#i also did the fallow mire just before which is also good.... | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

trvelyans-archive · 4 years

Text

remembrance

commission of solas and avira for the wonderful @lavellanlove ! i’ve stanned avira for several years so the fact i got to write for her is RIDICULOUS to me, maia from 2 years ago wouldn’t believe it lol. thank you for commissioning me, lovely ! i hope you enjoy <3

solavellan, 5000 words, fluff/romance/angst

Varric has made a habit of befriending the new recruits.

They always have questions, and he’s always happy to answer.

Tonight, in the mess hall, it’s a short, red-headed elf with big ears and enough freckles to replace all the sand on Antivan beaches and then some. She’s from Orlais, she told him, from the Val Royeaux alienage, and even though he probably has even more questions about her after learning that, he doesn’t get the chance to ask them.

Because, of course, all anyone wants to talk about is the Inquisitor.

Especially nowadays. It’s hard to ignore the tension in the air when it hangs there, so hot and thick like it’s breathing down the back of your neck. Avira and Solas – if Varric can really even call him Solas anymore – are at a stalemate, and everyone’s just waiting for one of them to knock the other off the chessboard. And then, of course, for the entire board to explode into splinters and leave nothing but dust behind.

Tonight, though, everyone’s drunk or tired enough to pretend things are peaceful, and Varric isn’t going to pass up an opportunity to feel the same. Especially when there are plenty of recruits looking for company, and Varric’s looking to give it.

The elf’s chin is practically to the table with how far she’s bending in her chair to avoid Avira’s watchful eye as she strolls through the room. “She’s scary,” the girl comments.

“Is she?” Varric turns around in his chair to look at her. “Didn’t notice.”

“What?” she says. “How can you not notice? She’s… she’s…”

“I don’t know, kid,” he replies, turning back around to smirk at her. “Once you know someone long enough, see them at some low, low points -”

“Like what?�� She pushes herself off of her chair, practically throwing herself across the table to get up-close in Varric’s face as she whispers, “Like when the Dread Wolf Fen’Harel abandoned her?”

He chuckles. “Hey, it wasn’t quite like that –“

“Well, what was it like, then?”

Ah. It always comes to this. Normally, Varric’s not one for gossip, but – well, okay, that’s a lie. But normally, he’s not one for gossip that could result in him getting his ass kicked by one of the most powerful women in Thedas, except, this time, it feels like it’d end up being pretty beneficial to the cause. All things considered, these young recruits they’ve wrangled up are probably going to end up doing a lot better for Avira if Varric strikes the fear of the Maker into them first. Even if it’s just a little. Also, it can be pretty entertaining (and sometimes Varric needs desperately to be entertained). When it comes to talking about Avira, people flock to Varric like they’re a bunch of little kids and he’s a grandmother reading them a well-worn copy of The Seer’s Yarn with a plate of elfroot cookies cooling off in an open windowsill.

Varric leans back in his chair, crossing his arms behind his head and kicking his boots up onto the table.

“I thought you’d never ask,” he replies, grinning. “To be honest, kid, they were weren’t always like this…”

Solas didn’t ever really leave his little corner of Haven.

If he wasn’t reading in his cabin (the one he unfortunately shared with several other members of the Inquisition, to his unspoken but very obvious dismay), he was outside, watching. Watching the hustle and bustle of the small town that had been thrown chaotically into the middle of the greatest catastrophe to grace the face of Thedas in recent history (including the Blight); watching the soldiers, young and old, mill about their day, occasionally sporting a new limp or cradling their newly sprained arm against their chests in a sling; watching, more often than not, the new Herald of Andraste – not that she ever liked to be called that - wander around between the buildings, talking to people, talking to herself, too, sometimes.

Maker, did that elf watch her.

Varric couldn’t help but watch him do it, either. No matter how long he did, he couldn’t tell what Solas wanted from her (though that was mainly because he couldn’t tell much of what Solas wanted at all, and that was after he’d spent more than enough sleepless nights with him). Did he want money? Connections? A promise that the Templars wouldn’t go after him if he changed his mind and left?

Something… more?

Not that the elf seemed like he was looking for that kind of thing, especially not right now. Still, Varric couldn’t quite put his finger on what Solas wanted.

And he was dying to know.

But one night, it just so happened that he was hanging out in the grumpy apothecary’s Adan’s cabin when, through the open window, he heard the Herald and Solas talking.

So he waved a hand at Adan to shush him and listened in curiously as he stuffed his salves into his pocket.

“The advisors are pleased with the outcome of our expedition to the Fallow Mire, I take it?”

Avira tugged on her glove, fitting it more smoothly over her hand. “Yes, they are,” she answered.

Solas nodded. “I am glad to hear it.”

“I agree – it was not an easy journey…”

“No, it was not.”

Varric could’ve told them that much. He still had water in his boot.

They were facing away from each other, staring out at the town as the sun set, slanting orange-pink light across the freshly fallen snow. That seemed like it should have been the end of the conversation, but both of them lingered, anyway.

“A crow flew in this morning for Leliana,” Avira continued after a long moment of silence. “Attached to it was a message from a scout. They explored the Fallow Mire further after we departed for Haven, and found an old road that leads to the mountains.”

“Hm. That will prove to be useful, I suspect.”

“It will,” she replied, “though the advisors have left it up to me to decide what the route should be used for.”

“I see.” Solas tilted his head to look at her. “What are your options?”

“Josephine claims that merchants will pay a great deal for the knowledge of the road,” Avira explained, “and, knowing merchants and traders well, I agree. Commander Cullen suggested we use it as an easier travel route for Inquisition soldiers. The Spymaster, however, suggested we hide all records of it away and use it as a route for her agents.”

He nodded thoughtfully and said nothing more, looking back out at the town.

“What do you think?”

Solas turned to her again. “You wish to hear my opinion?” he asked.

She turned to him, too. “Yes,” she replied. “I do. Unless you do not wish to give it –“

“Hm.” Solas clasped his hands behind his back and looked skywards. “I think that the Spymaster’s scouts could make good use of it.”

“Yes, I agree.”

He raised an eyebrow, just slightly enough that Varric almost missed it. “Is that your decision?”

“I was considering it.” She tilted her face towards the town once more. “I have until tomorrow morning to decide.”

“I believe that you will come to a suitable conclusion.”

“I do, too.” Avira nodded in his direction. “Thank you for your input. Have a good night, Solas.”

“You as well.”

Varric heard the next day that they designated the route for Leliana’s scouts.

Everyone in the travelling party had paired up with someone else to wind down for the night. A fire was burning, the ale was about as cold as it could be when it had been carried around in a bottle at the bottom of Varric’s pack for the past week, and the food, while not entirely appetizing, was filling, which meant they would all have enough energy to continue on their journey the next morning.

Varric didn’t have any energy left, so he was kind of glad, for the moment, that everyone had decided to ignore him, and he was left sitting by himself in the middle of one long, cold log beside the campfire, listening. (Maybe taking notes of lines he could us in his next book.)

The Iron Bull’s chair was tipped back against a large tree, and Enchanter Vivienne stood in front of him with her hands on her hips as they exchanged some sort of heated discussion. On the other side of camp, closer to the cluster of tents at the mouth of the shallow cave, were Solas and Avira, plucking handfuls of bread from the same loaf and eating it while the other spoke.

“… And so he gave me half of his stock,” Avira said, smiling at the memory. “Half of all of it. The Clan was fed for weeks… Some of the older members didn’t like it, mind you – they thought that it tasted too differently from the food they were used to – but the children…”

“I am sure they enjoyed it.”

“They did,” she replied. “Absolutely, they did. I had to learn how to make a few of the recipes from scratch just so they’d stop pestering me about it – well, I suppose I didn’t make it for them, but… well… you know what I mean.”

“Your clan,” Solas said after he swallowed a mouthful of bread he had been chewing. “Have you heard from them?”

She nodded. “I’ve received a few letters,” she responded. “Not as much as I’d like.”

He was silent for a moment before clearing his throat. “I’m sorry.”

Taken aback, Avira blinked at him. “What for?” she asked, her voice a murmur.

“It must be difficult,” he replied slowly. “To be so far away.”

“It would only be one ship from Denerim to Wycome,” she tried to say, forcing a smile before letting it falter and flicking her eyes away from him. “Yes, it is difficult. Do you find it difficult to be away from your home?”

Solas was staring at the ground while he plucked absentmindedly at his handful of bread. Neither of them were looking at each other anymore, but Varric could tell they were still tuned into each other’s movements. “I have seen far too many things to miss my past,” he responded.

“Yes, yes, you’ve told me all about your ancient ruins and lost civilizations,” she teased.

A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “I am sorry,” he told her. “Since you seem to think my stories are boring, I will try to act more like Varric in the future if that would please you.”

(Varric resisted saying anything about that, because he was actually slightly flattered.)

“I was joking, Solas,” Avira replied, rolling her eyes when he wasn’t looking and reaching forward to wrangle another handful of bread from the loaf. “In truth, I think you are anything but. You - I mean, er, your stories – are… endlessly fascinating.”

He glanced over at her again. “Is that so?”

“It is.”

Before Avira could pull her hand away, Solas moved forward to grab a handful of bread for himself. Their fingers brushed. They both tensed.

And then Solas smiled, but it didn’t feel very honest. “Perhaps we should turn in for the night,” he said under his breath, grabbing the cloth that the bread had been wrapped in and stowing the rest of the loaf in his bag. “It is getting late, and you will need to be well-rested for our journey tomorrow.”

Avira frowned. “Solas, if I –“

“Please,” he interrupted, holding a hand up and tilting his head towards her. “You did nothing wrong. I have just realized how tired I am after the day’s travels, and would like to get some sleep before morning.”

“Liar,” she teased, standing up and placing her hands on her hips. “You’re just going to take a dance through the Fade and see if you can find anything interesting.”

“Perhaps I am,” he replied. “If I do, I will be sure to tell you about it.”

Now, in the mess hall, the short elf with red hair wrinkles her nose at Varric. “That’s it?”

He laughs and shakes his head. “Oh, no,” he says, “there’s much more to it than that.”

On a similar night a few months later, after Haven had been destroyed and the Inquisition had moved into Skyhold, Varric was on guard duty in their makeshift camp when he heard a rustling behind him.

He spun around in his chair, aiming his crossbow into the shadows between the Inquisition tents. As big of a disaster he was sure Hightown – and all of Kirkwall – would be at that time, he’d take that over sitting in the middle of the woods at night with his thumb up his ass any day. He breathed out slowly, standing up from his seat and looking for the source of his noise.

It came from his left. He spun around and, before his vision adjusted, leveled his crossbow at Solas’s chest, who had been emerging from Avira’s now-dark tent with a book in his hand.

“Oh,” Varric said as he pointed his crossbow to the ground. “Shit, sorry.”

“Did I scare you, Varric?” Solas asked with a coy smile.

“No,” he replied. “What are you doing awake right now? It’s my turn to take watch.”

Unfortunately.

“I was…” Solas let out a short huff. “I was speaking with the Inquisitor.”

“What, did an assassin get into her tent or something?”

“No,” Solas replied. “Nothing of the sort. She had posed a question to me earlier I wished to answer before she fell asleep. Anyway,” he said abruptly, clearing his throat, “good night, Varric.”

He headed off towards his own tent, clearly wanting to get away from the conversation, but Varric was grinning widely. “Not a chance,” he said, hurrying after the elf. “Seriously, what were you doing in there?”

“I told you,” Solas said, “I –“

“Yeah, yeah, she had a question, you answered it.” Varric pushed his crossbow into the ground and leaned against it. “What’s the deal with the two of you?”

“I do not know what you –“

“Oh, come on,” Varric interrupted. “You can cut the bullshit with me, elf, I’ve seen the way you look at her.”

“I do not know what you mean,” Solas said.

“Sure,” Varric said. “You can keep telling yourself that.”

Solas’s eyes narrowed. “I would appreciate it if you refrained from further discussion of my relationship with Avi- the Inquisitor,” he told Varric. “It is none of your concern.”

“Alright,” Varric replied, throwing a hand up in defense. “If you’re going to get your underclothes in a twist about it…”

“And I will take watch for an hour or so,” he continued, pointedly ignoring Varric’s taunt. “I am not tired, and I would like to finish this chapter of the book I am reading by the fire.”

“I can keep you comp-“

“I will take watch,” Solas repeated. “Good night, Varric.”

Varric stared at him coolly for a moment before chuckling, pulling his crossbow from where he had thrust it into the dirt to lean on and slinging it over his shoulder again. “Alright, I get the message,” he replied. “Just… be careful, okay? These woods can be… well, pretty scary.”

Solas nodded and sat down by the fire, opening his book to what seemed to be a random page and looking down at it while Varric, incredibly tempted to continue bothering about it, disappeared into his tent.

Not five minutes later when he poked his head out to make sure the elf was still there did he see him standing in front of Avira’s tent once more, moving his hands in circular motions and muttering something under his breath while wisps of green light floated in front of him.

It took some thinking, but eventually it hit Varric: Solas was casting wards over her tent. To keep her safe, presumably – after all, if she died, everything they’d accomplished so far would have been for nothing. But maybe there was another reason he was doing it. In any case, Varric was certain that the elf wasn’t doing it for anyone else in their party.

He laughed as he closed the flaps of the tent once more, shaking his head as he flopped down onto his bedroll and snuffed the light in his lantern out.

Solas had cut himself on the pages of his book.

To be fair, it was dark out – which is why Varric didn’t even know he was reading in the first place, but that’s besides the point – and he was also sitting relatively far away from the fire compared to the rest of the group. (Well, compared to Varric and Dorian, who had slumped over against the log with his fingers still curled around the handle of a cup.) He was frowning but didn’t protest as Avira smoothed some sort of ointment over the cut with her thumb, holding his wrist in place with her other hand, occasionally stroking the pads of her fingertips over his veins.

He also didn’t protest as she kept on giggling.

“I can’t believe it,” she muttered. “You come out of fights unscathed every day and reading a book is what makes you bleed?”

“Yes, yes,” Solas replied, watching her, “it is very amusing, Inquisitor. Would it not be more efficient to use healing magic, instead?”

“I promise this will work,” Avira answered, looking up at him from underneath her eyelashes. “I made the salve myself, and I used it on a cut of my own last week.”

He didn’t seem to be convinced, watching her work with the slightest wrinkled nose. Avira picked it up on and swatted gently at his forearm, smiling in annoyance. “I do know what I am doing, Solas,” she said somewhat defensively. “My mother taught me how to make the salve back when I was child. I still have the recipe written down somewhere.”

“Did you learn much from her, working alongside her in the clinic?”

“Yes.” She sat back on her heels, reaching into her pack and pulling out a roll of bandages. “She showed me a few little tricks like this.”

Solas was still watching her, fiddling with the fingers of his folded hand which sat impatiently in his lap. “And your father?”

“He kept me sane,” she said with a gentle laugh. “Taught me how to fight, told me stories.” Her eyes flickered to his face. “Not as good as yours, of course,” she added with a hint of cheek.

Solas probably would’ve rolled his eyes if he didn’t seem so transfixed by her working. And if he wasn’t so exhausted. Maker, they were all exhausted. If Varric wasn’t eavesdropping on their conversation, he would have retired to his tent an hour ago. “Did you enjoy living in Amaranthine?” Solas asked.

“Yes,” she answered quickly, then frowned. “There were… parts of it I liked, some I didn’t. I wish my mother let me explore the city more.”

“She wanted to protect you.”

“I felt so… stifled.” Avira unrolled the bandages and tore a short strip off from the rest. “I know she wanted to protect me, but… Perhaps I could have found something to protect her with. Instead the Darkspawn assaulted the city, and I left without them…”

“I’m sure your parents would not regret their decision,” he said in reassurance, pushing his hand a little closer to her so she could wrap the cloth around his finger. “Saving you… That was most important to them.”

“I know that,” she replied. “I know that, I just… They were my parents.” Her eyebrows gathered together in the middle of her forehead while she concentrated on tying the bandage in a knot. “We were supposed to join the Dalish together… I was not supposed to nearly die on my way to find them and wake up in their camp days later by myself.”

“It was worth it,” he said. “That you lived. Everything…” He cleared his throat. “Everything was worth it because you lived.”

She secured the bandage tightly around his finger, but didn’t move her hands away. “Thank you, Solas.”

“I should be the one thanking you,” he said with a smile, pulling his hand out of her grasp and flexing his fingers. “You have better things to do than tend to my wounds, and yet you do so anyway.”

“Just out of the goodness of my heart,” she replied.

“Yes, I did not expect you to have done it for any other reason.”

He was still smiling at her. She didn’t seem to notice – she was too busy smiling herself.

Then Avira stood up and stretched her arms above her head, bending down to wipe the dirt from her knees afterwards. “Is it a good book you’re reading, at least?” she asked him, sitting down beside him on the bench and gesturing towards it. “Some Orlesian mystery novel, perhaps?”

“No, no, hardly that exciting,” he responded. They shared a laugh.

“Is it one you’d be willing to share with me?”

He glanced over at her out of the corner of his eye. “Perhaps,” he answered. “We have not finished our other one yet.”

“That’s because it isn’t very good, Solas,” she said. “Maybe I should pick the next book for us to read together.”

“Yes,” he replied, “maybe you should.”

“If you’re not reading, then would you like to come on a walk with me?” She stood up again and held out her hand, wiggling her fingers. “I saw a clearing earlier today that probably has a wonderful view of the moon…”

Solas looked at her outstretched hand for a moment before putting his book down on the log and standing up, taking her hand in his. “Let’s hope the bears do not attack our camp while we’re gone,” he murmured.

“Varric can take care of them,” she reassured him, intertwining their fingers together and swinging their hands back and forth in the space between them. “He’s a very good shot.”

“He would be were he not asleep, vhenan.”

“He isn’t.”

“Oh.” Solas chuckled under his breath. “I did not notice,” he said.

“That’s alright,” she replied. “I was trying to distract you, anyway.”

Before they disappeared through the trees, he leaned over and whispered something to her, and she threw her head back and really, really laughed. (It was probably loud enough to actually wake up any bears nearby.)

Varric had never heard her laugh like that before.

He was still sitting around the fire when they came back. They weren’t holding hands anymore, but Solas was looking down at the bandage wrapped around his finger with another smile.

It was their last night in Skyhold before they left for Halamshiral and Adamant, and Varric couldn’t sleep.

He was sitting at a desk in the library, trying to write, but no words came to him – not even bad ones, which he would have preferred over nothing. He had never been so uninspired for so long, and it was about as frustrating as you could imagine for a novelist not be able to work on – or even start – a novel.

He ran a hand through his hair and threw his quill down on the table, watching it skitter across the wood before stopping an inch away from the edge. With a sigh, he leaned against the railing, and was about to close his eyes when he saw movement in the rotunda below him.

Frowning, he pushed himself higher in his chair and looked down.

Solas held Avira in his arms on the loveseat, playing with the ends of her sleeves. The light in the sconces on the walls had been blown out an hour or two before – Avira wasn’t there when it happened – which left the room steeped in heavy shadow, save for the light streaming down from the rooms above them and the lone candle flickering on Solas’s desk. It was enough light to see them. It was enough light that anyone who walked into the room could have recognized who the two of them were and how close they were sitting together. Neither of them seemed to care.

Solas was whispering something in her ear. Varric couldn’t hear what he was saying, but it didn’t seem to be helping much. Avira stayed anyway.

Watching them together reminded him a little too strongly of someone else…

He had known this would happen since those first days in Haven, of course. The two of them had a connection that neither of them had with anyone else. Even though it made things a bit more complicated, and none of the advisors seemed particularly thrilled, Varric was thankful for it, actually. He didn’t feel very at home in the Inquisition – his home was still across the sea in Kirkwall, of course – and Solas had been prickly at first, but Avira… She softened him up. Smoothed down his edges. Made him the type of man who proved to be a cuddler.

Not that he wasn’t prickly anymore, but he’d actually started greeting Varric once in a while when he passed through the rotunda during the day. (Although Avira was around whenever that happened, so maybe that was why…) He smiled more. Laughed every once in a while.

He seemed happy. They both did. And Varric was happy for them, too. Things weren’t always as easy as it seemed between them.

Varric watched them for a few seconds, thinking, before reaching over and grabbing his quill once more, dipping it in his pot of ink and pressing the tip to the page.

All this love and romance left him feeling a bit more inspired than when he had trudged up here a few hours ago looking for something to write about. He made a note to dedicate his next book to Solas and Avira – and what would probably end up being their ten kids.

Unfortunately, it didn’t last much longer than that.

The night they returned from Adamant, Avira ignored Solas, sitting on the opposite side of the main clearing in the Inquisition camp than he did. He tried to reach out to her a few times after the healers had seen to their respective wounds – ones they had received in the Fade and in the fortress - but after the third time she turned him away, he clenched his jaw and gave her a curt nod.

“As you wish, Inquisitor.” That was all he said before backing away and retreating to his tent, and he didn’t come out again until the morning.

Varric wasn’t surprised, though. After the argument they had about the Wardens – after seeing how angry Avira had been at the suggestion to exile them - it didn’t seem like there was any sort of relationship left to be salvaged.

