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cullenakingirog · 19 days

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Commission for @ashenlavellan

She asked me to draw her Ceren Tabris and Zevran doing this very much iconic Princess Mononoke scene

When we discussed the context I really enjoyed that this is Zevran's greeting upon his return like ssyhffg

This was so much fun to draw and render and thank you so much for commissioning me!!!

Interested in commissioning me? Click the source! 💗

Uncaptioned version under cut

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thetabris · 7 months

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[🐉] DRAGON AGE: The Warden-Commander Ahrien Tabris and her super dangerous, bloodthirsty and cool spy girlfriend.

this drawing took me a good few hours to complete, and I only decided to post it here now 🫠.

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heniareth · 1 month

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In Lothering

Chapter 4: We Are Not Islands

In which Astala concludes they need more friends, a stealing attempt goes awry, they do some jobs and are handed a sword. (I posted the chapter a LONG while ago but never got around to making the announcement, oopsie!)

Wordcount: 5.875

WARNINGS: - blood - mention of extracting an arrow - mention of starvation - mention of murder of a family, including the children

(Read on AO3)

Alistair was the first one she and Rascal met. He was carrying a bundle of what seemed to be fabric to the river, and almost dropped it when he saw them.

“Maker's breath, what happened!?”

“Darkspawn,” Astala said. “I'm-”

“Darkspawn!”

Alistair marched up to her with long strides. Astala’s muscles tensed almost involuntarily. Over Alistair’s approachable and sometimes goofy nature, it was hard to forget how tall and broad and human he was.

“Here!? Are they in the village? What were you thinking, taking them on alone?”

He was angry, he was frustrated. Astala found herself shrinking back.

“Please-”

“Are you hurt? Where are you hurt?” Alistair grabbed her shoulder.

Asala twisted out of his grasp and scrambled to get away from him. She dimly registered that she’d pulled her shoulders up to her ears, posture tense and ready to jump, and that Rascal was growling faintly at Alistair.

“Please,” she said quietly. “Stop shouting.”

#dragon age #dragon age origins #dao #da: origins #dragon age origins fanfiction #dragon age fanfiction #warden tabris #alistair #warden's mabari #female tabris #my ocs #my writings #astala tabris #rascal the mabari #sten of the beresaad #sten dragon age #alistair theirin

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chenria · 1 year

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And another Warden for @sissy-the-siren This time it's Sarya Tabris.

I used a picture of Nuremberg Castle (which I once took during a visit to Nuremberg) as background.

#dragon age #dragon age warden #female tabris #dragon age origins

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rosella-writes · 1 year

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what do you MEAN THERE’S NO F!TABRIS X VELANNA

#if you know of any pls feed me #where is it #I might be blind #velanna #female tabris

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invisi-bee · 10 months

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new tabris forming in my brain

#dragon age #dragon age origins #dao #my art #tabris #female tabris

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libanezink · 1 year

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Casually posting all of my Dragon Age OCs all together like one big happy dysfunctional family.

I definitely need to play some a bit more, but I love them all your honor, and they all share timelines with the herald they’re below/the hero they’re above.

#dragon age #dragon age origins #dragon age inquisition #da: inquisition #da:i fan art #da: origins #ida tabris #Nell Cousland #female cousland #female tabris #Maggie Amell #female amell #inquisitor trevelyan #lavellan #dalish #my art

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shivunin · 1 year

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Fang and Thorn

(Zevran/Tabris, 883 Words)

The metal of the dagger was carefully polished, but some of the scratches on the blade ran deep. Tabris turned it over and over in her hands, watching it reflect firelight, then her face over and over.

Slavers. Her friends, some of them gone forever. Her father caged; Valendrian shipped off to Tevinter. Then today—the orphanage, lost to demons and death. The bodies left in the ruined building to rot…

Arianwen closed her hand around the hilt at last, feeling the faint impressions in the polished rosewood where her mother’s hand had once held it firm. Had she worried about the future of their folk, too? What kind of life had she wanted for her only daughter?

She would’ve been proud, Wen’s father’d said.

Yet he had no idea who she…what she was. What she would still do, if given half the chance. Would her mother have been proud? Would she have approved of the person Arianwen had become?

“How are you feeling?”

