steward tensed even more, his back zipping straight — for someone who represented the Empress herself, the man should have better composure. He took breath to speak, but didn’t quite have the chance to before Vivienne spoke.

“Indeed, darling,” she said to Tristan, languidly fanning herself. “Too many words strung together must be quite difficult to grasp.” She gave him a warm smile, which somehow managed to irk Tristan even more than had she spat right in his face, and turned to the Steward. “Please, do tell us more about the fountain, Benoit. No matter how many times I hear you say it, I never tire of it. Is this a silverite inscription, I see? A fine choice.”

“Very.” The man accepted the distraction Vivienne offered gratefully. “And practical, resistant to rust. An excellent observation, Madame de Fer—”

“You know what I don’t get?” Tristan cut in. Both Vivienne and the Steward froze, turning to look at him. “Why did Judicael insist on building the palace here, of all places? It must have cost him twice as much to ship all that marble across the Waking Sea, and to clear the elves and bandits that were already here. It’s not even that great a place; there’s really not much to see around here. There must be about a thousand spots around the Empire that would be easier to build on. It strikes me as odd that every Orlesian Emperor held onto this place like a dog on a bone. Solas, any ideas?”

If Solas was surprised to be given leave to speak, after what was probably an entire day of his presence hardly being acknowledged, he didn’t show it. “It is said that Emperor Judicael had an interest towards the occult,” he said, without missing a beat. “He believed the site was located at a nexus of elven magic, and that spending time here would grant him longer life, as with the fabled immortal elves.”

“You don’t say. It’s almost as if Orlais despises the elves, while at the same time taking them for everything they’ve got. How curious! So, did it grant him a longer life, Solas?”

“He died a few years later from heart failure.”

Tristan didn’t have to fake the loud guffaw that escaped him. A couple of the servants dashing to and fro shot him curious glances, while a throng of ladies of the court that loitered close to the fountain gawked at him over their fans. “Wow. Oh, that’s rich. That’s —most definitely— something. May the Maker rest his soul, of course.” He wiped a tear of mirth from the corner of his eye when he’d caught his breath. “I’m sorry, you were saying?”

The Lord Steward’s expression resembled that of a man that had swallowed a bag of nails, while Vivienne’s glare over the man’s shoulder could have easily burned Tristan on the spot. Iron Bull was trying so hard not to laugh his face was red, and the tiny smirk that curled the edge of Solas’ mouth was amongst the most smug Tristan had seen on him. 

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[johaerys-writes]

Dorian Pavus/Trevelyan

A World With You, Chapter 52: A Long Day's Night

We're going to the Winter Palace baby 😎

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“What’s the word, Sparkler? Getting ready for the big day?”

Varric was behind his desk, scratching away at a piece of parchment. He glanced up at him over his glasses when Dorian set the armful of books he’d been holding down at the edge of the desk with a sigh.

“You could say that, if ‘getting ready’ includes making sure Skyhold doesn’t collapse in my absence,” Dorian said, taking that moment of respite to shake out the numbness in his hands. He’d been arranging and rearranging the scrolls and manuscripts Helisma had misplaced during their trip to the Dales, and updating the archiving ledgers to make sure the new apprentices that had joined their ranks would be following it as closely as possible. Introducing some order to the madness that was the Skyhold library’s archiving system —and most of the Southern Circles, as he had come to find out— was no small feat, but Dorian was nothing if not determined. “So far, the endeavour has been rather fruitful, but you know what they say: Minrathous wasn’t built in a day.”

“If anyone can do it, Sparkler, it’s you,” the dwarf chuckled as his pen kept leaving elegant scribbles in dark ink on the smooth parchment. “Never you mind, though. In a few days, you won’t have to think about it at all. You’ll be far, far away, drinking the finest Orlesian wines while mingling with the best Thedas has to offer.”

“Or the worst, depending on how one looks at it.” 

“Those are even better,” Varric said with a smile. “Have you been brushing up on your Orlesian? You’ll probably need it. Since I’m not coming, I’ll need you to be my eyes and ears for all the drama and the gossip. I’m counting on you.” 

“Oh, I am certain there’ll be enough of that in the reports we’ll be bringing back for you to fill three books.”

“Reports?” Varric scoffed and shook his head. “Nothing interesting is ever in those. I don’t want the nitty and gritty and dry bare bones of it— I want the juicy, tasty bits. I don't just want to know who killed the Viscount, but what is the killer’s favourite drink? Does he have an unusual mark on his face, hidden behind his mask— is there an evil twinkle in his eye? How did he seduce the Viscount’s mistress, and convince her to sneak him in through the window in the dead of night? Now that is where all the juice is.”