And what was left dwindled in the following months – from a burning fire to cold ashes. They spoke on rare occasions, but neither of them seemed to enjoy it. They shared meals at the same table on opposite ends, neither of them looking in the other’s direction. And they journeyed together – and sometimes they tended to each other’s wounds – but their interactions were not friendly. Their relationship didn’t seem as easy as it used to be. In fact, it seemed harder than anything.

Harder, still, when he left.

Varric never talked to Avira about it. After defeating Corypheus, he never found the chance. She was busy, and seemed, at least to Varric, like she wanted to move on, and who was he to stop her from doing that? She had more things to deal with than she had before they stopped Corypheus – more Orlesian nobles coming to visit, more Chantry scholars, more refugees and pilgrims and people vying for her attention – and dwelling on what could have been, dwelling on what she could have done differently, would do nothing to help her.

Varric knew that much, so he let it drop. She probably wouldn’t talk to him about it, anyway. And he’d thought that was the end of it.

And then they went back to Halamshiral for the Exalted Council, and, well…

“That’s it?” the red-headed elf asks. She’s a couple more drinks into her night than she was before, and she stares at him with bulging eyes. “He just left?”

“Yep,” Varric replies. “He didn’t even say goodbye, didn’t leave her a note. I thought they were going to be together for a long, long time, but it wasn’t even a year before he up and left. He left all of us, too. I was starting to warm up to him, actually, by the end, even after things between them were finished.” He grimaces. “I wish I hadn’t.”

“No wonder she hates him.”

“That’s not why she’s doing this, kid.” Varric takes a swig of his own drink, looking over his shoulder to where Avira exchanges quiet discussion with Cassandra and Leliana. “She’s doing this because Solas – sorry, the “Dread Wolf” or whatever it is that people call him nowadays – has to be stopped.”

The girl bites her lip. “I find her even scarier now,” she whispers. “If she can live through that, she must be unstoppable.”

“I sure hope so,” Varric says. “If not… well, maybe Solas isn’t going to be the only one that doesn’t make it out of this shit alive.”

#my writing #my commissions #solavellan #solas x lavellan #hmm idk what else to tag this as #long post #i hope u enjoy ! this was a fun one #also FT baby riel

35 notes · View notes

pikapeppa · 5 years

Text

Fenris/f!Hawke and the Inquisition: Peace

Chapter 18 of Lovers In A Dangerous Time (i.e. Fenris the Inquisitor) is up on AO3!

In which one of my all-time favourite friendship moments with Cassandra takes place, as well as some quality Dorian time too.

Dedicated to @essequamvideri20, who adores Cass and Fen’s friendship (and who is also the captain of the Fentaghast ship, which let’s be real, is totally plausible in a non-Hawke AU.)

Read on AO3 instead if you prefer (~8800 words).

*****************

Fenris and Hawke led the others through Skyhold’s inner gates. He turned to Hawke and lowered his voice as they made their way toward the keep. “What are the chances that we can–”

“– go upstairs for some horizontal exercise?” she suggested. She wiggled her eyebrows.

He smirked tiredly. “I was going to say, to take a nap.”

She grinned, but before she could reply, Dorian’s loud voice called out from the top of the stairs. “Well, if it isn’t the Inquisitor himself, back from an undoubtedly delightful stroll through a place that was not riddled with disgusting swamps and dead bodies.”

Fenris sighed heavily, and Hawke laughed and patted his arm as Dorian traipsed down the stairs with Blackwall and the Iron Bull in tow. “Sorry, Fenris. No rest for the weary,” she said.

“Apparently not,” he grumbled. He gave Dorian a weary look as he and the others drew near. “What happened? Did you find those soldiers in the Fallow Mire?”

“Sure did,” Bull said. “Saved their asses from some weird Avvar tribesmen. One of their biggest warriors decided to join the Inquisition.” He idly scratched his muscular chest. “Mission went well, if you ask me.”

“I agree,” Blackwall said, with a dirty look at Dorian.

Dorian scoffed. “That’s not the point.”

Fenris raised an eyebrow. “Isn’t it?”

“Not my point, no,” Dorian said. He lifted his chin imperiously. “I hope you looted a whole lot of bandits in Crestwood, because you owe me. I’m holding you personally responsible for the destruction of my finest boots and my best fire-retardant robe.”

Hawke snickered. “Ooh, someone didn’t enjoy his assigned adventure to the Fallow Mire,” she teased.

Dorian wrinkled his nose and flicked her arm. “You wouldn’t either. It was a vile place. What were Leliana’s scouts thinking? Who looks at a place like that on the map and thinks ‘oh, yes, a location entirely occupied by acidic marshland and death at every turn. Let’s go exploring there!’” He shivered dramatically. “Everything wanted to eat us. Mosquitoes, undead bodies, those vile tribesmen, the bog itself…”

“The mosquitoes didn’t bother me,” Blackwall interjected.

“They probably thought you were just a part of the bog,” Dorian said. He shot Blackwall a scathing glance. “Do you ever bathe?”

Blackwall scowled, but Bull chuckled. “Lucky for the tribesmen that they didn’t eat you, pretty boy,” he said. “I don’t think their stomachs could handle such rich meat.”

Dorian grimaced delicately. “I feel like there’s a compliment hidden in there somewhere. Somehow that only offends me further.”

Fenris gave Dorian a flat look. “Dye your robes black like you said you would. That should hide ‘any number of sins’, if I remember correctly.”

Blackwall smiled and rubbed his nose, and Bull openly chuckled. Dorian shrugged casually and dropped his arms to his sides. “Maybe I will,” he retorted. “Then you and I can be matching, and we can brood handsomely together.”

Fenris glanced at his black travelling cloak. “Ah. I can’t have that,” he deadpanned. “Perhaps we will trade. You can start wearing black, and I will wear… whatever you call that vile fabric.” He eyed Dorian’s purple one-shouldered geometrically-patterned robes. “From what I recall, that pattern was fashionable in Tevinter over fifteen years ago.”

Hawke’s jaw dropped in amused shock, and she fanned herself. “Wow. Unexpected burn.”

Dorian only grinned, however. “You think to shame my clothing choices, my friend?” he said cheerfully to Fenris. “Don’t you realize that fashion is cyclical?”

Fenris grunted. “I suppose I forgot, what with all the cursed demons and the rifts.” He stepped around Dorian and made his way up the stairs.

Dorian and the others trailed after him. “You didn’t forget,” Dorian said. “You were just too busy staring at me.” He jauntily adjusted a lock of his perfectly-coiffed hair. “It’s all right, Fenris, I know I’m exquisite.”

Blackwall scoffed, and Hawke snickered, and Fenris just shook his head. “Dorian, is there something I can actually do for you? Because if not–”

“Oh, Fenris! I’m glad you’re back!” To Fenris’s surprise, Josephine was hurrying through the Great Hall toward them with her tablet and plume in hand.

He raised his eyebrows. “Josephine. Is something wrong?”

“Not at all, not at all!” She beamed at him. “Leliana received your raven about wanting to arrange a wedding. Even if it is just a private function for the Inquisition, I am so very pleased–”

“Oh my. What’s this, now?” Dorian interrupted with a grin.

Fenris scowled at Dorian, but Josephine smiled. “It’s wonderful news,” she enthused. “Fenris and Lady Rynne are to be wed!”

“Well well, how romantic,” Dorian said. He elbowed Hawke. “Our handsome leader will be making an honest woman of you, hmm?”

Hawke snickered and bumped him with her hip. “If Fenris makes me any more honest, then I’ll be telling you what I think of your fashion choices.”

Dorian barked out a laugh. Blackwall, meanwhile, grinned and clapped Fenris on the shoulder. “Congratulations,” he exclaimed. “We could use something good to celebrate around here.”

“We sure can,” Bull said. “The hero getting the girl, big party, the dancing and the drinks: that’ll help distract everyone, get them all cheered up.”

Fenris frowned. This kind of spin on his and Hawke’s marriage was exactly what he’d wanted to avoid.

Hawke took his hand. “We’re having a private ceremony, just for us,” she said to the other men. “There’ll be a party for everyone afterwards, though.” She squeezed Fenris’s hand encouragingly, and he met her reassuring amber eyes.

Dorian shrugged carelessly. “Fair enough, as long as there’s a party. And drinks.” He waved expansively at Josephine. “Let there be alcohol! There will be alcohol at this thing, yes?”

“What a stupid question. Of course there will,” Hawke scoffed. She looped her hands through Josephine’s and Dorian’s elbows. “Now, Josie, we really need your help with arranging things – Dorian, since you claim to have such impeccable taste, you can help too…” To Fenris’s great relief, she began leading them away toward Josephine’s office.

He sighed and turned to Blackwall, who was still smiling benevolently at him. “Warden Stroud mentioned that all the Grey Wardens in Orlais have been hearing the calling,” Fenris said. “You didn’t mention this. Have you been hearing anything unusual?”

Blackwall’s smile fell away, and he straightened. “I know what Corypheus is. He has no sway over me,” he said firmly.

Fenris studied him appraisingly for a moment. “I suspect that the Wardens are involved in something nefarious,” he said. He lowered his voice. “You have been loyal to the Inquisition since you joined us. When we go to the Western Approach–”

“I stand with you, Your Worship. Fenris,” Blackwall interrupted. “My place is with the Inquisition. By your side is where I stand.”

Fenris nodded. “You have my thanks.”

Blackwall bowed slightly. “And you have my sword and shield, for whatever they’re worth.” He straightened and nodded sharply. “I’ll return to training the men with Cullen’s officers. Let me know if you have need of anything else.”

Fenris watched thoughtfully as Blackwall strode away. Then he turned and looked up at Bull. “There was a high dragon in Crestwood,” he said. “We weren’t able to tackle it in the time we had. I will let you know when we go back to kill the creature.”

Bull grinned slowly. “Excellent,” he said. “Beautiful beasts, aren’t they? We’ll make ‘em ours, boss. You’ll see.”

Fenris nodded. Then, to his mild surprise, Mother Giselle approached him and bowed slightly. “Your Worship, if I may have a moment of your time…”

Fenris raised his eyebrows at Bull, who shrugged and wandered away with a wave. Fenris turned to the Chantry sister. “Call me Fenris, please,” he said tiredly. “What do you need?”

“I have news regarding one of your… companions,” she said. “The mage from Tevinter.”

There was a certain coolness to her tone that was familiar to Fenris. He tilted his head curiously. “You are not fond of Dorian?” he asked. Then suddenly he realized something.

He leaned away from her slightly. “This is why you disliked me when we first met. Because I am from Tevinter,” he said flatly.

She bowed her head slightly. “You have proven your valour, Inquis– Fenris. That young man, however…” She straightened and looked Fenris in the eye. “In any case, my feelings are of no importance. I have been in contact with his family: House Pavus, out of Qarinus.” She blinked curiously. “Are you familiar with them?”

Fenris narrowed his eyes slightly. Had she forgotten his history, or was she simply being polite? “Yes, I am,” he said tersely. “Why would a southern Chantry sister contact a Tevinter magisterial family?”

“I didn’t contact them, Inquisitor,” she said calmly. “They contacted me. The family sent a letter describing the estrangement from their son and pleading for my aid.” She handed Fenris the letter. “They’ve asked to arrange a meeting: quietly, without telling him. They fear it’s the only way he’ll come.” She demurely clasped her hands together. “Since you seem to be on good terms with the young man, I’d hoped–”

“Why the secrecy?” Fenris demanded. “It could be a trap.”

“That did occur to me,” she admitted. “What if it is a plot of those mages – the Venatori?” She sighed and bowed slightly. “Another reason to put this in your hands. I pray that isn’t the case, but if it is, you are far better equipped than I to respond to such treachery.”

Fenris folded his arms. “I still don’t understand why they contacted you. If it is an innocent attempt to speak with Dorian, they should have written to him directly.”

Giselle spread her hands slightly. “I am of the Chantry. Not of the Imperial Chantry, of course, but they understand what an Andrastian mother represents. They believe the young man would refuse, and the letter implies he would have cause. Yet they are remorseful for whatever came before.” She widened her eyes pleadingly at Fenris. “I know there is deceit in bringing the young man to this meeting without his foreknowledge. But does this not lead to greater kindness if there is potential for reconciliation?”

Fenris studied her shrewdly. For all her altruistic talk of reconciliation, Fenris could see the truth: she wouldn’t be displeased if Dorian left the Inquisition.

He pursed his lips. It didn’t escape his notice that he himself should have good reason to want Dorian gone, as well. Dorian was a Tevinter mage, after all, and one who clearly enjoyed his magic and the power it gave him. And yet…

Fenris unfolded his arms. “I will speak to Dorian. If this is a Venatori plot, I will kill them myself.”

Giselle’s expression tensed with worry, but she bowed to Fenris more deeply. “As you see fit, Inquisitor. I do believe they just want to talk; to understand why Dorian felt he had to come here.” She straightened and took a step back. “They wished to meet in the Redcliffe Village: away from Skyhold, but not in Tevinter.”

Fenris frowned. This only enhanced his suspicions that the magister was attempting to set them up. “Why away from Skyhold?” he asked.

“You make them nervous, I think,” she said.

Fenris blinked in surprise, then scoffed bitterly. “They should be nervous,” he growled. Then he remembered his manners and nodded graciously to Giselle. “Thank you for bringing this to my attention,” he said. “I will deal with it.”

She nodded in farewell and floated away, and Fenris read the letter with a frown. Feeling slightly troubled now, he walked toward Josephine’s office to pull Dorian aside, but before he reached the door, Hawke came out.

She smiled conspiratorially at Fenris as she closed the door behind her. “They’re thick as thieves in there,” she said. “I asked them to arrange basically everything. One million less things for us to deal with.” Then her smile faded slightly, and she squeezed his arm. “Are you all right?”

Fenris nodded. “I will need to speak to Dorian shortly. But we can let them work for now.” He tilted his head toward the stairs to the upper courtyard. “Let us speak with Cassandra about your idea for training the civilians in basic defense.”

“Oh, it wasn’t my idea,” Hawke said as they left the Great Hall. “You made me think of it–”

“It was your idea,” he repeated. “And it is a good one.”

She smirked and shrugged. “Well, if you insist on telling me I’m a wonderful strategic genius, who am I to disagree?”

Fenris smirked and pinched her waist, and she giggled and traipsed down the stairs. But when they made their way toward the usual training area where Cassandra could be found, she wasn’t there.

Fenris glanced around the courtyard. Sometimes she trained with Blackwall and Cullen’s men, but she wasn’t anywhere to be seen.

Hawke gestured toward the annex that served as the quartermaster’s outpost during the day and as sleeping quarters at night. “Maybe our lovely Lady Seeker is taking a nap?” she suggested.

Fenris huffed. “She should be so lucky,” he drawled. He quietly pushed open the annex door.

The quartermaster bowed to them as they entered, and Fenris nodded a greeting before looking around. Then he spotted Cassandra.

She was sitting on a stool by the fire, completely engrossed in a book. She didn’t seem to notice as they made their approach, and Fenris subtly cleared his throat. “Cassan–”

She shot to her feet, and the book clattered from her lap to the floor. Cassandra snatched it up and clutched it to her chest, but not before Fenris saw the distinctive cover.

His eyebrows leapt high in surprise, and Hawke gasped. “Cass! Are you reading Swords and Shields?”

“No!” Cassandra blurted. “Of course not! I’m – it’s…”

Hawke laughed. “Now now, don’t be embarrassed! You know Fenris came up with the title for that book?”

Cassandra turned to Fenris with alarmingly wide eyes. “You did?” she asked. Then she scowled and shook her head. “I mean… I – I am only reading it because there was nothing else to do…”

“She’s read it three times,” Cole said from behind Fenris.

Fenris pursed his lips as Cole wandered over Cassandra’s side. After two weeks of travelling together, he was so accustomed to Cole’s inconvenient appearances that they didn’t even alarm him anymore.

Cassandra glared at Cole with swiftly reddening cheeks. “You!” she snapped. “I told you to stop spying!”

Cole blinked. “You read it out loud to me,” he said, in a slightly hurt tone. He twisted his fingers together. “I don’t like the Captain, either.”

Cassandra tutted loudly. “I never did that!” she protested stridently. Too stridently.

Hawke was beaming at Cassandra as though her wildest dreams had come true. Cassandra, on the other hand, was looking more and more uncomfortable with every passing moment.

Fenris looked at Cole. “Go tell Hawke what your favourite part of the book was.” He gave Hawke a meaningful look.

She chuckled. “Fine, fine,” she said cheerfully. She slung her arm around Cole’s neck and pulled him toward the annex doors. “Come on, Cole, why you don’t you tell me what you understood about that bit that took place in the empty office during the party scene…”

Fenris waited until the annex door closed, then leaned against a nearby support beam and folded his arms. “What Hawke said is true. I did come up with that title.”

Cassandra made a disgusted noise, and Fenris bit back a smirk. She nervously rubbed the cover of the book with her thumb, then she sighed and plopped down on the stool once more. “All right. I confess,” she said. “I enjoy this… smutty literature. You must know this one ends on a cliffhanger, and it was written so long ago…” She looked up, and Fenris raised his eyebrows at the hope in her face.

“You’re Varric’s friend,” she said excitedly. “You could ask him to finish it – command him to…!”

Fenris raised one sardonic eyebrow. “It is my impression that death threats aren’t particularly conducive to a writer’s creativity,” he drawled.

“Death threats did not seem to harm him when I asked him about you and Hawke,” she muttered.

Fenris narrowed his eyes, and Cassandra sighed heavily and lowered her head in defeat. “I know what you’re thinking,” she said. “I am being unfair. But…” She trailed off and shook her head, then glared at Fenris. “Pretend you don’t know this about me. And whatever you do, don’t tell Varric.”

Fenris steadily returned her gaze. “Perhaps you should tell Varric. I think he would be pleased. That’s his least successful book, you know.”

Cassandra’s eyes widened. “How?” she gasped. “It’s… all right, it is terrible. And magnificent. But…” She broke off and rubbed her nose, then looked at Fenris once more. “I am sorry, Fenris, I… you must have come here for a reason. Is there some way I can help?”

“No,” Fenris said. “It was nothing urgent, in any case.” This highly unexpected encounter was enlightening for more reasons than one. It certainly explained a lot – namely, the reason that Cassandra became so flustered and defensive every time that Varric’s books were mentioned. But it also made Fenris realize something rather comforting: that he and Hawke weren’t the only ones who wanted – or needed – a little bit of downtime from the Inquisition now and then. If even Cassandra was taking some leisure time to read, then perhaps it wasn’t so unusual for Fenris to crave some time alone with Hawke to simply relax and be.

He stepped away from the support pillar. “Enjoy your book, Cassandra. For the fourth time.”

She shot him a suspicious look, then smirked and opened the book. “Very funny, Inquisitor.”

Fenris chuckled at her retaliatory use of his title. Then he stepped out of the annex and back into the late afternoon sun.

Hawke was leaning against the side of the annex with a grin on her face. She skipped toward him and slipped her hand through the crook of his elbow. “This is incredible,” she chirped. “This is the best thing I’ve learned about anyone since we discovered that Bull wears thongs.”

Fenris winced at the reminder. Then he nodded his head toward the Great Hall. “Come. We’re going to tell Varric.”

If possible, Hawke’s face lit up even more. “Wait – seriously? You’re gossiping? Who are you and what have you done with my Fenris?”

Fenris tsked. “I am not gossiping. I don’t gossip,” he said primly. “We’re going to persuade Varric to write the sequel for her.”

Hawke barked out a laugh. “You must be fucking kidding. He swore he would never write a sequel. He refused even when Merrill begged him with puppy eyes. He refused puppy eyes!” Then she gave him a shrewd look. “He might partial to your puppy eyes, though. I know I am.”

Fenris gave her a chiding look. “It is a strategic move. Cassandra and Varric have been at odds since the moment we’ve known her. If he gives her a new chapter of Swords and Shields...” He shrugged. “Perhaps she will finally forgive him. It is a simple team-building strategy.”

Hawke smiled at him and didn’t respond. He raised an eyebrow at her. “What?”

She hugged his arm as they made their way up the stairs. “You want them to be friends. Admit it.”

Fenris grunted. “Whether they are friends is of no consequence. Whether they can work together, however…”

Hawke patted his arm affectionately. “It’s all right, Fenris. I want them to kiss and make up, too.”

Fenris didn’t reply. Her words evoked a memory from the blighted future he’d seen in Redcliffe – perhaps the only bright thing about the entire experience: Cassandra and Varric’s unexpected warmth towards each other.

He smiled slightly at the thought, then nodded a greeting to Varric, who was sitting at his usual letter-strewn table near the fire.

“Hey, Fenris. Hawke,” he said affably. He tossed an unopened envelope into the fire. “Care for a game of wicked grace?”

Hawke picked up an envelope from his junk mail pile. “Actually–”

Fenris placed a hand on her wrist and looked at Varric. “I have something to tell you, and I’d like to request that you not gloat.”

A smirk instantly lit Varric’s face. “Oh. This is going to be good.”

Hawke laughed and tossed the envelope into the fireplace. “Oh, Varric, you have no idea.”