Wen closed her eyes. The others had been quiet at dinner, had allowed her to return to her room in Eamon’s estate without too much bother. She’d been…moody was too kind a word for it. Stormy, then—she’d been stormy these past few days and she knew it well. Alistair had wanted to say something when she left. She’d seen it in his face. For what felt like the first time, he’d restrained himself. Arianwen had trudged up here, locked the doors, and curled up on the settee with only her knife and the fire for company.

But of course Zev had found his own way in.

She sat up, waited for him to tuck himself beneath her, and rested her head on Zevran’s lap. After a moment’s hesitation, he stroked his fingers through her loosened hair and let his hand come to a stop on her shoulder.

“You do not wish to speak of it?”

Wen said nothing. She shifted back on the couch until her head came to rest in the crook of his belly and his hip, where his flesh softened slightly. He’d left off his leathers for her, something she was grateful for. It was easier to feel the warmth of him when he wore linen.

“How fortunate,” Zev went on, squeezing her shoulder, “For I have more than enough to say for both of us.”

That’s what she’d been counting on.

“Have I told you about the time I had my knife to a contessa’s throat only to realize that I had climbed in the wrong window? It was the hottest day of summer, when even the flies are too lazy to crawl from their sleep…”

Arianwen listened, her eyes dragging lower and lower as the fire softened and calmed in the hearth. Eventually, when the flames were all but embers, a careful hand eased the hilt of her mother’s dagger from her hand and set it softly on a side table.

Where it would be safe.

The rest of her party readied themselves in the foyer the next morning.

Wen flipped her mother’s knife in her hand over and over, watching her friends. Alistair and Morrigan were giving each other a wide berth at the moment, which was good news for her headache. Zevran was ready, but pretending he still had to adjust his various buckles, casting her the occasional glance through his eyelashes.

Wen flipped the dagger several more times, absently gauging the weight and balance of the blade.

It was well made, worn comfortably, made with fine craftsmanship. Nevertheless it…it hurt to hold. Arianwen admitted this to herself, twisting the metal again and catching her own eyes in the reflection. Its warmth reminded her of happier days, when the world had seemed—if not fair—safe and whole.

That…hurt. Too much to touch. Too much to hold.

Wen moved to Zevran’s side and leaned against him. He draped an arm around her waist automatically, angling himself in her direction.

“Shh,” she said, when he opened his mouth to speak.

Zev raised his brows in response, but Tabris shook her head.

When she reached for the hilt of his dagger, it slid easily from its sheath. Arianwen weighed it in her hand for a moment, peering down as she angled it this way and that. They were of a similar construction, his blade and the other she held. The weight in Zevran's leaned a little further to the tip; the other would certainly suit him better. If one of them used these as a chopper, it was more she than he.

Wordlessly, Arianwen slid the rosewood dagger into the empty sheath hanging from his belt and slipped his dagger into hers. Zevran’s brows had drawn together, and his free hand hovered over the hilt for a moment.

“Do you…not wish to keep this somewhere safer?” he asked quietly, bending his head nearer to hers.

Wen shook her head.

“That’s not what it’s for,” she took a deep breath, “It’s…called Fang.”

Zevran set his hand on the hilt of the dagger at last, squeezing it slightly.

“I will use it well,” he said, the arm around her waist pulling her closer.

Wen let herself be pulled, some of the heaviness in her chest lightening. Would her mother have approved? She didn’t know. Maybe she didn’t need to. Perhaps it was enough that the blade would protect her lover now, as her mother had once wielded it to protect Wen.

“I know,” Arianwen said, and raised her face to be kissed.

#arianwen tabris #zevran arainai #zevwarden #zevran x tabris #zevran x warden #female tabris #dao #da fanfic #my writing #this was tucked away in my big long arianwen doc and i realized i didn't post it before i posted breath of life #so this is why he has it in that scene #also this is the same day lol #oops poor wen #shivunin scrivening

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sapphirebunnyart · 1 year

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Tabris and Alistair sketch commission for @wildmelon

Thank you so much for the support!

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Commissions are open!