“My dear man, if I ever find the answers to these questions, I’ll be writing the book myself," Dorian said, propping himself on the edge of Varric's desk with a devilish smirk. "Yet I somehow doubt they are going to be found anywhere near the champagne fountain, as this is where I hope to be for most of the night. They do have champagne fountains in Orlais, don’t they? Or is that particular architectural marvel strictly a Tevinter thing?”  

“One more piece of information you must be sure to relay once you get back,” Varric winked. “Can’t keep our loyal readers in the dark, can we?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t dare.” Dorian chuckled. Skyhold was buzzing with excitement, the residents as well as the visiting nobles and dignitaries falling like flies upon every piece of news of the Grand Masquerade. Dorian couldn’t say he wasn’t sharing the enthusiasm. It had been far too long since he’d found himself in anything resembling a ball in far too long — Lady Josephine had still been unable to secure an invitation for him to the Grand Ball of Lydes, so the Winter Palace was clearly the next best thing. As much as the Iron Bull and Sera tried to convince him that the impromptu drinking parties they held at the tavern every week were better, Dorian refused to be swayed. ‘No one knows how to party better than the Orlesians,’ was the age-old adage, and Dorian was finally about to put that to the test. 

Just as he was about to pick up his books and take his leave, a woman came up to them, followed by a servant carrying several bolts of fabric. She was dressed in an extravagant red and blue dress, its high puffy collar hiding most of the lower part of her face, while the rest was covered by her silver mask and her large, flower-bedecked hat.

“Bonny, my dear,” Dorian greeted her with a wide smile. “Is this the fabric I requested? You are a delight.”

The merchant inclined her head. “Of course,” she said. “Two days earlier than agreed, and at no extra cost to you, my lord.”

“Ah, but that’s splendid! And at just the right time,” Dorian said, inspecting the bolts the servant held in his arms. He had taken every care in selecting them, and he was sure his tailor would find those best suited to the designs Dorian had selected with relative ease. Southern mages had a certain reputation when it came to fashion —mainly, that they had not a clue about it— and he knew he could hardly count on Solas to amend that. Dorian had thus taken it upon himself to be the best dressed at the ball— after the Empress herself, of course. There was being ambitious, and there was being over-eager; never a good look. “Take them straight to the undercroft, if it isn’t too much bother? Harrit will know where to place them.”

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[johaerys-writes]

Dorian Pavus/Trevelyan

A World With You, Chapter 48: Under Cover of Darkness

Where Tristan & co investigate the Eastern Ramparts, and make a chilling discovery. 

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Dorian’s boots sank deeper into the mud with every step. The rain only fell heavier the further east they travelled, and on his battlemage armour a generous layer of fogdew clung, stiffening the fabric.

He pulled his hood back over his head when it tried to slip back. Before he had come to the Plains, he had expected the weather to be dry and hot all year round, but stay long enough in that place and you were bound to see all kinds of weather. It was often rainy and misty in the fall, and Harding had told them that on the peaks of the highest hills towards the south, a dusting of snow could be seen on particularly cold days, though those were still quite far away.

Dorian had smiled and nodded politely at her words, though inwardly he’d cursed, as he was cursing now. Would it have killed someone to tell him about it beforehand, before he’d packed his bags? At least he would have had a mind to bring something more waterproof than what he was wearing now. Droplets of rain rolled down his face and slithered down his neck and past the collar of his shirt, warm and thick like sweat. He tsked and pushed back the hair that he’d perfectly coiffed before leaving, and that was now hanging limp before his eyes.

There was no doubt about it. There really was no place in the whole of the dratted South that the weather was even marginally acceptable.

Tristan was walking a little way ahead, Sera by his side. The two stepped so lightly that Dorian could barely hear them; he could hardly make out their footprints in the muddy ground. Tristan’s dark leather armour rendered him almost invisible in the faint starlight that occasionally peeked through the dense clouds overhead, but Dorian could still see the damp fabric hugging the outline of his body, clinging to him like a second skin. Only his pale skin reflected the light, his aristocratic profile illuminated by moonglow.

Dorian edged closer to Bull, trying to keep up with his massive strides. “You’re good at finding your way around in this place, Bull. Any idea how far we are from the ramparts?”

Bull scratched his chin, looking thoughtful. “I’d say… about an hour’s walk. Or so.”

Dorian gaped at him, crestfallen. “An hour’s walk through this mud? Drat! I should have known this was a bad idea,” he grumbled, trudging along. “Whatever possessed our illustrious leader to leave our horses behind in that abandoned farm and continue on foot, I’ll never understand.”