Fenris took a seat in one of Varric’s chairs. “Cassandra is waiting for the sequel to Swords and Shields.”

Varric’s face went slack with surprise, then lifted into a grin. “I must have heard that wrong. It sounded like you just said that Cassandra read my smuttiest novel.”

Hawke plopped down in a chair beside Fenris. “Not just once, either. Three times!” she crowed. “You have a huge fan.”

“It’s true,” Fenris said. “She’s very fond of your work.”

Varric shook his head and chuckled. “If it’s a sequel she wants, she’ll be waiting for a while. You guys know I wasn’t planning to write a sequel to that garbage. The last issue barely sold enough to pay for the ink.”

Fenris picked up a piece of Varric’s junk mail and idly picked at the envelope. “Consider it this way: after all that has… happened, it might be a way to get into her good graces.”

“Huh,” Varric said shrewdly. “So this is an Inquisition-related bribe, then?”

Hawke sighed. “Wrong tack, Fenris. Try again.”

Fenris shot her an exasperated look, then turned to Varric once more. “You and Cassandra could be friends,” he said bluntly. “I am certain of it. But…” He trailed off as he tried to find a way to verbalize his thoughts without painting Cassandra in an unflattering light. Cassandra could be stubborn and defensive and downright hostile, it was true. But she was also willing to admit when she was wrong, if people were patient with her.

Fenris rubbed the back of his neck. “Pretend… pretend she is me,” he finally said. “But instead of wine and gambling, you can win her over with… smutty literature.”

Hawke reached over and twined her fingers with his, and Fenris admired her smile. Varric stroked his chin thoughtfully. “So you want me to start writing a sequel of the worst book I’ve ever written,” he said slowly. “For Cassandra.” He chuckled. “That’s such a terrible idea, I have to do it. On one condition: I get to be there when you give it to her.”

Fenris twisted his lips; Cassandra wasn’t going to like that. But Hawke squeezed his hand. “Oh come on, Fenris, let Varric come,” she pleaded. “Besides, it’ll give them a better chance to make up. Face-to-face apologies all around, maybe a hug and some tears…”

Varric made a retching noise. “Andraste’s knickers, Hawke. You should write the sequel with soppy ideas like that.”

Hawke laughed, and Fenris sighed. “All right, fine. You can be there. But no gloating,” he warned.

Varric chuckled. “I wouldn’t dream of it.” He picked up his plume and pulled over a fresh piece of parchment. “You know, the fact that the book is terrible just makes it more worthwhile, somehow.”

Hawke rose from her chair. “Just because it sold poorly doesn’t mean it was bad,” she told him.

Fenris pulled a little face. “It is rather bad, though.”

Hawke tutted and pinched his arm, and Varric snickered. “All right, all right, go on and leave me in peace, would you? I have serious work to do.” He dipped his plume in a bottle of ink and immediately started scribbling.

Hawke smirked, then took Fenris’s hand. “What are you up to now?” she said quietly. “I was thinking we could have a nice dinner alone…”

He squeezed her fingers. “That sounds ideal,” he replied. “But I need to speak to Dorian first. I will meet you in our chambers when I am done.”

“All right,” she said, and she sauntered away toward the door that led to the kitchens. Fenris, meanwhile, made his way through the door into Solas’s rotunda, intending to take the stairs up to the library where Dorian would surely be found.

He glanced into the rotunda, then stopped short in shock. The previously-craggy stone walls were now a smoothly plastered eggshell-white, save for one large panel which was adorned with a vast and masterful mural.

Fenris closed his mouth and took a silent step into the rotunda. Solas was on the scaffolding intently working on a second panel of the mural; his sleeves were pushed up to his elbows, and a row of paint-filled jars were neatly lined up at his feet as he worked on the enormous fresco with brisk, confident strokes.

Solas and Cole had only returned to Skyhold one day before Fenris, Hawke, Varric and Cassandra. So that meant Solas had finished an entire mural in one single day? Fenris had no idea that Solas even knew how to paint.

He watched in silence for a while as Solas worked on the fresco, and it slowly dawned on him what the completed panel showed: the Breach, depicted as an ominous eye in the sky.

“What is this?” he said.

His voice echoed through the rotunda more loudly than he’d intended. He pressed his lips together as Solas turned around. The elven mage’s forehead was furrowed in concentration, but his expression cleared somewhat as he met Fenris’s eye.

“Skyhold is your fortress. These are your actions,” he said simply. He turned back to the wall and continued to paint.

Fenris didn’t reply. He wasn’t sure how to. He watched Solas paint for another minute before silently leaving the room and making his way up the stairs.

Dorian was leaning against a bookshelf flipping through a tome. He smiled as Fenris approached and snapped the book shut. “Ah, if it isn’t the groom-to-be!” he said jauntily. “Naturally, you’ve come to me for advice on your wedding garb. You have a good physique for something fitted – not as good as mine, of course, but good enough. Now, I can lend you something, but you’ll have to have it taken in, and you’re not allowed to insult my excellent taste–”

“Dorian,” Fenris interrupted. “You should look at this.” He pulled Giselle’s letter from his pocket.

Dorian’s eyebrows rose. “Ooh, a letter. Is it a naughty letter? A humorous proposal from some Antivan dowager?” He wiggled his eyebrows.

Fenris snorted; he couldn’t help it. Dorian’s manner reminded him of Hawke at times. “Unfortunately, no,” he said. “It is from Tevinter. From your father.”

Dorian’s saucy grin instantly transformed into a neutral mask, and he pulled back his half-extended hand. “My father. I see,” he said. “And what does Magister Halward want, pray tell?”

Fenris curiously studied Dorian’s uncharacteristically serious expression. “A meeting, or so it says,” he replied. “I am concerned that it is a Venatori plot.” He gestured again for Dorian to take the letter.

Dorian hesitated, then snatched the letter from Fenris’s fingers. “Let me see this,” he muttered. He paced slowly back and forth as he read the letter, and Fenris watched as Dorian’s expression twisted into fury.

Finally he looked up at Fenris and angrily shook the letter. “‘I know my son’?” he spat. “What my father knows of me could barely fill a thimble! This is so typical,” he raged. “I’m willing to bet this ‘retainer’ is a henchman hired to knock me on the head and drag me back to Tevinter.” He crumpled the letter, then shoved it into his pocket. “Reaching out to that blasted Mother Giselle... Maker knows why he thinks I would travel anywhere with her.”

Fenris folded his arms. “It is strange, I agree.” He jerked his chin at Dorian’s pocket. “So? Could it be a Venatori trap? Every magister is rotten with corruption, but just how corrupt is your father?”

Dorian shot him a resentful look. “You know, after all we’ve done together, I would hope–”

“Dorian,” Fenris interrupted a bit more loudly. “I am not talking about you. I am talking about your family. Do you think the Venatori could be influencing them?”

Dorian pursed his lips, then exhaled sharply. “I can’t say for sure,” he admitted. “I would like to say my father would never be involved in something as nasty as the Venatori, but… I have learned the hard way not to underestimate what my father is capable of.”

His tone was extremely bitter, and Fenris eyed him speculatively. He knew that Dorian didn’t see eye to eye with his family, at the very least because of their attempts to marry him to a girl he didn’t know. But from the look on Dorian’s face, it was clear that the issues were far deeper than that.

Fenris wasn’t particularly inclined to pick at the problem, however. As he’d told Hawke, he wasn’t one to gossip or pry. Furthermore, Hawke would be waiting for him in their chambers, and Fenris could openly admit that all he really wanted was to spend some quiet time with her.

He decided to stick to business. “I don’t think you should meet this alleged retainer in Redcliffe,” he said. “We should force them to come to Skyhold.”

Dorian looked at him in surprise, then smirked. “Did you hate the Hinterlands that much, then? I’ll admit, it is one enormously boring unending sprawl of land…”

Fenris shrugged. “I’ll admit I am not fond of the place, but that is not the point. Skyhold is safer. It’s manned by our soldiers and protected by… whatever ancient magic is in these walls.”

Dorian’s smile widened, and he huffed and turned away. “All of a sudden you care about my safety?” he said. “I’m not sure I know my place in the world if you aren’t snarling at me or banishing me to the bog.”

Fenris sighed in undisguised exasperation. “It is for all of our safety that this so-called family retainer comes to Skyhold,” he said. “But yes, Dorian, you will be safer if they come here.” He was thinking of that terrible time when Varania had come to Kirkwall. Fenris had suspected a trap, and yet he’d agreed to Varania’s request to meet at the Hanged Man: a public place where Danarius’s men had been waiting to ambush him and Hawke, and where his shameful past was aired to everyone present. Perhaps if he had forced Varania to come to the mansion instead…

He mentally shook off the thoughts. It didn’t matter now; the sordid matter was done, and his sister was off resenting him somewhere in Ferelden, if Cole was to be believed. But Dorian could at least benefit from Fenris’s mistakes.

“You must keep a level head,” he advised. “If this is a trap – whether from the Venatori, or a personal one – we should stand against them on familiar ground.”

Dorian’s smile slipped away as Fenris spoke. He dropped his eyes to his feet and inhaled slowly, then looked up and met Fenris’s eye once more. “You should write to them,” he said. “You tell them to come here. If he – if they agree to come here, knowing the dreaded Inquisitor himself invited them straight into the wolf’s maw–”

Fenris narrowed his eyes. “Do not call me ‘the wolf’,” he said, very quietly.

Dorian raised his eyebrows. “Why not?” he said. “The Inquisition is like a pack of wolves, after all. Intelligent and deadly, and following the most intelligent and deadly of all. Well, after myself, of course.” He preened playfully.

Fenris pursed his lips, then looked away. A moment later, he turned back to Dorian. “Fine. I will write to the cursed magister,” he growled. “But if he refuses to send his man to Skyhold, we are not going to Redcliffe. I will not risk the threat.”

Dorian nodded. “That’s fair.”

Fenris nodded as well, then turned away. But before he could reach the stairs, Dorian spoke once more. “Fenris,” he said.

Fenris turned back to face him. Dorian’s expression was uncharacteristically serious. “Thank you,” he said. “For… for not keeping that letter a secret.”

Fenris raised an eyebrow. “Keeping it a secret would serve no purpose. I wasn’t about to force you into something without your knowledge.”

Dorian gazed at him in silence for a moment, then made a sound somewhere between a cough and a laugh and rubbed his nose. “Yes, well. I’ll simply chalk it up to you being an intractable gossip.” He grinned at Fenris. “Shameful, really, the way you came running straight to me with a top-secret letter from dear Mother Giselle. I can just imagine her face when you said you were going to tell me. I’m surprised she didn’t keel over in shock at someone defying her oh-so-benevolent suggestions.”

Fenris eyed Dorian speculatively for another moment. He really did behave uncannily like Hawke at times.

Fenris leaned against the banister and lifted his chin. “You understand why I sent you to the Fallow Mire with Blackwall and the others, don’t you?”

“Of course,” Dorian said. “To punish me for being so beautiful and well-dressed.”

Fenris ignored his joke. “I sent you because you can be trusted,” he said bluntly. “Your judgment is reasonably clear.” He shrugged. “For a Tevinter mage.”

Dorian stared at him, and Fenris was alarmed to see tears welling in his eyes. He dropped Dorian’s gaze and frowned awkwardly at the floor.

Dorian laughed, then sniffled subtly. “Well, that’s better than most people here would give me, I suppose,” he drawled. “‘Reasonable for a Tevinter mage’. If I’m lucky, you’ll see me as just a regular mage someday. Perhaps even – Maker forbid – a person!”

Fenris scoffed and turned away. “I am leaving now,” he muttered.

“I’ll miss you,” Dorian called out jokingly. “Don’t kill anyone without me.”

Fenris grunted and made his way down the stairs. At the bottom of the stairs, he slowed and peered into the rotunda once more.

Solas was on the ground now, and he was working his way through the bottom half of the mural. Fenris’s gaze was drawn to the figures that Solas had sketched at the bottom of the panel: the silhouettes of a pack of wolves.

The Inquisition, he thought. Depicted as a wolf pack, just as Dorian had said.

He nibbled the inside of his cheek for a moment. Then he went to his private quarters to find Hawke.

She was lounging on the bed, humming to herself and reading a book. She looked up with a smile as Fenris came up the stairs, then slid off of the bed and hurried over to the carpet in front of the merrily-lit fireplace.

A silver tray laden with food was waiting for them. Hawke sat on the carpet and patted the ground beside her. “Come on over, handsome,” she said. “Stay awhile.”

Fenris smiled at the warmth in her voice. He lowered himself to the ground with a groan, then stretched out flat on his back and folded one arm beneath his head. “A tempting invitation,” he said. “I am tempted to remain here for the rest of the night, in fact.”

“You should,” Hawke said. “It’s a nice lazy night. You can practically feel the laziness in the air. We should take advantage of it while we can.” She solicitously tucked a nearby cushion beneath his head, then plucked a grape from the tray and held it out inquiringly.

Fenris smirked. “Are you to feed me grapes, then? Am I a spoiled noble now that we sleep in this opulent room?”

She tutted playfully. “You could never be spoiled. But I will feed you grapes, if you like. Then I can rub your feet, then your back, then other things…” She wiggled her eyebrows salaciously.

Fenris chuckled, then opened his mouth to accept her offering. She popped the grape in his mouth, and he enjoyed the burst of sweetness as he bit into the crisp and juicy little fruit.

He chewed and swallowed with relish, and for a time he shamelessly allowed Hawke to feed him grapes and bread dipped in honey and small shreds of soft-stewed ram meat. She took a bite for every morsel she gave to him, and when the tray was empty, she stretched out beside him on her side and propped her cheek on her fist.

Fenris smiled at her. Her spiky dark bangs were falling into her warm copper eyes, and Fenris gently brushed them away. “Come here,” he murmured.

She smiled more broadly, then shifted so she was lounging on top of him with his thigh trapped between her legs. Fenris pulled her close with a gentle hand at her neck, and her smiling raspberry-red lips met his own.

They kissed in a slow and leisurely way, soothed by the soft hiss and snap of the fire. Despite her suggestive jokes, Hawke’s kisses and her tender hands were affectionate without being provocative, and Fenris enjoyed the simplicity of her warm body and her touch without the expectation of anything more.

He slowly ran his hand along the length of her back as they kissed, and her fingers toyed idly with his earlobe in a sweet caress. Hawke’s assessment of the mood tonight was correct; the evening was heavy with a certain kind of peaceful languor that had been lacking in Skyhold since the Inquisition had first occupied it. Fenris wasn’t sure why that was; the same problems they’d always had were still looming, with the threat of Corypheus and the gathering of the Wardens in the west and this upcoming blasted masquerade. But for some reason, he couldn’t bring himself to feel worried tonight.

It seemed like the others weren’t worried tonight, either. Fenris thought idly of Dorian and Cassandra reading, and Varric writing a new frivolous book. Then there was Solas with his painting, and Josephine happily preparing for a wedding instead of a war. On his way here, he’d spotted Blackwall working on a rocking griffon in the stables, and Cole playing fetch with Toby and a gaggle of small children.

Perhaps there was time for these moments of peace, despite the storm that was roiling around them.

There was one matter he probably should attend to tonight, though. He leaned away from Hawke’s lush lips and sighed. “I need to write a letter to a magister,” he said.

Hawke’s eyebrows jumped up on her forehead, and she barked out a little laugh of disbelief. “I’m sorry, did you just say you’re writing a letter to a magister? Will it be a death threat written in pig’s blood?”

He huffed. “Not quite. Dorian’s father supposedly wants to meet with him and persuade him to go back to the Imperium.”

Hawke’s smile faded, and she slowly sat upright. “Oh. Shit. He and his father do not get along.”

“I am aware,” Fenris said. He adjusted the cushion beneath his head and closed his eyes.

They fell quiet for a moment. Then Hawke spoke in a guarded tone. “Has Dorian told you why he and his father don’t get along?”

“No,” Fenris said. “I didn’t ask.”

“Why?” Hawke said. “I think he’d tell you if you did. He’s pretty open about it.”

Fenris opened his eyes. “It is Dorian’s personal business. It has no bearing on the work we’re doing.”

Hawke stared at him incredulously. “You’re kidding, right?”

Fenris frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Everyone here has personal shit that’s feeding the work we’re doing,” she exclaimed. “Including you. Including me! Besides,” she gave him a knowing look, “you can’t pretend your little friend-matchmaking with Cass and Varric isn’t personal. You want your friends to be friends, too.”

Fenris frowned more deeply. “There is no reason Cassandra and Varric can’t get along.”

Hawke lifted a skeptical eyebrow, and he sighed and rolled his eyes. “All right. I have a secret to tell you. But you can’t tell Varric or Cassandra.”

Her eyes went wide, and she stretched out on her belly beside him. “Tell me!” she urged.

Fenris sighed again. Now he really was gossiping. “In that dark future I saw with Dorian, Cassandra and Varric were very good friends.”

She blinked in surprise. “Oh.” Then her eyes went impossibly wide once more. “Oh. You mean…”

Her face was a picture of delight. Fenris shrugged. “I can’t say for certain from what we saw, but it is possible. There was a prolonged embrace...”

Hawke’s jaw dropped. “That’s fantastic,” she whispered. “Maker’s balls. No wonder you’re trying to get them together!”

Fenris tutted loudly. “I’m not trying to – they should get along for the Inquisition’s sake. Hawke.” He pinched her waist in rebuke, but it only made her laugh even more.

“Do not remind Dorian of this,” he threatened. “He is a gossip-monger. He will spread slanderous stories for the sake of entertainment.”

“All right, fine,” she giggled. She shifted closer to him and draped herself across his chest once more. “But you have to admit, it is kind of like being in Kirkwall now.”

He twisted a piece of her hair in his fingers. “It is right now, yes.” He wiggled his bare toes in front of the fire.

“No, I mean with the people here,” she said softly. “They’re our friends now, Fenris. It’s not just work colleagues anymore.”

Fenris exhaled slowly. “You have a very loose definition of friends,” he murmured.

“I know, but you don’t,” she replied. “And you know I’m right.”

He didn’t reply. He thought of Cassandra’s subtle humorous digs and of training with Blackwall, and Bull’s general affable nature. And then there was Dorian, with his flashy magic and his Hawke-like humorous mask…

He closed his eyes. “They do seem to need something all the time. That is rather like our friends in Kirkwall.”

Hawke poked his belly. “You’re such a grump,” she whispered.

He grunted and grabbed her hand. “Do not poke me,” he mumbled, and he playfully nibbled her knuckles.

She chuckled softly, and they lay in front of the fire for a moment longer. Then Fenris sighed quietly. “Would you care for dessert?”

“Hmm, maybe,” Hawke said. “They were making pie earlier, with those amazing apples from the garden. I still find it insane that those trees are producing fruit right now. It’s not even the right season for apples.”

Fenris hummed thoughtfully, then slowly sat upright as Hawke shifted off of his chest. “I will bring some pie,” he said. He kissed her on the forehead, then picked up the tray and made his way downstairs.

He was halfway to the door to the kitchen when Varric waved him over. “I’ve got something for you,” he said. He handed Fenris a tidy sheaf of parchment: about twenty pages’ worth.

Fenris put the tray on Varric’s table and glanced curiously at the neat writing on the top page. His eyes went wide with surprise. “The sequel to Swords and Shields? Already?”

Varric waved a dismissive hand. “Ah, it’s just the first chapter. I’ll have to pick away at it when I have the time. But if Cassandra is that much of a fan, she’ll be happy to read even this.”

Fenris couldn’t help it. He laughed. “You have been waiting for an excuse, haven’t you?” he teased. “Any excuse to write more of this titillating series. Don’t try and deny it.”

Varric chuckled. “Think what you want. All I know is it’ll be worth it to see the look on the Seeker’s face when I hand this to her. Now where’s Hawke? She can’t miss this.”

“Did someone call me?” Hawke sidled up to them and looked up at Fenris. “I forgot I wanted tea,” she explained. Then she turned to Varric. “What’s happening?”

Fenris showed her the sheaf of parchment. She took one look, then clapped a hand over her mouth and hopped in excitement. “Oh fuck me, this is fantastic. All right, forget everything else, let’s go find Cassandra right now.” She practically ran for the stairs that led to the upper courtyard.

Fenris thrust the parchment back at Varric, then darted after Hawke and grabbed her arm. “Hawke, be kind,” he warned.

“What do you mean? I’m always kind!” she protested. “Well, most of the time.”

Fenris shot her a reproving look. “You know what I mean. Do not taunt her about this.”

She widened her eyes. “Fenris, have a little faith. I honestly think she should start a book club. There’s no way she’s the only fan of Swords and Shields in this castle.”

Fenris continued to frown at her, and she blinked innocently back at him. Then Varric strolled past them with the chapter in his hands. “Come on, lovebirds, let’s go.”

They followed him toward the training area near the annex. Cassandra was training with one of the dummies, and as Varric and the others neared, she lowered her blunted sword.

She scowled at Varric. “What have you done now?” she demanded.

Varric raised one placating hand. “I get it, Seeker. You’re still sore.”