See full wips by supporting me on my kofi membership for as little as $1 a month

https://ko-fi.com/sapphireangelbunny

Also my Carrd! https://sapphireangelbunny.carrd.co/

#alistair #alistair theirin #female tabris #warden tabris #dao #dragon age origins #sketch #commission #dragon age

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thetabris · 11 months

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I finally drew my HoF, her name is Ahrien Tabris (and please forgive my humble drawing skills, this is the best i can do)

#dragon age #hero of ferelden #dragon age origins #dragon age tabris #warden tabris #gray warden #HoF #female tabris #da origins #warden commander #city elf #elf woman #dragon age elf

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heniareth · 6 months

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ZevWarden Week 2023

Day 5: Bodies and Minds

Blank

Wordcount: 1,738 | Rating: Teens and Up

Old battle wounds do not only extend to the body. One morning, Zevran wakes up and his Warden is gone.

WARNING FOR:

- not medically accurate dementia

- angst

(Read down below or here on AO3)

Bright light. So bright it hurt her eyes. For a moment, she couldn't see.

But she could hear. And feel.

Somebody next to her. Warm, soft skin, soft hair. Dark lines.

Love.

What was his name?

Love.

That was not his name.

Pain in her left leg when she moved. When had that happened? Tightness in the skin of her face, on the right side, bumps and ridges and grooves. So unlike the left side of her face. Almost up to her eyes. That was bad. When had that happened?

What was his name?

Not knowing was bad.

Not knowing made her nervous.

Slowly, she crept out—bed, she crept out of the bed—and left. She was in a long, high—hallway, she was in a hallway. Walking hurt, in her left leg.

What was his name?

She looked, outside. A bright sliver of something, brighter than the brightest light, was on the earth far away. She had to look away, it was so bright.

She wanted to take a closer look.

What was his name?

Zevran awoke early, as he always did. And this is why he was so surprised to see the bed empty next to him.

His Warden normally did not get up before him, and when she did, she was sleepy enough to wake him in the process. She always told him that 58 was not old, not yet at least—her own father had made it to proud 73 years of age—but surely this heavy sleep was as good a sign as any of his encroaching senilitude, was it not?

Be that as it may, she would return in but a moment. Zevran stretched out long, felt something in his shoulder pop, and curled up under the warm blanket, feeling very much like a cat rolling into a tight ball on a sunlit porch.

And so he lay there, dozing, for quite a while.

And Astala didn't return.

Unease started to creep into his mind. He turned around, saw that the sun was already a hand and a half's width over the horizon, and stood up. It was not like his Warden to be up this early. It was not like her to-

It was not like her to leave her cane in the corner she had left it in the day before.

Zevran retrieved the cane as icy dread slowly trickled into his veins. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong. His Warden could not comfortably go anywhere without her cane. What had happened? Where was she?

The house was empty; the garden lay likewise still. It currently was only the two of them. There was nobody who might have seen her leave. There was only one thing to do.

Zevran grabbed his daggers, a waterskin, and a hat. So armed, he set out to find his Warden. She could not have gotten very far. Why had he wasted so much valuable time dozing?

She walked and walked. It took her so long to walk. A crunch at each step, small rolling needles poking up, the bright green, soft, and sharp where it was brown.

She went up. Up to where the bright was getting higher. Up to where the world seemed to end.

She passed by one tall, brown, rough and solid with green on top. She walked around it. For a moment, it was less bright. It smelled strong. It glimmered golden.

What was his name?

She went up, further up.

The air was less bright now. There was wind. And knee-tall not-trees brushing against her. She was going up, up to where she had seen the bright bright sun rise up. The wind blew through her clothes. It was cold.

She reached the edge, where the world ended, and looked down.

There was white there, and blue, and it moved. And it roared. Like it was hungry.

Suddenly, she had to sit down.

Her leg hurt. It went down deep in front of her. Too deep. It was wet now too. Birds cried. The roar was deafening. It sounded almost like-

Like-

Suddenly, panic seized her. She stumbled backwards, away, away from that noise! Heart hammering in her chest, she turned.

When she turned, she saw only endless waving and little white in between dark and round.

Where was she?

What was this?

What was his name?

Zevran looked, left, right, and saw no trace of his wife. If only the Crows had taught him how to track a person in the wilderness! Where to now? He had to find her, before something happened. She had gotten more distant, less present for days at a time, bht he had hoped... he had hoped it would go away again, like it always did every spring once the anniversary of the Archdemon's death passed. Was she conscious of her actions? Where was she?

Left, right, scouring the landscape for any sign of his wife's brightly colored clothing.