“No better way to move around than your own two legs, mage. Besides, wouldn’t want our horses to become a demon’s midnight snack, would you? I’d like to see you walking all the way to Skyhold in those dainty little boots of yours.” Dorian wrinkled his nose, and the Qunari’s laughter rumbled in his chest. “I’m just messing with you. See that mound in the distance? We’re almost there.”  

Dorian tried hard to suppress his curses as the soles of his boots slid along the mud of the small incline. A peel of thunder echoed around them, and silver light erupted momentarily amidst the heavy clouds. The sudden flash of light made him lose his balance, and he would have fallen flat on his face had a hand not grabbed his arm at the very last moment.

Solas’ eyes peered at him coldly from within the shadows of his hood. “Watch your step,” he said, still holding on to him. “The ground here is treacherous.”

Dorian straightened, withdrawing his arm and nodding slightly in gratitude. “Thank you, Solas,” he told him. “Much appreciated.”

“Mn.” Solas let him go and took a step away, and that was the end of their interaction.

Dorian did not dwell too much on Solas’ surliness —it was par for the course, really— as he ascended the mound. Besides, it wasn’t like Dorian himself was in the best of moods that night.

He was only a few steps behind Tristan and Sera, who had both deftly hopped to the top without missing a step, and were looking out into the valley that stretched below them. The eastern ramparts stood not very far away, the trenches dug into the soil and solidified with iron and wood. In the dark and from afar, they looked like the intricate skeleton of some massive, slumbering beast.

“Can you see them?” Tristan asked them all as he gazed out into the distance. “Harding said that it was a party of eight, ten people at most.”

“I can’t see past my frigging nose,” Sera muttered. “Maybe they haven’t gotten to the ramparts yet. Or the demons got to them first. Or the corpses. Or whatever the Void else is creeping about the place—”

“They’re here,” Bull cut her off. “See that, over there?” He crouched and pointed at a mass of moving forms, amidst the narrow trenches. Dorian could hardly make them out, but another flash of lightning revealed them momentarily.

“Is this a cart behind them?" Dorian came to stand next to Tristan, squinting into the darkness. "It looks like they’re carrying something. I can’t tell what it is.”

“Hm,” Tristan thumbed the hilt of the dagger on his belt, watching their movements. “There’s more of them than Harding’s scouts reported. I can already count fifteen, and perhaps there’s more hiding in the ramparts. They must have met with others on the way here.”

“Good.” Sera grinned, unslinging her bow from her back. “Lots of baddies, then, yeah? Let's stick them with arrows until they're lying in their own innards.”

The party was moving swiftly and purposefully towards the body pit that stood at the highest part of the ramparts. Tristan took a sharp breath, his grip on his daggers tightening. “Time to go.”

They all followed, as silently as possible, like shadows. Tristan moved with agility and precision, and a bit more confidence that Dorian would have liked, considering they knew nothing about the party they were hunting, not even how many they were exactly, or whether there were reinforcements hidden behind the tall rocks to the west of the ramparts, or whether there were other kinds of enemies waiting for them, as was the case with every other place they'd visited in the Dales. Still, Dorian followed at the brisk pace that Tristan set, and soon they were almost at the wooden bridge that separated the ramparts from the road.

A few paces away from them, walking down the road, were four of the men that had been in the party moving through the trenches. They were dragging the cart behind them, empty now. Tristan nodded at Sera and drew his hood, then slipped away into the shadows. The hiss of his daggers and of Sera’s arrows interrupted the silence, and a handful of moments later the four soldiers were bleeding out on the ground, after having barely put up any fight.

Dorian approached Tristan who was crouched over the bodies, searching their pockets. The armour the fallen guards were wearing was an irregular assortment of Imperial armour pieces and weapons, worn and used, some of them mended beyond recognition.

“Well?” Dorian asked. “Did you find anything?”

“Nothing of note,” Tristan said. “Coin, food… a figurine of Andraste, a toy soldier…” He pulled out a small piece of parchment from one of the men’s pockets and narrowed his eyes at it. “There’s something written here. I need some light.”

Solas tapped his staff on the ground, and it produced a small ball of light, which hovered in the air over the piece of parchment. “What does it say?”

“I want you and your men to collect as many dead as you can find and bring them to the ramparts,” Tristan read slowly from the page. “We have to burn them. Gather them together, then leave. I’ll deal with it from here. Gordian.” He looked up at them. “Gordian. Does the name ring a bell?”

“Not really.” Dorian took the letter from his hand, studying the handwriting. “So this must be what they were carrying in that cart. Bodies.”

Tristan nodded. “They must have come to fill the body pit. This… Gordian fellow sounds like their leader, or a general. He might be working with the rebels, or he might know where they are. We need to find him.”

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