Cassandra belligerently folded her arms. “I am not a child, Varric. Do not suggest I am without reason.”

Varric shrugged. “A peace offering, then.” He held out the chapter to her.

She scowled more deeply and took the parchment. Beside Fenris, Hawke was practically vibrating with excitement, and he surreptitiously reached out and took her wrist to calm her.

Cassandra scanned the first page, and her scowl transformed into an expression of total joy. Then she forced her face back into a scowl and turned to Fenris.

“This is your doing,” she accused. She glared at Hawke. “Both of you!”

Hawke held up her hands in protest. “I had nothing to do with it! I’m an innocent bystander for once!”

“It was me,” Fenris said bluntly. “I told him. I hoped you’d be pleased.” He waved at the parchment in her hands. “I skimmed the first page. It is… well, it’s something.”

Varric snorted. “Thanks for that, elf.”

Cassandra’s cheeks were turning steadily turning red. She ducked her head and continued to scowl, and Varric sighed playfully. “Well, if you’re not interested, you’re not interested. Still needs editing, anyhow.” He reached for the parchment in her hands.

“No!” Cassandra blurted. She hugged the parchment to her chest.

Varric folded his arms. “You’re probably wondering what happened to the Knight-Captain after the last chapter.”

Cassandra hugged the parchment more tightly still. “Nothing should happen to her. She was falsely accused!”

“Well,” Varric said, “it turns out the guardsman –”

“Don’t tell me!” she squawked.

Hawke made a stifled choking noise and turned away, and Fenris tried his best to quell his own grin. Then Varric waved at him. “This is the part where you thank Fenris. I don’t normally give sneak peeks, after all.”

Cassandra’s eyes were on the ground. She rubbed the parchment with her thumb, then finally lifted her face. “Thank you,” she said softly.

She looked far happier than Fenris had ever seen. He jerked his chin at Varric. “You should thank Varric as well. I suspect his hand will be cramping in the morning.”

Cassandra bit her lip, then nodded to Varric. “Thank you, Varric. Truly.”

Varric bowed to her with a little flourish. “I am but a servant to my loyal readers,” he said.

Hawke snorted and slung her arm around his neck. “If that’s true, then where’s my fourth sequel to Hard in Hightown? I’ve only been waiting for at least five years.”

Varric chuckled. “Maybe you should get Fenris to sweet-talk me into it.” They began to wander back to the castle.

Fenris smirked at their departing backs, then turned to Cassandra. “That was not so terrible, was it?” he said. “There’s no need to be embarrassed.”

“I’m not embarrassed,” she retorted.

Her cheeks were still red. Fenris raised his eyebrows. “Good,” he said.

She lowered her arms and boldly lifted her chin. “Well, why should I be embarrassed? Romance is not the sole province of dithering ladies in frilly dresses. It is passion,” she insisted. “It is being swept away by the pursuit of an ideal. What is not to like about that?”

“Nothing,” Fenris said. “I agree with you, in fact.”

She stopped in surprise, and her shoulders loosened. “You do?”

“Yes,” Fenris said. He leaned against a nearby tree. “Passion allows you to get things done. It’s the impetus that drives you from thinking to doing.” His eyes drifted to the slender curve of Hawke’s hips as she and Varric walked up the stairs.

For the first time in years, Fenris thought of the so-called book he himself had written in Kirkwall: the poorly-spelled, angst-filled journal he’d scrawled during the interminable years before he’d finally found the courage to tell Hawke how he felt. He’d loved Hawke for so long, and he’d allowed it to fester in the shadows of his overwhelming hate. During the eight-odd years he’d been in Kirkwall, he’d harboured that passion for Hawke, that same unbreakable thread of love that bound them together now, and he’d foolishly expended that passion on the pages of parchment that he’d shoved beneath his sagging mattress in Kirkwall until he’d finally handed them to her.

It had taken Fenris many years, but he’d finally shared his passion with the one person who inspired it the most. In his mind, despite their disagreements and their differences, there was no one in this world who was more ideal for him than Rynne Hawke.

He looked at Cassandra once more. “Passion pushes you through the paralysis of doubt,” he said quietly. “Continue to pursue your ideals, Cassandra. Your passion does you proud, and you should not be embarrassed for it.”

Cassandra smiled broadly at him, then looked down at the pages in her hands and nodded. “I… I will. Thank you, Fenris.” She gazed covetously at the pages for a moment, then lifted her chin once more. “You have been a good friend, despite our… rocky beginnings. I am grateful for that.”

Fenris hesitated, then nodded to her. “You have been, as well.”

She smiled and took a step away. “I should return to training,” she said. She gestured to the rack of practice swords. “Would you care to train with me?”

She was holding Varric’s first chapter close to her chest. Fenris smiled faintly and shook his head. “Thank you, but no. You have important reading to do. Reports from Cullen and the like.”

Her smile became a smirk. “That is true,” she said, and they waved farewell.

As Fenris strolled back toward the stairs into the Great Hall, he surveyed the castle grounds. People were working, certainly – healers and gardeners and castle runners and all the crucial castle staff who kept Skyhold maintained and orderly. But there were just as many people lounging and relaxing: groups of soldiers playing cards and rolling dice, small children chasing each other while their parents chattered, and the sounds of lively talk and Maryden’s smooth singing drifting out of the tavern’s open door.

Fenris smiled to himself as he made his way up the stairs. The residents of Skyhold were enjoying this rare moment of peace. And when Fenris returned to his chambers and the refuge of Hawke’s open arms, he would enjoy it too.

20 notes · View notes

ourdawncomes · 5 years

Note

10, 14, 20 & 32 for thora & ruth!

inquisitor meme | accepting

10: Are there further beliefs/religious perspectives your Inquisitor is interested in or perhaps despises?

Thora is… relatively open and interested in other religious perspectives. There are some difficulties, especially some she runs into in early Inquisition. For instance, the Skywatcher you meet in the Fallow Mire early on the game has a less-positive reception than the Avvar she meets in the Frostback Basin. At that point in the game she’d only just been exposed to spirits as something more than what you hear Chanters sing about a few months ago at best, and hasn’t encountered any that haven’t tried to kill her. She admits Solas has a point that they could be people when he explains, but it takes much longer (and meeting spirits like Cole, Command, the Divine in the Fade, etc) for her to start internalising that point, so the idea of someone worshipping them strikes her as strange. But she’s not about to turn down his help, and if I remember right he’s not dismissive of the idea of Andraste (in banter in multiplayer he seems to just regard her as another goddess of sorts) so it would be rude to express more than confusion.

The Dalish gods she’s quite sure were never real (in any sense), but still has an interest in them especially as she grows more well-versed in the history. Though the events of Inquisition have her questioning that aforementioned belief even before she meets Mythal. Codices found, written by someone who refers to themself as Geldauran and refers to the gods in a much more personal sense than most religious texts she’s read/heard, etc. Discovering the first Inquisitor seemed to believe in both the Dalish gods and the Maker also resonated with her as someone who believes in both the Stone and the Maker.

The religions she’s most prejudiced against would be Tevinter beliefs, but in that case it’s pretty aimless, and her perception is changed by Dorian. He doesn’t seem too different from other Andrastrians despite the difference in Divine. Still, she finds the history of how they got to be Andrastrian in the first place to be mostly a case of trying to cover their asses. She would be deeply uncomfortable by anyone who worships the Old Gods, but has never ran into them as far as she knows. The Qun is sort of a quasi-religion along the lines of Confucianism, with a lot more philosophy and a lot less belief in a higher power, tangible or otherwise, but I’ll talk about it, anyway. She’s not a fan of it, having been in Kirkwall during Act II of Dragon Age II, and her brother having converted and left. Again, she doesn’t have much of an idea of what it involves, just that it separates families and invades cities. Her opinion of the Qun doesn’t change much for the better, either. She becomes more sympathetic to those living under it, but that’s not quite the same thing.

There’s also a matter of cults that pop up around the time of the Inquisition. Those who worship Corypheus she mostly feels pity for, her hatred mostly reserved for their god (though even he she feels some pity for in the end, she relates to the feeling of being abandoned by your god). And, of course, there’s the cult that’s formed around her. You have the more literal cult in the Hinterlands, who she recruits but sends away to help people, and the more general cult following that all Inquisitors probably have to live with for the rest of their lives– whether they’re Andrastrian or not. Thora’s most comfortable with those in the Inquisition who don’t see her as chosen by the Divine. She doesn’t like telling people they’re wrong, but she can never bring herself to fully believe she was chosen by anyone and that her position isn’t the result of having a good catching hand.

14: Which advisor did they listen to more often?

It’s pretty even, actually. Her morals most align with Josephine and a post-personal quest Leliana (softened), so I think she tends towards Josephine in particular, but not uniformly. Some of Josephine’s non-violent solutions still involved some kind of underhanded moves, and while Thora wasn’t above that, she also sometimes appreciated Cullen’s straightforward methods, even if it did lead to answers like “just stomp hills flat.” One example where I remember she always picks Cullen is when a noble sends a letter complaining about refugees and Cullen’s answer is to send soldiers to help the refugees, which was the most appealing answer especially given Josephine’s was to just ignore the letter. That being said, whenever magic or mages were involved Thora probably only listens to be polite. So overall, she listens to Josephine most, though later I think she listens as much to Leliana.

20: Which abilities did they specialize themselves in? Explain how the trainers convinced them.

Thora already had a specialisation by the time she became Herald, she was a Beserker, albeit the specific tradition that lives on on the Surface, which is to say, likely removed from what Oghren describes in Origins. She got convinced to take up that specialisation by Lantos (the dwarf who communicates with you during the Cadash war table missions) because after every fight she was always sick, or barely holding it back, and the figured if she got so angry she couldn’t see straight it might help. And he was right, mostly. She is still often sick after battles once she comes down from it, but by then she can remove herself from the situation. Lantos used this argument, and told her it was a traditional dwarven technique and Thora, being always eager to connect to traditional dwarf culture how she can, agreed.

The offer to find her a professional trainer, either a former professionally trained Beserker who is living on the Surface (like Oghren) or someone from Orzammar given permission to leave, similar to the armies promised to the Wardens during DA:O. The latter likely happens slightly later in Inquisition than the typical specialisation trainers are brought on, due to having to establish stronger ties to Orzammar first.

32: What are their thoughts on Skyhold? Is there a stronghold they would prefer over it?

Thora loves it. She probably would’ve loved it if Solas had brought them to an empty cave in the mountainside, but it turned out to be perfect. It’s in the mountains, but basks in sunlight, and it’s highly defendable. It feels like a meeting of her identities, although she’d feel stupid saying that, and frankly Thora doesn’t know strongholds well enough to say if there’d be one she prefers. None of the holds captured throughout Inquisition are as defendable or large, and while she can’t feel much about the magic at work at Skyhold, she trusts the people who say it’s there.

What I think Thora appreciates most about Skyhold is having space to call her own. Like, real space. She’s never had more than a little room with the Carta, a shared hovel in Haven. She doesn’t need a whole fortress, but that room at the top is something she might have dreamed about when she was a child.

Leaving it after Trespasser is unsurprisingly difficult. She takes most of her non-essential Stuff to Kirkwall, where Varric has secured her family a seat in the Merchant Guild and an estate, but nowhere will ever be as loved as Skyhold.

#aniente #( asks )#[ having to do this in two parts b/c the religion part got long ]#write me down in history ( thora | headcanons )#v; once more unto the breach ( thora | inquisitor )#the dawn will come ( queue )#[ ruth's is coming in a day or so ]

1 note · View note

moodybidoof · 5 years

Photo

The benefit of being stuck in the suburbs is I finally got around to answering this questionnaire. It’s really long and unedited and I don’t expect anyone to read it lol, but it was fun to do.

If nothing else you should look at the question “What stories does the clan have with moral lessons?” bc I literally just copied my favorite childhood fairy tale and it’s raw af.

Where in Thedas does the clan reside?

Until relatively recently they stayed close to the Frostback Mountains, mostly towards the south near the Arbor Wilds. During a lean winter in 8:82 Blessed, while settled in the Frostback Basin, they were attacked by a group of Avvar warriors who aimed to appease their gods with a live sacrifice. Several of the elves were killed, including the clan’s Second, and the Keeper was seriously wounded, so Marethari took charge and had them flee into the eastern lowlands.

They moved around the Korcari Wild and Brecilian Forest up until the start of the Fifth Blight, when they took a ship to the Free Marches and, as we all know, got stuck outside Kirkwall for years. After Marethari’s death and the chantry explosion, some of the clan members joined up with Merrill and the Kirkwall city elves to get to safety, and they continue to use the name Sabrae for their hodgepodge clan.

They stayed near Kirkwall and were offered a permanent home outside the city by Viscount Tethras in 9:44 Dragon - a gift for aiding in the reconstruction of the city.

What are the dangers of living where they live?

The Veil is thin around Sundermount, though that’s not so much of a problem as long as the clan is careful. Templars and apostates were obviously an issue soon after the chantry explosion, and not long after that there were red templars to deal with. Forces from Starkhaven also tried their hand at conquering the city, and all this chaos attracted looters, bandits, and the like.

Needless to say, things were a mess for a while.

Nowadays they still have to worry about the creatures that share Sundermount with them, but things have calmed down considerably. The biggest issue is finding game to hunt. The clan had already been in the area for several years and they're competing with the indigenous predators of the Vimmark Mountains. Also, the whole thin Veil issue was only exacerbated by all the death and magic that dominated Kirkwall for the last almost decade.

What are the benefits of living where they live?

In the years after Corypheus’ defeat, Varric’s boone to the elves went a long way to normalize their presence and give them the recognition they deserve, and of course they also have a friend in Guard-Captain Aveline. All things considered, the clan has very much made itself part of the city in a way that few elves of any origin have before

Since Kirkwall has once again become a trading hub, Clan Sabrae has access to goods from all across Thedas. Also, they’re settled right near a trove of ancient elven artifacts.

In what ways has their location shaped their culture and way of life?

Like I said before, they’re a part of the surrounding community to an extent that’s really unique to Dalish elves for sure, and even city elves; probably the only thing that’s comparable is Wycome’s city counsel, after the Inquisition got involved there. Many of the clan members are former city elves, so they still keep up close relations with those that chose to remain in the Alienage, and the clan is more attuned to the problems of their city cousins. It won’t be a surprise if within a generation, the Dalish children of Clan Sabrae grow up hearing a mix of traditional and modern elven stories.

Going back a bit, living in the Frostbacks for so long created a culture very much focused on preparing for the worst. They farmed and hunted when it was warm, then pickled and tanned anything they didn’t immediately need for the winter. If push came to shove, they would trade with trusted Avvar clans. Resources were scarce so they were very practical about how they used everything, and while they encouraged resourcefulness, they avoided anything that seemed like an unnecessary risk. There was a certain way of doing things, so that was the way it was done.

Halla can’t survive in the cold climates of the Frostbacks, so the clan hearded and bred harts instead - greater frostback elks, specifically - to use as draft animals. They didn’t start keeping halla again until they settled further east.

The wheels on their aravels could be switched out to sled runners.

Living near the Avvar and then in the Brecilian Forest meant that the clan had up close experience with spirits and hedge magic. Prior to the incident with Tamlen and Mahariel most of the clan members had a healthy suspicion of such things (for example, traditionally putting up wards in the doorways of their aravels and around camp to guard against spirits) but it wasn’t something that was taboo either. In fact, it wasn’t uncommon for the mages to create and work with docile sylvans to aid and protect the clan.

They knew many stories about ancient elven magic and old myths about Thedas’ wilder places, but after Marethari became Keeper she began telling those stories with a darker edge to them. After the Avvar attack, a trek through the Fallow Mire, and run in with feral sylvan and other demons, her view of wilder magic was tinged with fear - and then there was the incident with Tamlen and Mahariel. Marethari’s time as Keeper shifted the clan’s culture, but Merrill is trying help them shed their fear of mysterious magic.

Have they always been here, or did they come from elsewhere?

Oops I already wrote their whole story in the first question. So yeah, they’re from the Frostbacks originally, then southern Ferelden, before settling where they are now.

If so, where were they from before, when did they leave, and why?

Long story short, Avvar attacked the clan, the Keeper was injured and the second killed so Marethari had to make split-second decision as the clan’s First and lead them into the lowlands to the east. They traveled towards through the Korcari Wilds, where Marethari tracked down Flemeth and made a deal with her to secure the clan safe passage. They moved around the Wilds and the Brecilian Forest for almost 50 years until fear of the Blight and mounting suspicion from local Templars forced them north.

Are they nomadic? Semi-nomadic? Or do they have a permanent settlement? How has this affected them?

They used to be semi-nomadic, staying in roughly the same area but moving around enough to make sure they wouldn’t overuse the resources in one place or outstay their welcome with any nearby human settlements. Especially when they were in southern Ferelden, they were dogged by rumors of walking trees and “demon elves” (which weren’t entirely untrue), which attracted attention from the Chantry, so they had to make sure the Templars never caught up with them. This was just all the more reason for them to be as practical and cautious as possible, especially around the Chantry.

Their hunters had seen anything and everything you could think of; lurkers, giant spiders, demon trees, templars, the walking dead - you name it and they’ve probably had to fight it while they traveled through some of the weirder parts of Thedas. As a result, most of the clan members are trained to fight in some capacity, just in case.

They’re still getting used to having a permanent home now. Even the original Sabrae clan members among them have been around Kirkwall for ages at this point, but being in limbo is very different from settling in for the long haul. Though they are an independent settlement, they’re fairly involved in what’s going on in Kirkwall proper and obviously have strong connections with its people.

If they are nomadic/semi-nomadic, what are their migration habits like?

While they lived in the Frostbacks the clan moved as the weather changed, going further north in the winter and back south in the summer. They followed wild harts to ensure they always had game to hunt and pastures for their own animals. While they were settled in for a season they would set up tents covered in furs and skins to provide space to rest outside their aravels.

They ended up moving more often when they starting living further east because the land was far more unpredictable and they had to make sure they didn’t attract attention from any nearby human settlements. As a result they mostly lived out of their aravels and clearly had two types - ones to transport stuff, and ones that were homes.

In what ways does the clan sustain themselves? What do they have for resources, and how do they acquire/use/maintain them?

The nearby caves are full of nugs, mushrooms, and various ore, and even the giant spiders and deepstalkers can be used for the webs, venom, and scales.

The mountains themselves are home to august rams, hares, coyotes, and black bears, which provide the clan with meat, furs, leather, and (in the case of the rams) horns which can be carved into most anything. There’s also plenty of herbs and flowers native to the area, including a clearing of ironbark trees not far from the camp, which is of course an incredible resource.

In a pinch the clan could also always send a hunting party to the Planasene Forest or simply peruse the Kirkwall market stalls.

The problem is that almost everything in and under the mountains is dangerous, so scouts and hunters try to prepare themselves for anything from wild animals to darkspawn. Though, ideally, they won’t have to fight at all - instead preferring to use traps, poison, and stealth to their advantage. Clan Sabrae also has an abundance of mages from the fallen Circle, and having a magic on your side always makes things a little easier.

Imagine a spirit looking down at their site. What would they see?

Banners hung from stones at the city-side entrance to the camp, both a welcome and a warning to those arriving for Kirkwall. It’s a familiar shade of red, emblazoned with the white face of a halla.

Large aravels wrapped around the edges of an alcove in the mountain, forming makeshift walls. Some are flat-topped and covered in warm furs and skins; others look more like the landships humans expect to see, their red-orange sails wrapped tight for now. The camp itself has grown since the elves first arrived in Kirkwall, expanding further into the VImmark Mountains to accommodate the elves who’ve arrived from cities, Circles, and other Dalish clans. You can see from their mismatched clothing and the number of bare faces among the crowd that these elves all come from very different backgrounds, but the atmosphere of the camp is undeniably warm.

A shop is set up, where an old elf is chastising his young apprentices for the way they’re handling their ironbark tools. A red-headed elf sits among the halla, who’ve been penned just outside the camp; she looks at them like they’re her own children. A hunting party armed with wooden bows and ironbark blades returns from their adventures further into the mountains; they leave their catch - a deer - with another elf, before settling down by the campfire to listen to the stories a harhen is telling. The world was turned upside down, and these hunters know they must protect their clan from much worse than wild animals, but for a moment, in this place, they are safe.

What is their typical style of dress?

Furs and leather to keep them warm and protected, but otherwise it’s a hodgepodge. There are elves from all over that have joined the clan, and while a Circle mage might not want to keep wearing her robes, it’s easy enough to use to reuse the fabric and turn it into something new. They wear more shem-style clothing than you’d expected from a Dalish clan, but it’s all layered underneath typical elven armor, embroidered with elven style patterns, and tailored to better suit their tastes. Also, they wear closed toed shoes! They live on a mountain, they can’t just walk around barefoot.

What are their interactions/relations with outsiders/other Dalish like?

Like everything with this clan, it’s a mixed bag. They’ve welcomed elves from all over and even helped human mages, plus Keeper Merrill is obviously pretty on top of what’s happening with people in Kirkwall, so the clan itself is pretty open to outsiders but that doesn’t mean everyone is comfortable trusting shem yet, or that the shemlen are thrilled to have a Dalish clan right outside the city. If nothing else, the arrangement’s been good for trade.