Something white and dark caught his eye.

She had not taken her cane. Could she still be in her nightgown? Zevran was already setting in motion before he could answer that question, before he could properly contemplate it. And in that direction lay the cliffs- Sweet Mother of Mercy!

Zevran broke out into a run.

She turned.

What was his name?

She turned.

Where was she?

She saw nothing but wide and bright and nowhere to go, and she didn't know where she wanted to go, and she didn't know anything! What was going on? What was happening? Why was it so loud, why didn't it stop, where was her mama, where was she!?

What was his name?

Whose name?

"Amore!"

She turned to look.

There was somebody. Running. Running towards her!

She stumbled backwards, stumbled. Fell.

Soft and rough and hurtful below her.

What was his name?

He was running towards her. He was not bright. His hair was nice. Yes, she liked his hair.

Should she run?

Maybe she should run.

She should probably run.

Or, maybe, this was the one whose name she was searching for. Why didn't she know his name?

She gasped, suddenly. Something was very very wrong with her.

He was running towards her!

She scrambled to her feet, dashed to the side. The running man missed her by far too little.

"Amore, wait!"

She ran.

He didn't.

Instead, he called after her: "Amore! Amore, please. Stay still for a moment, my Warden!"

Her leg hurt. She stopped and turned towards him.

Slowly, the running man approached her his hair was dancing. It was nice. He didn't look happy, he looked scared. He had a stick in his hand.

Why was he scared?

What was his name?

Was it his name?

"Amore." The running man had reached her and stretched his hand out, but didn't touch her. "Where were you going, my Warden? And not even dressed."

She looked at him. What... what could she?

"My Warden?" He carefully touched her. "Are you alright?"

"Alright," she repeated. "Alright, alright."

But she was not! She was not alright! Something was wrong!

"Alright, alright, alright."

The running man looked down. "It does not seem like that to me, my love."

Love.

"Love."

The running man looked at her again, and he looked better.

"Love," she said again.

It was not his name. But it was good.

"You do remember me." The running man smiled and held his hand out. "Will you come home with me, amore?"

Did she? Would she? Where to?

She wasn't sure.

She looked at the running man, hand outstretched.

"Love?" she asked.

"Yes," he said with a smile.

She took his hand and followed him.

Zevran sat on the edge of the bed, nursing the same drink he had poured himself hours ago, and tried not to cry again.

She had followed him home. So far, so good. She had called him love, but he was no longer sure she recognized him. She was still far away and not present. Her left hip was swollen, and it evidently brought her great pain. When he had tried to alleviate the inflamation, however, or clean the wounds on her feet—how had she made all the way up to the cliff without shoes?—she had fought back, and even bitten him. Right now, she was asleep, but he couldn't leave her unattended even now. He had... he had not known what to do. He was out of his depth.

He needed help.

Perinella would surely come. So would Virel, and Eidela, but he could not rip his children out of the life they had built for themselves for forever. It was a temporary solution at best, and did not even address the real problem.

He wanted his Warden back.

Zevran felt the burn of tears in his eyes, took another sip from his drink, and cursed the Archdemon one more time.

The month Astala had spent lying in bed, not knowing where she was, who she was, and not recognizing anybody, had been one of the worst time in his life. Wynne had tended to her. He had felt completely useles. But there had been slow improvements, and his Warden had gotten better, until she had regained much of her old self. And what she had not regained had soon filled up with new life.

Now, however? This had been the most lost he had ever seen her since then, and he did not know how to bring her back. Or if she even could be brought back.

There was nothing he could do.

Nothing except take things as they came. He had always been good at that, had he not?

The things the Crows could prepare you for. Zevran chuckled to himself without humor and stood up. He had some letters to write. His children needed to know. Who knew what the next days would hold, and the next months. Who knew if Astala would ever‐

"Love?"

Zevran turned immediately. Astala was still lying on their bed, lifting only her head to look for him.

Zevran set down his glass and set out to answer.

"Zevran."

It was truly remarkable how a simple word, how the mere sound of his name on her lips could drive tears into his eyes once again. Zevran said nothing, stepped to her side and made no attempt at hiding his tears. That was his name.

She knew his name.

This story came into my house and beat me to a pulp. Hope you enjoyed

@zevraholics thank you for giving me the opportunity to make myself tear up!!