As for other Dalish, there’s some tension there. Word has spread about Marethari’s death and Merrill’s eluvian, and while some people are thrilled to Clan Sabrae to share what they’ve learned at the next Arlathven, others seem to think that there might be some truth to the rumors of demons in their midst. There are also clans that disapprove of how many city elves they’ve taken in, but that’s something the clans have always disagreed about.

If strangers were to approach them, how do they react?

With a welcoming smile and dozens of elven arrows trained on the stranger from afar. Like their Keeper, the clan is warm and friendly, but they’re not naive. In addition to the usual dangers that the Dalish face, they’ve also had to deal with people looking for apostates among their ranks or elven servants who’ve been “stolen” from their homes, and obviously Clan Sabrae isn’t going to give up anyone who comes to them for protection.

What are their interactions/relations with each other like?

Like any family, there’s ups and downs. 8P

It was rough at first. After Marethari’s death the clan was leaderless, and those that chose to stay near Kirkwall did so mainly just because they had no idea where else to go. Even more fled after the Chantry explosion, and not all who stayed to help the city were willing to work with Merrill until it became clear that no one else could be the leader she’d become. It was hard to hold on to their fear of her when they saw her risk her life to protect them and the city elves; saw in her the familiar young woman many of them had grown up with, more willful and loving than ever - not some abomination.

There’s still some tension around the mages, and of course arguments arise around day-to-day cultural differences but at the end of the day they’ve all got each other’s backs.

If a clan member wanted to leave the clan, how do they react?

There’d be a kerfuffle as they said their goodbyes and the clan would send them off with some supplies for the journey ahead, but no one’s gonna stop them. At this point they have a lot of elves coming and going, but even clan members who’ve been around forever are always free to leave if they wish.

What roles does the clan have, and what do they consist of?

Ofc there’s the Keeper, with her First and Second.

Master Illen is the master craftsman, and he trains many apprentices in creating armor, weapons, aravels, furniture, and even overpriced trinkets to sell to shemlen. After living so close to Kirkwall for so long they’ve started sending dedicated merchants into the city, many of whom are former city elves. With more mages in the clan they’ve also started enchanting amulets and such, though they mostly keep those for their hunters.

Maren is the head groom and Halla Keeper, and there are others who tend to the horses and mules they now keep as well.

A Hearthkeeper tends to things at home along with many of the other haren, keeping watch over the young children while their parents go about their daily duties.

There’s a healer whose versed in both healing magic and herbal remedies.

In recent years two Master Huntsmen have taken up training everyone in the clan to defend themselves, in addition to running more intensive drills with the hunters and scouts. There are always guards posted around the camp at all times - day and night - and those who venture from the camp always travel in tight-knit groups. The clan’s Second has also become involved in training the hunters who are mages, taking special care to make sure they can defend themselves against templars (both human and red).

How many people are part of the clan on average?

About 40 and growing. They’ve been stationary for a long time, which made it easy for other elves to find a join them. While many members fled after the Chantry explosion, new elves joined them seeking protection, especially mages who were fleeing the Gallows. Now that their home has been officially recognized by the Viscount they’ve attracted that much more attention.

What is the history behind the formation and building of the clan?

Sabrae was an elven lord during the time of the Dales, and a friend of the Emerald Knights Mahariel and Talas. During the Second Exalted March, Sabrae and Talas fled into the Arbor Wilds, leaving Mahariel and the other Emerald Knights behind to fight in Chantry invasion. As the Andrastian forces moved even further south, the newly formed clan continued into the Frostback Mountains.

The clan is obviously named after Sabrae, and Talas’ ancestors remained with the clan right up until recently; the line ended with Marethari. (Mahariel went on to found a different clan, where Mahariel’s name and mother are from. The ancient history between the clan founders is part of the reason why Mom’s elders didn’t want her to be with the Keeper of Clan Sabrae.)

What stories does the clan have with moral lessons?

The Halla and Her Three Kids, a fairy tale in which a halla mother goes out to forage, and warns her children not to leave the aravel while she’s away. She sings them a song and tells them to only open the door when they hear it. A servant of the Dread Wolf hears this and uses his wicked magic to change his voice and trick the kids into letting him in - only the youngest child is clever enough to be suspicious, and he hides while his two brothers are gobbled up.

When the mother halla returns she’s of course devastated, but her grief and rage are a powerful motivator. She calls upon Mythal as both a mother and as one seeking justice, Falon'Din to guide her lost children, and thanks Sylaise for keeping at least one child safe - and then she and her youngest begin to work on a trap.

The mother cooks a rich meal, and sets a special seat over a hidden pit, which is filled with embers and slow-burning firewood. She then invites the wolf to come to her home and mourn with her, as if she doesn’t know he is to blame. As he eats the chair grows heavier and heavier, until it collapses and he falls into the fire below. As he burns and pleads for his life, the mother tells him that she does as the gods have taught her: “a death for a death and a burn for a burn”. She and the child then finish off their enemy with a stoning, and all the halla in the clan celebrate with a real feast.

(This is an actual story I grew up with.)

What legends does the clan have about their people/history?

Clan Sabrae tells the story of a skilled hunter named Harralan, whose clan once lived in the Brecilian Forest. Harralan was arrogant and full of anger; he resented the life his people lived and dreamed of returning to the days when his people ruled cities and nations of their own. Though his wish was understandable, he thought of little else and allowed his heart to be clouded by his bitterness; so full of hate was he, that he attracted the attention of a rage demon.

The demon transformed him into Mythallen - a child of vengeance. Though he espoused concern for the future of the People, and for the injustices they have suffered, in truth he understood nothing of sympathy, compassion, forgiveness, or true leadership. Instead, he enslaved, yoking others to his revenge, transforming them into little more than weapons, extensions of his will.

The clan was able to destroy Mythallen, but too few of them remained to continue on as one. The remaining elves joined other clans, while their dead were remembered in legend.

How do clan members spend their leisure time? What do they do for fun?

They’ve picked up some games from humans - Wicked Grace being a particularly popular one. They also have their own gambling game that involves a four sided top, and some clan members have started combining both games.

The harens don’t like it, but rock climbing is becoming the entertainment of choice for the younger members of the clan.

Also, reading! Many of the mages brought books with them from the Circle, plus Clan Sabrae now has unprecedented access to books that human and dwarven traders brought with them to Kirkwall.

What kind of laws/rules does the clan have?

Aside from the obvious, “be a respectable member of society” stuff, hunters and craftsmen are taught to respect the balance of the land and to use every part of the animals they hunt.

Everyone has a job to do, and every job is important. Whether you watch the children, whittle trinkets, or are the Keeper, every role is equally important to the survival of the clan.

Members of the clan are obligated to give mythvhen - a word that literally translates to righteousness, or righteous heart. This means to help others simply for the sake of helping, without receiving or expecting any recognition in return.

There are all sorts of rules associated with specific holidays and religious practices.

If a clan member breaks these rules, what punishments are there?

Depends on the severity obviously. A scolding from the Keeper (and probably every hahren, just for good measure), extra community work, exile at the worst. Unless something really terrible happens, the focus is less on punishment and more on understanding why the rule was broken, and explaining to the clan member why it’s important.

What is the clan’s culture surrounding birth?

During the first three months of pregnancy, couples and the healer won’t tell anyone else about the birth, to protect the baby from the evil eye. Even after the pregnancy is revealed, parents won’t even discuss naming the baby and nothing is prepared aside from what the child will need right after it’s born (so no toys and things like that).

Wards on the family’s aravel should be inspected, to make sure that spirits are being kept out.

A mother usually prays more often to Mythal, and a father to Elgar’nan. They pray to Sylaise to make their home safe and welcoming, and Andruil to keep the Dread Wolf at bay.

The birth itself is a joyous occasion, and the whole clan gets involved. A week after the child is born, the clan celebrates with a feast and welcomes them into the family. This is when the child is named, and the Keeper will say the first prayer for them using their new name, asking each god to watch over them.

What is the clan’s culture surrounding death?

When a clan members dies, the burial process begins immediately.

The dead is covered until they are with the Keeper, at which point they are uncovered and washed with water from a mountain stream. They are then dressed in simple burial clothing - white cloth, nothing more - and a sash is wrapped around their waist and tied in a way that represents the god of their vallaslin. (If they were too young to have been tattooed yet, the sash represents Falon'Din.)

From death until burial the dead is never alone, and those with them regularly recite prayers to Falon’Din, asking for safe passage into the beyond.

No more than a day after the death, the body is brought to the graveyard at the top of Sundermount and laid to rest alongside their ancestors. A tree is planted to mark their grave, and the Keeper asks Mythal to watch over her people even in death - the prayer directed towards the statue of Mythal that stands in the graveyard.

The deceased’s family mourn for a week, rarely leaving their aravel and putting vanity aside to allow themselves all possible space to grieve and process. Clan members will take care to bring them food and drink, keep them company, and take over their daily duties. After the week is up they return to work, but of course the clan is mindful of the pain they are still feeling.

What are the most monumental parts of life for clan members?

Receiving their vallaslin is an obvious one, as it means they are now an adult in the clan’s eyes. Young elves spend the day in contemplation, meditating on which vallaslin is most suited to them. Once they’re ready, they will wash and purify themselves, then don a traditional shawl that has likely been passed through their family. At sundown the Keeper will begin applying the vallaslin, during which time the young elf must make sure not to make a sound.

In what ways does the clan honor and revere the Elven Pantheon?

In every way? Lol

By which I mean, there are prayers for literally everything. Before a hunt, after a hunt, when skinning an animal, when purifying a home, when setting magical wards, when eating a meal, when making an herbal remedy. A prayer for an elven birth, a different prayer for a halla birth. A prayer to keep a secret, and a prayer to reveal hidden knowledge. And so on.

Some are longer than others, some are more formal, some are made up on the spot, but the gods are woven into everything. The clan doesn’t pray with the intention of being heard, but they want to acknowledge their heritage and give thanks that they can carry on these traditions.

What practices does the clan have in regards to vallaslin? How is an elf determined to be ready? How is the design chosen?

Oops I already talked about this a little bit. To add on from question 27, elves receive their valasllin soon after their 17th birthday. The Keeper and the hahrens discuss among themselves whether or not a child is ready, based on how mature they are; in other words, how ready they seem to take on the burden of being an adult in the clan.

What is the clan’s vallaslin like?

Just the normal vallaslin from DA:O.

#aisling mahariel #bran mahariel #clan sabrae #dragon age

2 notes · View notes

sassylavellen · 6 years

Text

Inquisitor as a Companion

I was tagged by the ever wonderful @shannaraisles! This one looks like a lot of fun! (Post filling this out, THIS WAS HARD AS HECK. But I loved it.)

As it happens, Moira is one of three headcanon companions to my canon Inquisitor Evelyn Lavellan, and everyone loves Moira so I’ll fill this out for her..

Inquisitor’s Name: Moira Lavellan

Race / Class / Specialisation: Dalish Elf/Rogue/Tempest

Gender Identity: Female

Varric’s Nickname for them: Bubbles

Short bio: The youngest daughter of Clan Lavellan’s former Keeper Revan’nain, Moira grew up with a wide-eyed innocence that she retained with her into her adulthood. Always optimistic, her uplifting personality is a boon to all who know her. She loves her family, even though she doesn’t always agree with her father’s iron grip on the ancient traditions. Moira was an extremely smart child, and by the time she was in her late teens, she was not only lead huntress for the clan, but one of their most skilled craftsmasters. Her ability to recall intricate details for weapons, armor, and other supplies was an invaluable asset to the clan. She is very knowledgable about metals and minerals. Moira will join the Inquisition after learning that her long lost sister/brother had become Inquisitor. This would have been after the Inquisition had taken up residence in Skyhold after Corypheus’s attack on Haven. She would only be an obtainable companion if the Inquisitor is Dalish.

What would their companion card look like? A leaping shot of her with an arrow set to her bow

Recruitment mission: “Family Ties”, unlocked by unlocking the Emerald Graves. Upon reaching The Emerald Graves, Scout Harding gives the Inquisitor a report about an unknown Dalish encampment nearby, and that one of their hunters was attempting to make contact with her team before being attacked by Venetori raiders who are hunting the clan. Unlocks the war table operation “Find The Dalish Camp”. Josephine does not participate in the mission, Leliana recommends sending some of her elven agents to seek out the camp, not wishing to give the wrong impression. Cullen says his soldiers can handle the raiders and help find the clan. Cullen’s option is quicker, but will result in the clan being less receptive to the Inquisition. Certain agent opportunities will become unavailable. Leliana’s option will increase favor with the clan and open up opportunities for the Inquisitor to acquire more agents.

Upon completing the war table operation, the camp is now accessible on the map. The clan turns out to be Clan Lavellan, and a group of Dalish hunters escort you to the Keeper who, no matter who you choose to complete the war table operation, is not interested in gaining the Inquisition’s help. Moira comes in and will tell the Inquisitor that he/she should try to impress the clan and gives a series of quests to do in an attempt to gain their favor.

The Inquisitor will need to help collect Dalish artifacts in the Exalted Planes guarded by a Varteral. The Keeper remains unimpressed and Moira is frustrated by this. After this section of the quest is completed, Moira will visit the first camp settled in the Emerald Graves and inform the Inquisitor that she wants to join.

Dialogue -

Moira: (Brother/Sister), I am sorry for what happened with The Keeper. I really thought that... well, I was wrong. I wasted your time and I’m sorry.

Inquisitor: It’s alright, Moira. You were just trying to help, and I appreciate it.

Moira: I’m the only one trying to help, and I am ashamed that our clan does not realize the threat we face. You say it’s elvhen magic, I thought that would be enough to sway them. But they still have their heads stuck so far up their...!

Inquisitor: Moira, calm down!

Moira: I’m sorry. What I’m trying to say is... I want to join you. I don’t know if you want me as a fighter or as a crafter, but I can’t just stand by while the world falls apart around me.

Inquisitor: Are you sure about this, Moira? You’re willing to turn your back on your clan to fight with me?

Moira: I am sure.

Moira: (Alternate: If the Inquisitor told Josephine that he/she was not on good terms with her clan) That’s what you did, brother/sister. I could do no less.

The Inquisitor will have three options: 1) Moira joins as a companion, 2) Moira joins as an agent, or 3) Moira does not join. If she becomes an agent, she will give access to a series of otherwise unobtainable war table operations.

Inquisitor: (Moira joins as companion) Welcome aboard, baby sis.

Moira: Please don’t call me that, is it too late to change my mind?

Inquisitor: (laughs) I’m afraid it is.

Moira: Thanks, brother/sister. I’m ready to do my part.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Inquisitor: (Moira joins as an agent) Alright. You can join. I could really put your skills to use as a scout.

Moira: (chuckles) I see how it is, you don’t want your little sister following you around everywhere, don’t you?

Inquisitor: I didn’t say that!

Moira: I’m just teasing you. Thanks, brother/sister. I’m ready to do my part.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Inquisitor: (Moira does not join) I’m sorry, Moira... but your place is here with our people. Help them, see if you can convince them of the threat.

Moira: Oh... of... of course. I’ll... I’ll do my best, brother/sister.

Inquisitor: Take care, Moira. May Mythal’s blessing be upon you.

Moira: You too, brother/sister. And may Ghilan’nain guide your way.

Where they would be in Skyhold / Haven: Moira is not available early enough in the game to be in Haven.

In Skyhold, she can be found in the undercroft, by the balcony.

Personal quests: Quest 1: An Iron Grasp: Shortly after she is recruited, Moira will ask the Inquisitor for a favor. She has been working with Dagna and wants to try and craft a new type of armor for the Inquisitor. The schematic requires several fade-touched materials which the Inquisitor must obtain in The Hinterlands (Fade-Touched Iron), The Emerald Graves (Fade-touched August Ram Leather), and The Fallow Mire (Fade-Touched Avaar Cotton). The Inquisitor will also have the option to give her non-fade-touched materials and lie that they are what she needs.

If the Inquisitor lies, Moira and Dagna’s experiment does not work and Moira is disappointed in their results. The Inquisitor can admit they lied, and will lose approval.

If the Inquisitor collects all the correct materials, their experiment explodes in the undercarriage and breaks Harret’s crafting bench, but it works, and The Inquisitor gains a permanent 20% percentage boost to crafting masterworks for armor or weapons. Moira approves.

Quest 2: A final plee: Moira receives news that their clan is going to Wycome, and another report about the unrest regarding elves in that territory. She will beg the Inquisitor to go with her to help try to prevent a mass slaughter. This will unlock the (repurposed) war table operation Defend Clan Lavellan, where the Inquisitor must make contact before they venture forth. Upon arriving in Wycome, Harding informs the Inquisitor that an attack has already begun. The Inquisitor and Moira must save as many elves from the onslaught as possible. If they manage to save all or most of the elves, The Inquisitor will have three options: 1) Make a plee to the nobles to end the conflict, 2) fend off the raiders to buy time for the elves to escape, or 3) surrender and attempt to negotiate.

If the Inquisitor makes the plee, the nobles will hear out the Inquisitor and depending on dialogue choices will either agree to end the violence or continue the slaughter. Moira will approve if they end the violence, but will have no approval change if they continue the slaughter at this point (she says in a follow-up dialogue, “I can’t be mad at you, you at least tried to stop them. I thought it would work, too.”)

If the Inquisitor stands and fights, Moira greatly approves.

If the Inquisitor surrenders, Moira greatly disapproves. A small amount of approval can be gained back depending on dialogue choices.

How to get their approval:

Moira approves of kind-hearted actions, so helping refugees is an easy way to gain influence.

She also approves when the Inquisitor uses knowledge perks in dialogues.

She will also slightly approve if the Inquisitor fills a geological survey requisition while she is in the party.

How to get their disapproval: Dialogue options about her past before you gain high enough approval; siding with nobles or bowing to their demands at the war table. Aggressive dialogue when she is in the party gains disapproval.

Are they romanceable? No.

Can you have sex with them? Ew no! She’s your sister!

Are they open to polyamoury? No.

If they can be romanced and are not, will they begin a relationship / relationships with other character(s)? If so, who? She will begin a relationship with another scout if she becomes an agent instead of a companion.

Who are they friendly with? Varric, Sera, Dorian, and Cole. She loves Varric’s stories and most of their party banter is her asking Varric to tell her more stories while they are walking. She likes playing along with Sera’s jokes. One particular banter has them comparing their bows and ends with Moira saying “Mine’s bigger” and Sera laughs so hard she snorts.

Who do they dislike? She only really doesn’t like Vivienne, because Vivienne treats her like she’s lesser than she is.

Special note: She doesn’t know what to think of Solas. On one hand, she is fascinated by his knowledge, but she’s also weary of his love for spirits and demons.

Companion card changes: (use a text descrip. if you have no images) Post companion quest (good result): Head lifted with a wreath of flowers surrounding her

Post companion quest (bad result): slumped beside a bed, dark clouds above her head.

Side Missions: There can also be a cutscene mission where she and the Inquisitor go to Val Royeux to go shopping and to get away from it all. Approval can be gained depending on dialogue choices.

Opinions on mages / templars / how the world is going to shit? Since she becomes a companion after The Inquisitor has already chosen, she does not have much of an opinion. She will have special dialogue depending on which side was chosen which shows she is more supportive of the mages, but either way will say she trusts her sibling’s decision.

Something guaranteed to make them leave the party: After her companion quest, if the Inquisitor surrendered, there will be a cutscene back at Skyhold where Moira will confront him/her about their decision. The Inquisitor can either convince her to stay (must have high approval) or to send her back to her clan.

Special Events:

Imprisoned at Redcliffe: How are they holding up in Redcliffe, being slowly infected with red lyrium over the course of a year? Moira is not available during this part of the story.

At the Winter Palace: Do they enjoy the party, any special events with them at the Palace? Moira is excited to be at the Winter Palace and to see the Orlesian culture in action. She will clumsily attempt to play along with the game and can possibly cause the Inquisitor to lose court approval if he/she does not head it off at the beginning of the quest after the first dialogue with Leliana about Morrigan.

In the Fade: Their reaction upon entering the Fade? Nightmare demon’s taunt, and their response? Fear on their grave? Reaction upon entering - *panic* "Wait... Did you say the fade... This can’t... We can’t be dead!” Taunt and response - “What of you, little Dalish girl? There is no weapon, no design that can save you now. (if her companion quest has been complete) After all you’ve done to save your clan, now you cannot even save yourself.” - "This isn’t real, this isn’t real, this isn’t real!!” Greatest fear - Being the lone survivor

Trespasser: What were they up to two years after Corypheus’ defeat? Any special events with them over the events of Trespasser? If the Inquisitor’s approval with her is high, she will remain with the Inquisition for the two year period. She doesn’t want to attend the council, but will do it for her sibling.

If she was made an agent, she has gotten engaged to her scout lover and is pregnant. She will only have dialogue at the beginning before the council and one before the final mission begins.

If she was never recruited, or if The Inquisitor had a low approval with her as a companion, she will not attend the council.

Other Major Events: Any other major events that happen with them over the course of the main game? None that I can think of.

#Moira Lavellan

19 notes · View notes

rhetoricalrogue · 6 years

Note

The momentary gobsmacked stare with the squishes 😊😍

I decided to go with the Avvar AU that we’ve both been yelling back and forth to the other for this one. It’s sort of Vincent’s side of things in the ficlet that @alittlestarling did.

UST Prompts

Between the stench of death that seemed to cling to everything, the damp, humid air that made his hair hang limply in his eyes, and the ever-looming threat of skeletons emerging from the water if he do much as looked at the surface crossly, Vincent Martasen was most assuredly not having a good time. The Fallow Mire was living up to its name: even if one were to cleanse the area of any lingering disease and entreat the dead to depart for the next life, Vincent was doubtful that any crop would take root in the soggy ground. He wondered if it had always been that way, and if so, had the people who had made the area home actually found some way to thrive, or had they remained out of sheer stubbornness?

Vincent’s foot slipped in a break in the path, his boot sinking into the boggy terrain down to his ankle. By the Lady, he silently swore as he pulled his foot out of the peat with a thick sucking noise, his feet were never going to be dry. Not for the first time that day, he cursed the so-called Herald of Andraste for deciding to visit the area.

His people had seen the awful green cast in the sky and had worried that something similar would happen over their lands in the Frostback Basin. Their augur had been communing with the gods for days trying to find guidance, but luckily their thane was of the mind that the gods would want their children to take initiative and investigate for themselves before explaining everything to them. Vincent had volunteered to scout ahead and it hadn’t been long before he heard rumors of this Herald and the stories that she was already mending smaller rifts and helping the people she came across.

Oddly enough, as Vincent neared the edge of the Hinterlands, his route crossing east down through the mountains by way of older hunting trails, he had heard multiple times that the people gathered there were surprised she was helping at all, what with her being a mage. The sentiment confused him until he remembered that the religion his father practiced had views on magic which ran opposite of his own people’s beliefs. While opinions of the Herald grew more positive the closer he came to populated areas, he made the decision to keep the fact that he could wield the power they were so distrustful of a secret, glad that he was armed with his usual handaxes and a short hunting bow instead of the staves so popular with the lowland mages.

Philip Trevelyan had taught both his sons the lessons and languages of the places he had come from before settling down to marry Vincent’s mother Marta, and Vincent was never more grateful for that fact than he was when he spoke to a few people making the crossroads area their temporary home. They’d been wary of his appearance, but had been put slightly at ease after he offered to hunt for them to help shore up their foodstuffs. One deer and several rabbits later, the people had been all too generous with their information and he soon discovered both the main base of this Inquisition’s operations as well as the current whereabouts of their Herald. Not seeing reason to head north in the direction of Haven when the person he was looking for wasn’t there, Vincent set off to the southeast after her.

Which was where he currently found himself, ducking into an abandoned building to try to wring some of the rain from his clothing. The furs that had kept him warm during the trek were now heavy with rain and starting to smell and the clothing he wore clung to him uncomfortably. Vincent searched the area for any signs of enemies before slipping his pack off his shoulders and stripping out of the worst. He barred the door with a flimsy looking table that at best would alert him to anyone trying to enter the home and broke up the two chairs he’d found with his axe before tossing them into the dusty hearth. A flick of his wrist had a small fire going, the light doing wonders to lift his spirits after spending such a long time in the dark. It didn’t take long, especially with some further magical coaxing, to dry out his outer clothing, which he then rolled up and stored into his waterproofed pack.

Vincent took a moment to sit and eat a quick meal while thinking about just where the Herald could possibly be. He’d seen signs of a party come through the area, but the tracks were old, far too old to be from her. He’d also found signs of a struggle, and oddly enough, hints that fellow Avvar were in the area. He didn’t quite recognize the markings on the stones he’d come across, but they were a universal signal that said this is our land, enter at your own risk. Not wanting to deal with unnecessary violence, he’d used the blade of his hunting knife to scrape a hasty sign of his own directly underneath, signifying that a member of Stone-Bear Hold was crossing the territory in peace and that he meant no harm. He hadn’t found many such markings, but he wrote down his message on the ones he had found along the way in hopes that patrols would find them long before they spotted him.

Now dry and fed, Vincent regretfully put out his fire and went back into the rain. Luck was on his side though: he soon found fresh signs of battle and a hastily set up yet abandoned campsite. Breathing a sigh of relief that he could possibly be on the right track and on his way of escaping the cursed swamp, he picked up his pace and followed the tracks leading further down an unexplored path.

Not even an hour later, he came across a sight that made the hair at the back of his neck stand on end. Magic, unlike any he had experienced since the ceremonies between he and the god of patience that had taught and guided him through his childhood, crackled in the air like a living thing. Through the haze of rain, he could make out several people standing before a dimly glowing object that looked to be the source of the feeling of wrongness that had settled unwelcome atop Vincent’s chest. A figure smaller than the others raised their hand and almost instantly, the tension in the air seemed to snap. Vincent grabbed for the axes at his belt as the ground around the group began to erupt with the undead.

“I hate these friggin’ things!” As he drew closer, he could tell that the group consisted of all women, each working to dispatch the opponent in front of them.

“Arrows, Sera! Bitching can come later!” Vincent’s attention was momentarily taken from the skeleton he had just dispatched to the sound of the voice. The Herald - for who else could be wandering the swamps and opening rifts in the sky - was a petite woman who probably only came up to Vincent’s chest level, if even that. He couldn’t see much of her due to the hood she wore to block out the majority of the rain, but she was currently fending a skeleton off with her staff. Seeing as the woman she called Sera was busy, Vincent threw one of his axes at the monster, catching it square in the forehead. The Herald whipped around to face the new threat, the quick movement pulling her hood back and off her head.

Vincent forgot how to breathe. She had turned in one fluid motion, her staff brought up at a protective angle with one hand and flames licking the palm of her other hand. The light it cast made Vincent realize her hair was a rich red, and her kohl-rimmed eyes were a blue that rivaled the clearest summer sky. His skin prickled again at the surge of magic that emanated from her, but instead of being hit with the wrongness from before, the only true way he could describe the pull of her spell was as if he felt something vaguely familiar wash over him, almost like coming home.

It wasn’t until it was almost too late that he realized she was throwing that ball of flame directly at him. Snapping out of the stupor he had fallen into, he raised his arms to throw a hasty barrier up just in time for the fireball to hit it, dissipating in a harmless shower of sparks at his feet.

“Peace! I’m on your side!”

“How do I know that?”

Vincent gestured towards the skeleton on the ground. “You were slightly busy. Had I meant to kill you, I could have easily done so.”

The Herald narrowed her eyes and opened her mouth to say something, but then her attention shot towards the pulsing green mass in front of them. “If you really are on our side,” she said, fire crackling from her staff as the rift prepared whatever it was going to throw at them, “then stay and fight. We’ll discuss things once it’s safe.”

“Agreed.” Bending to pull his axe off of the felled skeleton’s skull, he closed his eyes for a moment and felt the energy of the rain around him. It wasn’t quite as good as casting in the middle of a thunderstorm, but seeing as the Herald and another of her companions were magic users, it only made sense to use every weapon at his disposal. “Vincent.”

He tried not to be too affected by the small, barely audible gasp she took when he’d infused his axe blades with lightning, but he also couldn’t help but wonder if she had felt the pull of his own magic in the same manner that he had felt hers. “Rosalind.” Her eyes widened as they watched several unnatural monsters with overly long limbs pop up from the ground. “Maker watch over us.”

“Hakkon guide your blade.” The prayer was part reflexive habit and part a genuine plea to his gods. He’d only met Rosalind a moment ago, but he felt his world shift as they fought. He didn’t know what this feeling truly was, if it was purely attraction or if it was the type of instant love the skalds often sang of, but he knew one thing for certain.

No matter where the Herald was to go, he was determined to follow her.

#replies #alittlestarling #otp: sometimes home has a heartbeat #verse: welcome home good hunter

4 notes · View notes

5lazarus · 3 years

Text

Fen’Harel’s Teeth, Ch. 12: The Dead Complain of Burial

The dead in Crestwood rise, along with people the Inquisitor would rather forget--or be forgotten. Imladris meets the Warden's contact, a Free Marcher with the same name of her surviving sister, and heads to Denerim at the King's behest. The venatori plot, but the Red Jennies have it all well in hand, and Felassan comes in to cut away some loose ends and, of course, keep the king and queen of Ferelden from getting horribly murdered by blood mages.

Read on AO3 here.

“I hate trees,” Dorian complains. “I hate rain. I hate bears! Mud. Campfires. And shitting in a hole.”

“We know, Dorian,” Blackwall says. “We know.” “And you smell,” Dorian says accusingly. “Even before we left Skyhold, you smelled. We should throw you in the lake and see what you summon. Do stink spirits exist, Solas?” “No comment,” Solas says. “Hand me that map, surely this cave can’t be too far.” “No,” Imladris says tetchily. “I know where we’re going. It’s out past the pond.” “You are holding the map upside down,” Solas says. Imladris holds it out of his reach. He sighs. “We have been walking in circles in the rain for hours.” “Because you led us wrong in the first place,” Imladris retorts. “So I’m keeping the map.” “Which you are still holding upside down,” Solas says.

“Fuck,” Blackwall says. “Corpse!” He yells threateningly and charges. Imladris sighs and draws the Fade around her own blade, summoning a fire glyph to stall the advancing corpses in their tracks. It makes them stagger long enough for Blackwall to catch up, and Solas rains down lightning as she swings at them. At least the Fallow Mire had its own ambience, she mourns. Though they have drained the lake and sealed the rift, the unburied dead still remain--and the last of the spring rain. They fight their way through corpses only to be attacked by live bandits, whose lives they helped save from the dead. Normally Blackwall or Solas would attempt to reason with them, but both of them just channel their damp aggression into whacking them away. Dorian reanimates a bandit that Imladris kills by accident; she is not amused. The dead should stay dead, not stand up to chitter about their burial. “Let that spirit go,” Imladris snaps. “By the Dread Wolf! I’m serious, Dorian. I’ve had enough of corpses.” “Spoilsport,” Dorian says, cutting the spell. “I was going to ask it for directions.” Blackwall leans towards Solas. “Can you do that? Ask spirits for directions?” Solas says, “Only if I prefer the journey to the destination. If it is not raining, and if corpses aren’t crawling out of the roads. Inquisitor, may I have the map?” Horror dawns as Imladris looks down at her empty hands. She gazes down the road, where a mud-splattered piece of parchment flutters in the breeze. Solas follows her gaze and sighs. Dorian grins. “It’s not too late, you know. I can bring it back up.” They reach the camp at Three Trout Farm without further incident and decide to rest for the night. Imladris can hear the dragon down in the ruins growling in its sleep. In the morning they will go searching in the hills for the cave where Hawke and their warden contact hide, this warden who has her surviving sister’s name. But Imladris has thought of the undead long enough, and after she strips out of her wet clothes, she lays down on her bedroll and drifts. Sleepily she listens to Dorian torment Blackwall and Solas for smelling like wet dog and wet sheep respectively, though they all are a bit rank. Perhaps before they go up to the caves they can bathe in the pond quickly, if Blackwall can handle being nude around a woman who is not interested in him. Dorian changes subjects after Solas points out that he is drenched in the liquified flesh of the dead after a fire spell gone horribly, horribly right, and brings up the dragon. “So it’s sleeping in Tevinter ruins,” he says. “We should take a look, when this is all over. When someone chases it off.” “Meaning me,” Imladris mutters. “Naturally, you’re the Inquisitor. You should...inquire about it,” Dorian says. Blackwall groans. “Oh, shut up, you great lump, it’s not like you can do better.” “Inquisit,” Blackwall says. “That’s a verb, isn’t it?” He pulls off his socks, and everyone groans. “Vishante kaffas, put those back on!” Dorian barks. “Are you trying to kill us?” Solas opens the flap of the tent to air out the stench. Imladris leans on her arm, awake now. The rain comes hammering down, but their wards keep the camp from flooding. They can see lights at the herbalist’s house. Imladris can taste the manipulation of the Fade in the air--but nothing seems sour in the crisp night, so she leaves it alone. Solas says, “I am curious how this region changed hands. There is an old elvhen ruin near here, where those who dedicated themselves to the Halla-Mother’s service dwelled. They would have put up a fierce resistance to any human incursions. One wonders how so proud a people fell.” Imladris stares at him. “Do you think you can find memories that old? In the Fade?” Solas smiles slightly. “They are not so distinct, but more like a cacophony, sometimes even a chorus, of memory. If there was a conversation remarkable enough that a spirit still acts it out, after all the grief this land has seen...well, I will find out eventually.” “How does it work?” Dorian asks. “Is it like a library?” “It could be,” Solas says. Dorian narrows his eyes. “Could be? Or would it be to me? What do you see it as?” “Memory,” he says, amused. “It is difficult to explain. Time and fact are not so fixed, in the Fade, and even one’s impressions are shifting the landscape. I orient myself along the most powerful markers, and explore that way. You may see it as a library. The Inquisitor--you studied archaeology, did you not? The Inquisitor may envision it as uncovering some fabulous artifact as she scraps away layers of soil. And Blackwall--” “Blackwall doesn’t want to know,” Blackwall retorts. “It just...mirrors yourself?” He shudders. “I don’t know how you stand it.” Solas looks at him pityingly. “And I cannot understand how it must be,” he says, “to live your life without shaping your own dreams. But rest assured, Ser Blackwall. I will not pull you anywhere that would nettle you worse than you do yourself.” Blackwall says, “Yeah, yeah. And you told me you didn’t know how to play Diamondback.” “I did no such thing,” Solas says, mock-outraged. “I said I was an inexperienced player, and that I do not gamble anymore.” “But you did with me,” Blackwall says. Dorian breaks out laughing. “Ha! I’m not sure you count as a gamble, my friend.” He slaps Blackwall’s shoulder, then grimaces, and wipes his hand on his trousers. “I need a drink.” Dorian and Blackwall begin drinking, because they know by now not to leave Dorian drinking by himself. Blackwall challenges him to a drinking game, to keep him paced. Imladris curls up on her bedroll with the book of poetry her niece and nephew stole from their grandfather. She likes dwarven epic. It’s turgid, of course, and the metaphor gets redundant, but she enjoys how the text marches her back in history. Elvhen meanders, and every word sheds its meaning depending on the context in which it is deployed. Sometimes she likes it when a text says what it means, and means when it says. Solas sits next to her, sketchbook in hand. He likes to draw before he goes to bed. The noise distracts her, and she peers over his hand. He is rapidly drawing the poses of the men before them. He notices her looking and says, “I try to keep in practice.” “An artist and a draughtsman,” Imladris says, smiling. “From making our maps to painting our walls.” “I like to be useful,” Solas says. “And I enjoy it.” She leans back and he puts aside the sketchbook to regard her. “Do you know much about the later history of this region?” “My specialty was the transition from Elvhenan to the early Imperium in the Free Marches,” Imladris says. “I don’t know much about Ferelden. I met Keeper Zathrian before he died, and he told me our people kept mostly to the woods and temples built into the woods and mountains, and we’ve always had a relatively better relationship with Ferelden than the other human nations. Clan Alerion had more tension with the Clayne and the Avvar--but the people in the Brecilian Forest left them well alone.” Solas grimaces. “Well, let us see if we can witness any of those war counsels ourselves. As the anchor makes it difficult to filter my shaping from yours, would you like to walk with me in the Fade tonight?” Imladris says immediately, “Yes.” Dorian drawls, “Oh, you’re going adventuring? Can I come too?” Solas and Imladris exchange a glance. Solas says in his oddly formal Elvhen, “He will try and he will pry, and he will spend the entire night screeching to be let in.” “He’s not a cat,” Imladris replies in kind. She looks at Dorian. “I...don’t see why not.” She does see why not, but Dorian is gleefully drunk, and he is fun, after all. She would prefer to be alone with Solas, but perhaps it is better for them both to be chaperoned. Blackwall says, “Right then. Have fun, good night, don’t get eaten. Do they eat you? Is that how demonic possession works?” “You may come too,” Solas says. “If you’re so curious.” Blackwall looks alarmed, and Dorian laughs. “Don’t worry,” he says. “We all have those kinds of dreams, and Solas won’t let us see anything too shocking. Right?” Solas makes a moue of distaste and says, “Go to sleep, Master Pavus. And see for yourself.”

Anticipation makes it difficult to fall asleep. Also, Blackwalls snores. Dorian keeps tossing and turning on his bedroll, grumbling under his breath, and Solas rolls to his side and gives her a look of such despair that Imladris giggles. Dorian says, “What? Is anything funny? Are we in the Fade yet? Solas, did you do something funny? I’ve always suspected you have a sense of humor somewhere under those stinking rags, did you finally find it?” Solas, rather than dignifying that with a response, pretends to be asleep. Imladris turns her laughter into a cough. “You should get that checked out, Inquisitor,” Dorian purrs. He inches a little too close to her. He smells, but not as badly as Blackwall. “Can’t have you getting us all sick.” “Go to sleep,” Imladris says. “I’m trying,” Dorian whines. “I’m not like our resident Fade expert, who I swear falls asleep standing and with his eyes open. And I saw you curl into a corner in the infirmary and nap sitting down. I cannot do that. I must be prone, with at least a sheet covering my body--it’s bad enough that I can’t sleep in the nude anymore--” “Dorian,” Imladris says wearily, “at this point you’re just keeping me up.” “Misery loves company,” Dorian grins. Imladris resolves to requisition her own tent. Solas can stay with her, and perhaps Cassandra and Varric, if they ask very nicely. As for Blackwall, they will tie him to a tree, to air him out, and Iron Bull can help hold her tent up with his own horns. “And I’m just so lovely to look at.” “I should’ve let the red lyrium eat you,” Imladris says. “Vint.” “Oh-ho!” Dorian cheers, lounging on his elbow now. “We’re on name-calling terms now, are we? Fine, Dalish. You would’ve let the red lyrium eat me, but then how would you have gotten home?” Solas says repressively, “Both of you, hush.” “You’re not my father, don’t tell me to hush,” Dorian says immediately. An awkward pause falls between them all. Solas and Imladris exchange a glance. Once again Dorian’s issues with his father make an uncomfortable appearance. Imladris really does not want to talk about it. She opens her mouth to say that, but, luckily or unluckily, Blackwall farts. They all groan. Solas says firmly, “I am requisitioning my own tent,” and covers his face with his pillow. Imladris and Dorian laugh, and eventually they fall asleep as the rain lashes against the enchanted cloth.

Imladris finds herself dreaming of a cool foggy morning. She walks over to a tree, where the fog has frozen like a cobweb around the pine needles. She touches it, and a bell-like song rings out. Dorian stumbles up the path. “Andraste’s arse,” he says. “Is this Solas’ head?” His voice is oddly muffled by the mist. He walks over and examines the tree, which continues to sing. She sits down and watches the crystal-needles weave the melody into the air. “What sort of magic is this?” “It’s beautiful,” Imladris says. “Doesn’t it sound familiar?” The chimes grow deeper and stretch into something wonderfully woodsy, and she breathes in the air. Music played from across the square: where has she heard this before? It isn’t Marcher Dalish, or Orlesian, though there is something in the drone that sounds familiar--closer to the chords she heard elvhen from Tevinter pull. Dorian hesitates. “Almost,” he says. “Like music from another room….” Then the wind waves it sweely away, and Solas comes hurrying by, talking animatedly to a spirit in very old Elvhen. Imladris strains her ears to catch it, if it were written down she could understand it, but then Solas stops suddenly. The spirit fades away. Imladris blinks: it had a shape, what did it look like? It felt like home, but it is gone now. Forlorn, she looks at him. “Well,” Solas says. He touches the tree, narrowing his eyes at the frozen needles. “This is an old spell, but not quite the age I was looking for. After the arrival of the Alamarri, but before the Dalish began to spar with the Clayne.” “What is this?” Dorian asks. “It feels--it isn’t malicious.” He sounds uncertain. “Elvhen magic,” Solas says, amused. “Shartan’s folk, who stopped at the Dales and kept walking, and joined their kin who had retreated into the deep woods and shunned dealing with mankind. Even now, the Dalish of the Brecilian Forest are leery of outsiders.” Imladris has always found Clan Zathrian perfectly friendly. She says testily, “For good reason.” “Indeed,” Solas says. His hand drops from the tree. “But, to answer your question: this is a memory of a journey of a vhenadahl, whose Keeper brought it along the Long Walk to Halamshiral--and then kept moving. Unfortunately the words are lost, but the sentiment remains. That wanderlust…” he trails off wistfully. “But they found home eventually,” Imladris says. “And kin.” She looks up at him and wonders at the rueful expression on his face. Solas offers her his hands and helps her up to her feet. She brushes pine needles off her clothes, which disappear before they reach the ground. Her clothes are white, edged with red embroidery, something casual she’d wear in spring, sticking close to home. She looks at Dorian, who is flamboyant in turquoise and purple silk. Solas, in contrast to both of them, wears his usual shirt. “So--what are we looking for?” “Do we need a destination?” Solas asks. Dorian says, “How have you avoided getting your mind eaten, friend?” Solas laughs. He is easier here. The fog recedes as they walk, and a clean valley emerges, sea salt spraying over the bright embrium blooms. Solas pauses to pick one as they walk, and when Dorian isn’t looking, presses it into her hand. It turns to something else as she looks at it, suddenly the thin silver chain of a necklace, and then it is gone as they meander to the shore that sketches itself out green into blue along a shadowy horizon. There is a small fire and there are people gathered around it, whispering intently. Night falls and one of the spirits looks over at them and says, simply, “Decide.” It wears her mother-in-law’s face. Dorian jumps as it looks at him, and Imladris grabs him to keep from stumbling. It looks at Solas and says, “Ma halani, lethallin.” Help me, cousin. It begins to rain and they are in the tavern, and they can hear the teenagers giggling upstairs. “Ah, wonderful,” Solas says. “Is this really the most interesting thing to happen here?” The spirits peer down at them from the rafters and nod in unison. Then they fade from view, and go back to mimicking the teenagers dry humping. Solas sighs. “Let’s keep walking,” he says. “One would think a inn that survived a Blight and a flood would have a more interesting story to tell.” “What the fuck is going on?” Dorian says. Solas says, “Keep moving,” and gently pushes him onward. Imladris takes Dorian’s arm and they are walking along the shore again, which is now bright and white, in the golden light of a summer morning. A fisherman drags his nets along the beach. He looks up at them and wishes them a good day. Imladris hears it in five different languages. They are awash with a sense of the profound: this man is having a good day. Then Blackwall looks at them dolefully and says, “You don’t know what I’ve done!” He is holding a very expensive porcelain doll, with real elf hair and eyes that blink slowly as they fold their dreams into his. Imladris sees flames behind him, and a woman wails, or perhaps she does. Solas says firmly, “Wake up.”

“This must be the first time they’ve seen people like us,” Solas muses happily. “I wonder what they think of the giants passing their home.” “Yes, very cute,” Blackwall says impatiently. “But my boots are soaking and somehow, Inquisitor, I don’t think this is the cave the Champion told us to look for.” “Dorian has the map,” Imladris says defensively. “Had.” Solas is watching the nugs scurry off fondly. She is damp, cold, and slightly annoyed, but she cannot help but smile at him. She wonders if nugs dream, and if Solas has spent time investigating. Dorian rotates the map and squints. “There should be a passageway…”

“We thought that yesterday,” Blackwall says. “And yet here we are. In the damp. Again.” “Fine,” Dorian says. He shoves the map at Blackwall. “You try, then.” Blackwall takes the parchment and holds it up to the torchlight. “Dorian,” he says, voice carefully level, “this is a map to the Fallow Mire.” “Ah,” Dorian says lamely. “But it was in the sack!” Imladris says, “You mean the sack of supplies meant for the scouts at Caer Bronach, who were trying to map a pass from the Mire through the Frostbacks?” “Oh,” Dorian says. “Shit.” They backtrack to camp and Solas takes a map from Charter, with Blackwall hovering over his shoulder and making unhelpful suggestions. He is the only one who has ever been to this region before, and even then, he spent most of his trip sleeping. As they wander through the plains and caves of Crestwood, Imladris notices signs that slavers have been through--and been driven off. They find evidence of a pitched battle near the cave Hawke marked for them on the proper map. A few corpses with tattered red bandanas around their rotting skulls lie in a grove of trees at the foot of the hill. A man with a gold earring left untouched by the crows hangs from the tree. “Blind Men,” Imladris says. “Dead for two weeks, maybe.” Dorian is already reaching across the Fade. “I can ask why--” Imladris shakes her head. “Leave them be. Let’s burn the bodies and move on.” Blackwall says, “Inquisitor, we should leave them to rot. Or get that Sister Vaughn to do something about them. If she would.” “No,” Imladris says firmly. “We can’t delay. Not with the Breach. Not with the Veil so thin. And the villagers will want to take their land back, it’s almost planting time. Let’s leave it clean for them. They’ve dealt with the dead enough.” Solas sighs. “We’re already late for the rendezvous.” Imladris says, “Do you honestly believe the Champion of Kirkwall would be on time?” “Fair point,” he says, and with a quick lash of electricity, he cuts the body down. They burn the bodies and bury the ashes underneath the tree. It is better than so many of their victims get, but Imladris is used to the resentment and channels it to burn the fires hotter and faster. She is procrastinating, she knows it, and she is procrastinating by pretending to do good. She’s showing off quite nobly to her companions. She always tries to bury bodies when she finds them, it’s part of the duty of any sensible elf. The dead rise too easily if they aren’t treated well, whether they were kind to their neighbors or not. Halla’den was left out to rot in the Witchwood, and it could very easily have been her too. How many times has she nearly bled out? The stink of burning flesh reaches her nose but she does not retch, not like Dorian, who has never seen a battlefield. Blackwall shifts uncomfortably. “Maybe we can move downwind?” he suggests. “Take a bath? So we don’t show up smelling like, uh, cremated corpses?” Imladris says, “I’ve become too used to the smell.” Dorian says, “Well, I’m not. Let’s put it to a vote. All in favor for taking a break and taking a bath before finding the Champion? All in favor? Alright. Now, where’s a bath?” Imladris lets them delay another day, running errands back at Caer Bronach. They bathe, search for a missing spy and get ambushed by venatori for their troubles, and fight a wyvern that tries very hard to gore Dorian to death. They don’t have a formal rendezvous, she tells herself. It’s fine. Hawke and their Warden contact can wait. Back at Caer Bronach, sipping hot cider by the fireplace, Imladris broods, wrapped in a slightly itchy blanket. Hawke’s warden friend is named Ashara. She has a sister in the Wardens named Ashara, but it’s a relatively common name, and they recruited heavily amongst the elves after the Blight. She hopes it is her, she hopes it is not. She does not know what she would say. It has been almost twenty years. It would be easier if it weren’t her, but when has her life ever been easy? Ashara would be hearing her Calling. Wardens get two decades if they’re lucky, before they start to go mad. Imladris thinks, she’s probably dead already, left unburied in the Deep Roads, for the darkspawn to eat--if she’s not taken in by Corypheus. What options! She doesn’t know which to hope for. Dorian takes the chair next to her, wonderfully well-groomed. He has oiled his moustache, and smells of freshly-pressed lavender and a hint of summer rain. He opens a book, raises it to sardonically gaze over, and says, “You’re brooding.” Imladris says, “You smell like--what, summer rain on the heath? Is that what they sell in Orlais?” Dorian grins. “An attempted bribe from a courtier, that I shared with Josephine. Bite the hand that feeds. But you’re avoiding the point, my friend. You don’t want to see Hawke, do you?” Imladris says sniffily, “We must find out Corypheus’ connection to the Wardens’ disappearance. That is what matters, and my feelings--what I may or may not feel--are irrelevant.” “Mm.” Dorian closes the book, confirming Imladris’ suspicion that he brought it merely to set the scene. “Is it Hawke, or the Warden that’s bothering you? Or should I call over Solas to ask you, if you don’t want to tell me?” “Tell me what?” Solas comes by, freshly shaven and wrapped in a heavy white wolfskin. He settles next to her. “I’m forcing the Inquisitor to talk about her feelings,” Dorian says. Solas pauses awkwardly: about him? Imladris wants to escape. “About whatever’s got her delaying finding Hawke and the Warden.” Solas says, “Ah. I did not mind the opportunity to wash my clothes, but yes. We could have delegated some of the quests Charter and the villagers set you.” Imladris says, “They need to know that I’m a real person. Not a Herald of anything. Just someone, passing through.” “That sounds noble, and I commend your spirit,” Solas says, “but conveniently avoids the truth.” “Multiple things can be true at once,” Imladris says. “Yes,” he says, “I’m aware of what dialectics are.” Imladris shoots him a glance--he learned dialectics in the Fade? “You are still avoiding the point. And relishing a little, I think, in making yourself miserable with burying the dead.” “Well, they do keep rising,” Imladris says lamely. “Boo,” Dorian says. “Try again.” Imladris rises suddenly, blanket falling back into the chair, and sets the mug of cider on the floor. “Speaking of the dead,” she says, “I should rest.” She flees towards the room Charter set aside for them. Alas, it is not empty. Blackwall sits on his bunk, carving a piece of wood. He holds it up to her. “It’ll be a doll,” he says. “Maybe. Are your girls too old for toys?” She sits at the bed across from him. “Mirwen isn’t,” she says. “But she has really been liking chess. Leliana taught her, and it’s all she’s been talking about.” Blackwall shakes his head. “Clever girl. She’s the one who likes jousting, isn’t she? I’ll make her a knight.” Imladris smiles. “Before all this, my brother and I were talking about taking her to the Grand Tourney. They don’t allow elves to compete, but there’s always money to be made.” She needs an excuse to talk to the servants of the most powerful members of the Marcher nobility, and the Tourney allows that. Blackwall, though, doesn’t need to know that, however sympathetic he seems. Let him think she’s referring to her Carta connections, or her time as a mercenary, or even something more salacious. It is always better than the truth. “Nice,” he says. “Just keep an eye on her. I competed once, you know. Wish I stuck to it. Might’ve ended up a better man, training as a chevalier.” Imladris stiffens. “No, you wouldn’t,” she says shortly. “Not in Orlais.” Blackwall glances awkwardly at her face and says shamefaced, “Ah. You’d know, I guess.” “Indeed.” She pointedly lays down and turns her back to him, curling in on herself. Briala made sure the chevaliers left Val Royeaux and Halamshiral alone. It was in the smaller cities, and on the battlefield, where they ran rampant--or hosting their graduations at bars a little too close to where the reckless youth of the alienage liked to linger. But they always ran amok in Wycombe, until they began burning them out. Blackwall says, barely above a whisper, “Sorry.” He goes back to scraping the toy into shape. Imladris stares at the cold stone wall and tries not to think. She wants to go to sleep without any consciousness. She doesn’t want to see what she has carried into the Fade, if she has left a literal imprint on the collective imaging of Crestwood. She envies the dwarves, sometimes--to just sleep without danger! Without self-revelation. But, as Solas would say, is that really so interesting? Blackwall clears his throat. “So, that dream last night. Pretty weird. Imladris says, “Mm.” “Solas apologized afterward, when we all woke up,” Blackwall continues fearlessly. “Says he underestimated the ability of the Anchor to draw--uh--‘sympathetic spirits’ into the same realm. Though I don’t think he meant literal spirits. Just us.” Imladris says, “What are you trying to tell me? I’m tired, Blackwall. If you’ve got something to say, just say it.” Blackwall says, “The fire. That was burning a woman alive. And then you’ve been touchy about seeing the Warden since. Do you want to talk about it? Because I’ve done my fair share that I regret.” Imladris rolls over and faces him. She says in one angry burst, “I killed a woman and her children, and my sister took the blame. The Grey Wardens conscripted her. Her name was Ashara. One of Hawke’s Warden contacts is also named Ashara. They are likely not the same woman, it’s a common enough name. She’s probably dead. We haven’t gotten a letter from her in years--you know how the Wardens are about families. But I’ve buried one sister already. I want the dead to stay dead.” Blackwall puts down the wood-carving and places his knife in its sheath. He laces his fingers together and stares at her over his hands. Imladris stares back, face blank. He says, “Don’t we all.” He gets up and walks out of the room. She has touched some hurt there, and she should ask what it was, but she’s too angry with herself to get up and go after him. Instead, Imladris curls in on herself and pretends to fall asleep. Solas and Dorian clamber in, the former quieter than the latter, and climb up to their top bunks, trading quips. Blackwall does not come back. She falls asleep to the sound of her companions’ breathing. If she dreams, someone does her the kindness of keeping them carefully blank.

They climb into the caves and leave a gorgeous day behind. Luckily, Dorian brings the smell of the floral valley with them, which mixes noxiously with the cave damp. “You smell like an Orlesian brothel,” Blackwall grumbles. He has not slept. “Especially with the mold.” “Ha!” Dorian says. “As if you could afford it. More mold, less Serault parfumeries, methinks.” They pass by a few squealing nugs and reach a wooden gate with the Blind Men’s sign slathered over it. Blackwall slams his shield into the door, knocking it down, and yells. Imladris rapidly barriers him, heart pounding. He is almost as bad as Cassandra, running blind into fights. “Maker’s breath!” they hear a person yelp. “Chill. I’m just trying to eat my salad greens.” “Hawke,” Imladris says. She cuts the spell as Blackwall lowers his shield. “Has to be.” Solas says, “I read The Tale of the Champion, and thought Varric exaggerated the dialogue. It appears I did not give him enough credit. Perhaps he should have based it less on real life.” Her companions enter first, and she delays. Dorian nudges her onward. Taking a deep breath, Imladris enters, and sees Hawke in rather nondescript leather armor, eating arugula out of a wooden bowl. A woman sits a bit away from them, playing solitaire on the cave floor. She glances up from her game. “By the Dread Wolf, Immo’,” Ashara Ashallin Lavellan says. “What the fuck happened to your face?” Hawke says, “Why does everyone I know always know each other? Thedas can’t be that small.” They look at Solas. “Do I know you? Do I know anyone you know? You ever met a lady who could turn into a dragon?” Ashara says, “Oh, Hawke, I forgot to tell you.” She points at Imladris. “That’s my sister, somewhere under all those scars. Damn, you make me think I got lucky, getting taken by the Wardens. What happened, Antoine finally catch up with you?” “Yes,” Imladris says shortly. “Ah,” Ashara says lamely. “I suppose you don’t want to talk about it.” Hawke says, “Are we intruding? I feel like we’re intruding. We can go elsewhere. Except, well, we can’t. Did you deal with the bandits? We can deal with the bandits.” “We dealt with the bandits,” Dorian tells them. “We dealt with everything. Except for the dragon.” Hawke says, “You know what? Let’s go deal with that, while you guys...catch up.” Dorian looks like he is about to protest, but Blackwall grabs him by the shoulder and manhandles him out of the cave. Hawke slips their arm into his and together, they frogmarch him towards the entrance. Solas lingers, but she waves him off. “Try and help Blackwall keep Hawke from getting everyone killed,” Imladris says. “We’ll meet you at Caer Bronach.” “As your wish, Inquisitor,” he says, “though you overestimate my influence.” She squeezes his hand and then pushes him gently. He goes, and the sisters watch him walk away. The years haven’t been kind to Ashara, but they haven’t been easy to her either. They take stock of each other. Ashara’s hair is graying, early for an elf. The whites of her eyes are gray from the Taint, and she hums as she watches Imladris watch her. Her fingers restlessly tap on her thigh. Her vallaslin, Dirthamen’s own, is faded. She has a new cut on her neck. She looks haggard. Imladris knows she likely looks the same. The cave grows quiet at Imladris shifts uneasily on her feet, waiting for her sister to say something. It has been twenty years, or thereabouts. Ashara sits cross-legged on the ground, playing with her cards. She swipes them up, shuffles the deck, and deals them again. Imladris watches her put a two on an ace, wrong suit. She tries to catch her eye, but Ashara looks away. Her humming grows louder, more insistent. She keeps changing pitch, and it makes Imladris uneasy. Suddenly, desperately, she wants her to stop. “So,” she says. “Why didn’t you write?” Ashara gestures at her cards. “Sit. If we’re going to get into this now, you might as well make yourself comfortable.” She deals three cards in front of her: three of clubs, two of clubs, jester. “The future’s not looking good, lethallin. I’d let that man go, if I were young.” Imladris breaths out harshly. “I don’t have a man. He died. Why didn’t you write?” Ashara looks at her wryly and sweeps the cards back into the deck. She shuffles them as she speaks. “Wardens don’t have families, Immo’. They don’t have sisters or sons. It’s...it’s easier to make a clean break. Because there was no way I would be able to come back.” “I think I found your diary,” Imladris says. “In the Storm Coast. I found these pages, about a woman singing the hymn to Andruil...I hoped it was you. I was afraid you were dead someplace, unburied, alone.” “Oh, baby, the Wardens don’t let you die alone. Not even in the Deep Roads. Though we don’t always get our own burial.” She reaches for her hand. Imladris grasps it tightly. Ashara continues, “We were in the Storm Coast, me and Anders and Loghain--yes, that Loghain, would you believe he’s not that bad? He’s with the others.” She pauses. “Not everyone listened to Clarel, bless Dirthamen’s name. Some of us have sense to break from the fucking Weisshaupt death cult. Idiot Orlesians, Immo’. We thought Antoine was bad, but by the Dread Wolf! I’ll take guarding a caravan out of Val Chevin over planning an excursion with the Orlesian commanders.” Imladris blinks, nonplussed. This is utterly irrelevant. Of course Orlesians are annoying, even if they are Wardens first. She doesn’t understand why, after twenty years, this is the first thing her sister says. Ashara has always been mercurial, but not like this. Isn’t she glad to see her? Isn’t she happy they’re both still alive? It hasn’t been easy, these past twenty years. “Ashara,” she says, “don’t you want to know how we’ve been? Don’t you want to know how I’ve gotten here? Your son, he’s such a wonderful boy--man now, I should say.” “Don’t,” Ashara says. “Imladris, don’t. I don’t want to know. I don’t want it in my head. I have enough in my head. I don’t want to know. I can tell things went bad. I don’t want to know. Listen, I know Hawke told you that we’re all hearing the Calling. It’s a relief to know it’s not a Blight. We can’t leave Thedas unprepared when the next archdemon rises. We’ve got at least fifty of us who’ve decided to ignore Clarel. The others--well, they’re only half-heartedly hunting us. And really it’s just Loghain they want, but we sent him onward to the Inquisition. He’s technically exiled from Ferelden, anyway, does your fortress count as Ferelden? Or Orlesian? Or have you carved your own little state in the Frostbacks? That sounds like something you’d do.” Imladris is incredulous. Ashara had always been single-minded, but she had never been selfish. She doesn't even know what to say. How can she not want to know? If she had been taken from her home and her children, all she would want to talk about was home. She doesn’t understand what is happening. She persists, “We took back the Friendly Homes, we’ve got support in Wycombe. Even after what I did. Our cousins in the alienage--” Ashara says, “No. Stop. I’m a Warden. This isn’t my business. We don’t interfere. I don’t want to know. I don’t have--I’m a Marcher Warden. It’s nice that I get to see you, before the Calling takes me entirely. I guess. But, Imladris, I don’t want to know. There’s no point in it, and it’s just going to--” She takes in a breath. “Are you fucking that flat-ear?” “That’s irrelevant,” Imladris says. “I don’t want to talk about that. Why are you asking me that? I don’t understand. Ashara, what--you know, I have two children now. Girls. They look just like their father. His name was Mahanon. It’s been four years since he was killed. We were staying at the alienage, and--” Ashara puts up her hand. “Imladris, stop. You don’t want to tell me this. I don’t want you to tell me this.” “You asked.” She’s getting upset now. “Ashara, you asked. I’m your sister, Ashara. Ashara Ashallin Lavellan, I’m your sister, and--” “Just Ashara, lethallin,” she says. “I lost my clan and gained a new family when I did the Joining. You don’t understand, and I hope you don’t, because I don’t think you could survive it. Call me Ashara, lethallin. Please, I don’t want to talk about the past. Tell me--what is that castle in the Frostbacks like? I heard you have an arcanist from Orzammar. Is she studying the Blight?” “What the fuck, Ashara?” Imladris gets up. “You’re--you are of Clan Lavellan, daughter of Ashalla Hawen’s daughter and Baranduin Lavellan--you can’t say the Calling’s taking that away! You are my sister! What the fuck, you mean you don’t want to know? That it’s not your business?” She’s angry now, and the cave begins to shimmer as heat pools in her throat and behind her eyes. She forces herself to take a breath, and pushes the rage back. Ashara watches her with interest, hand on her pomell. Her gauntlets have griffons inscribed on them. Ashara says, “I do what I can to get through the day. Better we get over this now than in front of the shem.” She smiles slightly. “You still have a temper.” “You’re still an asshole,” Imladris snaps back. “A letter would’ve been nice. Something for your son. For us. Especially when Revas was captured. So I knew at least one of us would survive.” Ashara says, “This isn’t survival, the darkspawn are going to take me in a year, regardless of what this crazed magister does.” Imladris freezes. Her sister sighs. “Why I said--there’s no point in getting too attached. I’m dying. Mahariel and the rest are looking for a cure but they’re next. It’s inevitable. As inevitable as the Blight.” “Banal’nadas,” Imladris says. The Blight is inevitable. Nothing is inevitable. Elvhen is a language of intents and in this moment she means both. The past year has taught her that. The red lyrium creeps, and a darkspawn magister claims that doom is upon the world, but she has turned back time and sewn the heavens back together. Her sister is still alive. She says, to hurt her, “Halla’den died.” Ashara puts her head in her hands for a second. She looks up at her and says, “And you call me an asshole.” She laughs. “Fine. You win. Tell me what happen, and we’ll cry in each other’s arms, and come stumbling down to the dragon and save them from being killed and laugh about it, and when I die you’ll tell Samahl solemnly that I kept the darkspawn back and no one will feast upon my corpse, rotting alone in the Deep Roads, with Loghain’s eyeless body behind me. Because the darkspawn like eyes the most. So I’ve been told. So I’ve noticed. But we just won’t think about that, will we?” Imladris slides against the cave wall and sits back down. “I don’t want to fight,” she says helplessly. Ashara says, “You always do.” “That’s not true. I wasn’t the one who started the feud with the Werrin boys.” “You certainly were the one who ended it. I thought you were going to kill him, you beat him that badly.” “But I didn’t,” Imladris says. “And you hit him first. I just made sure he stayed down, and wouldn’t come after us. And Gadden Cadash gave us good money for cleaning up the warehouse district.” Ashara says, “Yeah. But we don’t do that anymore, do we, Inquisitor?” “Not for a long time.” Imladris smiles thinly. “Not since I killed Antoine’s wife.” Ashara says, “Is Samahl at Skyhold?” “Yes,” Imladris says, eying her. “And Revas’ twins. And my girls. A few others, that you wouldn’t know. Some people we took in during the Blight, some I met when Deshanna moved us out of the city proper.” Ashara says, “Ah. Perhaps it is inevitable, then. I can never have it easy. Can we do this over? I’m scared. I don’t want to do this. I’m tired of doing things I don’t want to do.” Imladris says, “If you’re expecting sympathy--” She stops herself, and makes herself look. Ashara is tapping again, rhythm erratic, and her eyes are wide. Her skin is waxen and her face is hollow. She looks ghoulish already. Imladris realizes suddenly--she is dying, and she is dying badly, and she is terrified and ashamed. Ashara deserves better than this. Ashara will not get what she deserves. She says, “I wanted to see you. I missed you. But I didn’t want to see you like this.” Ashara says, “Me neither, Immo’. Me neither.”

Hawke and their Wardens leave to scout the Western Approach. Leliana and Josephine come to Crestwood with more news: there are venatori in Denerim, and King Alistair wants them dealt with. Imladris supposes it is a fair trade for the Inquisition’s increasing hegemony over the roads. When the roads dry, they set out. Her companions are tactful enough not to ask after her sister, and why she left so hastily. Some things, as Ashara reminded her, cannot be borne. It is better not to think about it. It is better not to know. Spring in Ferelden brings the damp. They are all grouchy and footsore by the time they enter Denerim’s ruined citygates. Sera says, “What a shithole. Glad I left.” Josephine says, “Please do not say that to anyone that is not us.” Sera says, “Yeah, yeah, don’t worry. Not like anyone besides us listens. It’s squelch season.” She stomps in a particularly gross mud puddle, spraying Varric. Varric gives Imladris a long-suffering look. “I just want to get drunk,” he says. “Are we going straight to the palace, or did you rent us a house of our own?” Leliana, it turns out, has commandeered the Chanter’s House near the alienage, with Bann Shianni Tabris’ written permission. It is a beautiful Orlesian-style parsonage, large enough that she has her own room, and she heads there to avoid the clatter of the Inquisition as they prepare for their entrance into Denerim’s court. The room is small, built for a Chantry mother, but Leliana was kind enough to have most of the Andrastian imagery removed. Imladris likes the blue wall paint. Over the head of the bed a statue of Andraste wreathed in flames hangs. Imladris leans against the dresser and stares at it. She’s not in pain. Her expression is quietly mournful--but that is the story of the divine Andraste, isn’t it? She kept silent even as she burned alive, so noble that Maferath killed her himself. Imladris wonders what Leliana is trying to tell her with this, if anything at all. She’s seen women burned alive; Duke Antoine’s wife screamed and cried and tried to run out of the carriage too, a flaming torch across the flat fields of her newly-enclosed manor. Imladris reaches out and takes the statue down. She puts it in the dresser, washes her face, and glances out the window. Denerim is dirty and loud. Queen Anora is attempting to introduce a public works bill to pave the roads and bring magelight to the streets, but it seems unlikely to pass the Bannorn, especially with Arlessa Mahariel gone. Imladris watches people dart down the street. A man pulls a screaming toddler away from the road, a dwarven crier yells at a man on a horse for splattering her with mud, and an elf runs across the rooms out of the Alienage and into the city proper, scaling the jump in one magnificent leap, and she winces in sympathy as they scramble over the roof and keep running. Someone knocks on her door and she lets the curtain fall. Politics, politics: Shianni Tabris does not have a good relationship with Loghain’s daughter, but everyone knows clean roads are better for the city. What they really need to do is invest in better sanitation, and excavate a new aqueduct system like the Dalish had built in Halamshiral. She even knows who would want to design it. The knock echoes against the door, more insistently this time. Imladris sighs and unlocks the door. “Sera,” she says. “Is there a problem?” She wants to be left alone, at least until dinner. “Yeah,” Sera says. “Been a bit gloomy lately, right? Cheer up! Red Jennies want something from you, and you’ll like it. Come out to the alienage, we’ll have some fun.” Imladris is taken aback. “I thought you didn’t like the alienage.” “I don’t like elfy elves. You’re alrightish, but the ones who keep moaning about the lost kingdom and shit? Ugh.” Sera sticks out her tongue and makes a long, graphic gagging noise. She clutches at her throat. For a second Imladris actually thinks she is going to vomit. As she moves out of blast range, Sera grins. “For the Jennies. It’s gotta do with King Knife-Ear and his frigid wife. It’s useful, I swear. Come on!’ Imladris says, “Why not? Alright.” They exit via the kitchen, in plain clothes. Imladris wears a hood to cover her face. There are others with scars like hers in the alienage, of course, but not with vallaslin, though she knows trade between the various Dalish clans and their city-bound cousins have improved since Alistair safeguarded the roads. Sera skips merrily down the street, feet bare. Imladris doesn’t have the energy to keep up and decides to purposefully slow, to check and see if they have a tail. She catches the reflection of a shadow overheard in a mud puddle. She reaches Sera at the entrance to the alienage, gateless since the Blight. She murmurs, “We’re being followed.” “Shit, really?” Sera says. “Here I thought they just wanted to rob us.” Imladris rolls her eyes. She pats the statue of Fen’Harel that marks the entrance, who looks more mabari than wolf. Sera surreptitiously reaches for the other one, too. Some habits die hard; reverence is one of them. They leave the Dread Wolf snarling at the shem behind them, and enter the alienage. The Vhenadahl is monumental. Imladris stops to drink it in. The roots and lower trunk are painted to keep pests away, and then adorned with the marks of every family that still lives there. Further up the branches stretch over the wide square, shading it in the gorgeous bright green canopy. Where Denerim was mostly muddy and dirty, the alienage is clean and colorful--green, red, white. Warden Tabris paid for the streets to be paved and commissioned friends from Orzammar to build them their own sanitation system, the most massive public works project in Ferelden, and she can see the effect it has had in the way that the people carry themselves. Neighbors lounge amongst the roots of the Vhenadahl, enjoying the day. People look well-scrubbed. There is a statue of Andraste flanked by Mythal’s dragons nestled in a nook in the main square, with enchanted flowers chiming softly in the window below it. Thus is the power of one elf with money, the adoration of a nation, and a king’s heart. Imladris thinks: I need to start moving my money from Skyhold to Wycombe, Tabris can’t be the only one looking after us, no one does this in the Marches, we need this in the Marches, I wonder if they still have the blueprints? Of course the water table is different-- Sera interrupts, “Done gawping, yeah?” She waves a hand in front of Imladris’ face. “You there?” Imladris says, “How did they manage to keep the shem from stealing all this? I know they tried to kill Shianni, not long after Warden Tabris had her baby. How?” Sera shrugs. “Well, dunno. Everybody went in, rebuilding after the Blight. And I heard Orzammar owed Tabris a favor. Not that I know, really. I was uptown then.” “Uptown?” Sera looks away from her and sticks her hand into a flower pot. She produces a red ribbon. “See, I’m not shitting you. My Friends’ll meet us here!” They settle down on the cool stone step, sticking their feet into the road. Sera produces a hunk of bread and tears a piece off for her. Imladris rustles around in her robes for a bottle of olive oil. “You are a mom,” Sera says. “You just carry that around?” Imladris says sententiously, “Good olive oil makes any bread edible.” “Even if it’s moldy?” Sera says, ever the skeptic. “What if someone peed on it?” Imladris admits that even the best oil cannot cure that, but if someone is peeing on your bread, she points out, you have bigger problems than just your meal. Sera chews over that. They watch the square and wait for the Friend to find them. She’s never been to Denerim before. She kept to the backwoods on her way to Haven, and Imladris is more familiar with the rivers of the Free Marches and the mountains and plains of Orlais than any of Ferelden’s admittedly parochial cities. It’s nice enough, though. They’ve kept it clean, and despite the wound in the sky, the elves of Denerim go about their business. They have survived so much. Imladris watches a woman yell up at a building. A shutter opens and an old man tosses down a basket and a set of heavy metal keys. The basket bounces off the woman’s head and the keys clatter to the ground. She rubs her head, cursing as she stoops to pick them up, and the old man laughs. As he closes the shutter he notices her watching, and waves. Imladris does not wave back. The woman approaches--short, with a snub nose and closely cropped black hair. She has a dyed-red leather string around her neck, from which hands a pewter charm of the Tree of Mythal. Imladris rises to her head, brushing the crumbs from her lap. “Aneth ara, lethallin,” she says. “I didn’t know you’d be called to Denerim.” Sera says, “You two know each other?” Rope says, exasperated, “Don’t you ever listen? Yes, Sera, yes. I do indeed know this woman who I’ve lived with for what, twenty years? Minus this one. The Red Jennies joined up with Fen’Harel’s Teeth--that’s Immo’s little, ah, you call it a newspaper? Well, in Wycombe, we all folded in years and years ago. And I didn’t deliver your babies, but I changed some of their diapers.” Imladris grins. “Badly--they always fell off. Sera, we’re part of what we call an aravel. Think trade caravan. My family came to see me in Val Royeaux--but I suppose that was before you joined us.” She holds her arms out to embrace her and Rope grabs her tightly. She stinks of the road and unwashed halla. She hasn’t smelled those grumpy old halla in so long--Master Dennet has her on a sweet Ferelden Folder, who smells just a little better than the halla from home. Imladris says, “I haven’t seen you since Val Royeaux. I thought you were sticking close to home.” Rope says, “I go where I’m sent. And lucky for you, the Friends in Denerim thought they could make this simpler using someone already connected to you. Since, of course, the Friends of Red Jenny do not officially have any sort of coalition with Chantry organizations, isn’t that right, Sera?” She stares at her. Sera says, “What are you looking at me for? I didn’t make promises! You told me to get a few favors, give a few favors. Isn’t that what this is?” Rope shakes her head. “We train them better in the Marches,” she tells Imladris. “Sorry, I said we should’ve sent Charade.” “Hey!” Sera says indignantly. “I set this up, what? Bare minimum, thanks. Give me some gratitude!” Rope waves at her. “Thank you, Red Jenny, for your service, for bringing the Inquisitor here and reminding her that this continent is full of little people not so easily taken in by that glowy hand.” Imladris laughs, and Rope looks at her fondly. “That even when the stupid and the supernatural are afoot, Red Jenny’s got a knife in the dark and another at your back. Well, quit gawking. Did Sera tell you why we wanted just you? No, that would have required her to fully decode the letter, and who has the patience for that?” “Certainly not me,” Imladris says. “The Left Hand of the Divine reads all my mail for me, and I’ve had to stop Lady Montilyet of Antiva from answering it too.” “Exalted circles,” Rope notes. “Let’s go.” Her friend leads them through the sprawling network of back alleys that make up the Denerim alienage. As they retreat from the Vhenadahl, the damp sinks back in. People dart from the shadows, eyes glimmering in the dark. Imladris keeps her hand on her spirit blade hilt. No one tries to mug them, but that might be because of the red ribbon Sera holds in front of them, like a safe passage. This is Red Jenny’s territory, here more than anywhere else. Imladris knows there are Friends across Thedas, but here is where they were born, and here is where they have their most power. “So,” Imladris murmurs to her friend, “when were you going to tell me you still take Jenny orders?” “Not orders,” Rope grits back. “Suggestions. Which you might learn from.” Imladris blinks, a little hurt, but they turn into a doorway only remarkable in how dull it is. Rope shakes the ring of keys the old man had tossed her, and after some poking and prodigy and a healthy amount of cursing in Dalish, Elvhen, and Common, finally finds the right one. They enter the building warily, but no one drops from the ceiling to ambush them. By the hearth stands a man, posing dramatically. Rope groans, ruining his reveal. “Ugh, you,” she says. “Tell Briala to go fuck herself.” “Me!” exclaims Felassan happily. “You’re a Red Jenny now?” Imladris says in disbelief. Felassan grins. “One of the originals, really. Well, I didn’t help out with the Night Elves. But I’ve been around.” Sera says, “Do you seriously know fucking everyone in Thedas, or are you just like--lucky?” Imladris thinks, I’m not sure it’s luck. She tries to smile at him, feeling a bit embarrassed. In his last letter to her, he had gently steered her towards looking towards other people, for whatever companionship she desired. You can fuck a man but you can’t make him want you; well, she tells herself, did you ever really want him like that anyway? Felassan says, “So, this venatori problem--this year’s really spiralled out of control, hasn’t it?” He chuckles to himself. “Fucking weirdo,” Rope mutters, tactful as always. Imladris is abruptly reminded as to why they all call her Rope: give her enough rope to hang herself, she’ll do it as soon as she opens her mouth. She makes Sera look a diplomat. Felassan says, “There’s nothing wrong with a little Schadenfreude.” He overpronounces the word. “What?” Imladris says. She only knows how to ask for directions and bread in the language of the Anderfels. Felassan looks vague. His hair has a bit more gray in it. It’s rather charming. “Too long to explain,” he says. “But, well, Briala’s spies in the court ran across your man Corypheus’s spies--” “My man Corypheus?” Imladris says, incredulous. “You make him sound like a suitor.” Sera starts giggling. “That’d be a hell of a plot twist. Put that in the Chant of Light and sing it! End of the world, elf saves the world with the power of pussy, all good, weird pointy-eared red lyrium babies at the end. But Coryphits looked like he was into butt stuff, so. Maybe not.” There is a moment of silence where Imladris looks to the ceiling beseechingly, begging for patience, and Rope’s face freezes in disgust. Felassan grins. “I like you,” he says. “You have style. Panache, as they say in Orlais.” “Yeah,” Sera says smugly. “That’s gratitude.” Imladris says faintly, “Briala’s spies found Corypheus’s spies?” Felassan says, “Yes. And she needs a strong Ferelden to keep Orlais in check--make note of that, I know you two like to snipe at each other--so she sent me to tip you off. And I decided, well, it’s been awhile since I’ve enjoyed a really good court intrigue.” “Because Halamshiral gets so boring,” Imladris says. Felassan says, “One craves a change of accent. So they’ve gotten us jobs as caterers for the feast that the Throne is throwing for the Inquisition.” Imladris says, “Caterers? Can you hold a platter? Can you even keep a neutral face?” Rope gestures with her hands a box around her face, hands parallel. She assumes a face of perfect blankness, so of course her natural sense of rage simmers through at the edges of her mouth. Imladris exchanges a look with Felassan. It is not the worst idea she has heard. It might even be fun. “Look,” Rope says. “This is my neutral face.” “You look like a dog just shat in front of you,” Sera observes. Imladris concurs. That is indeed the face Rope makes when something takes a shit in front of her, which has happened surprisingly often. Rope says, “That’ll probably happen. We’re in Ferelden. How many of these nobles have mabari? Too many. We really just need to kill the lot.”

The carpet that covers the great hall of Denerim’s royal palace is old. The yellow flowers have faded into the blue, and while the blue weave is not dirty, it has been bleached pale as a nursery sky. Still, it is soft underfoot and homey, which is better than Skyhold, or the austerity of the sister’s cell she left in the Chanter’s House. It is odd to think of a palace as homey, but King Alistair has made himself comfortable on his brother’s throne in the past ten years, and Queen Anora has kept it clean. The Inquisition arrives in-state, and the court of Ferelden meets them. The King and Queen rise from their thrones as she approaches, Leliana at her back. Technically, as Inquisitor, she ranks as equals amongst the bluest-blood noble of Thedas. Unofficially, no one outside of Ferelden, Antiva, and Nevarra recognize her title, though the Chantry in Orlais has asked for them to stabilize the Dales before planting season. Ferelden will stand for her, but they will not bow. Imladris inclines her head, and King Alistair steps forward. “So!” He claps his hands. “You’ve made it down from the mountains. How exciting. Now, we have a new chef from Orlais, and my wife assures me she’s not an Orlesian spy, so I guess that’s okay. But I need to prove to Leliana that we can throw a feast just as fancy as the nobbiest of Orlesian nobs, so--have you ever Tevinter cheese?” Queen Anora says pointedly, “Welcome to Denerim, Inquisitor. We thank you for your service, clearing the highwaymen from the Crestwood Road, and even escorting our merchant caravans. Ferelden prospers from the Inquisition’s interest. And, of course, the Inquisition prospers too. How did you find Caer Bronach? You will be leaving soon, I hope.” Imladris has to admire her. She never misses a single troop movement. She says, “When Denerim can spare the soldiers.” Josephine had begged her not to directly mention Edgehall, but it stays unspoken between them. If they cannot protect their subjects, she will. Alistair chuckles. “Nice answer.” He still isn’t looking at her directly. He says to Leliana, “Well, let’s party. And parley. Haha.” Leliana sighs, Alistair grins, and even Anora has the trace of a smile on her face. These three survived the Blight together and formed a country out of civil war. Alistair takes Leliana by the arm and starts gesturing her towards the banquet table, where they have indeed laid an impressive array of meats and cheese, puddings and sausages and enough starches to power even a farmer through the cold and wet Denerim spring. The Inquisition set to mingle. Everyone has their purpose. Josephine is chatting up Queen Anora. Iron Bull is trading war stories with Arl Teagan. Cullen and Solas are listening patiently to some bann from West Hills lecture about crop rotation techniques after a Blight. Sera appears to be stealing the silverware. Imladris walks over to her. “Stop that,” she hisses. “No,” Sera says stubbornly. “Look, it’s got weird mage-y shit written on it. Lord Elfybit’s gotta look at it.” “I am a mage too, Sera,” Imladris says, irritated. “Let me see.” Sera hands her the serving fork. Drawn in the most delicately woven streams of lyrium is a poisonous sigil, glowing faintly red. The red lyrium sigil would have contaminated whatever food it touched, sickening and potentially addicting whomever it served. Sera crosses her arms defensively. “See?” Sera says. “Let me give it to Varric. Who’s coordinating this?” “Show it to Leliana,” she says. “Discreetly. I’ll speak to the servants.” Imladris slips away from the great hall, following the smell and warmth towards the kitchens. Servants, human and elves mixed, hurry down the halls, carrying massive plates meant to impress her and her inner circle. Despite their mission, they do not recognize her. They think the military uniform marks her as just another Inquisition captain. She’s not offended. She stands out too much, as it is.The cobbles of the hallway grow warmer and Imladris rounds the bend, expecting to find the kitchen. Someone grabs at her shoulder and she whirls around, calling fire into her fingertips to burn them. “Stop!” Cassandra orders. “I do not mean to startle you.” Imladris lowers her hands and lets the fires smoke. Cassandra looks pugnacious as always, but of course people say the same of her. Nettled, she demands, “What do you want?” Cassandra’s expression hardens. She keeps an eye on Imladris’ hands. She does not need a staff to be dangerous, but Cassandra can still smite her without a sword. “There are venatori threats afoot. You should not walk unguarded.” Imladris eyes her coolly. Their paths have not crossed much since their spat in Skyhold. “I can hold my own.” Cassandra says, “I know that. But I know the threats of the nobility better than you do. It is easier to face them with someone guarding your back.” Imladris concedes the point. She explains the serving utensil Sera found, redolent of red lyrium, and her suspicion the agents are hiding in the kitchen. It would be easier to go into the kitchens with Blackwall, where they can pretend to be regular soldiers. Cassandra has her Pentaghast pronunciation, after all. But if she keeps her mouth shut and mimes what she wants, Imladris can explain her away as a mercenary recruit from Nevarra. “Like one of Varric’s adventure novels,” Cassandra says slowly. “I see.” Her eyes gleam, and Imladris looks at her curiously. She seems to be enjoying herself. “You read Varric’s books?” Imladris asks, amused despite herself. Cassandra scowls. “As part of my duties as Seeker! The Tale of the Champion was needed in our investigation of the attempted annulment of Kirkwall!” Her cheeks pink, just a bit. Imladris is tickled by the whole idea. She’s embarrassed! But she decides to leave it alone. Venatori are afoot, after all, and they don’t need to be scratching at each other as they fight. The wind changes. The hall grows stuffy and torches dim. The air sticks like leaden water in her throat. They hear a single, wailing note of a bagpipe, and then the drone kicks in. The dance begins, but where? The music is not coming from the banquet hall, and though it has been threatening to rain all day, the air feels strangely electric. “Blood magic,” Cassandra hisses. “In the Royal Palace! Maker’s Breath!” A guitar strums and they find themselves carried onward in its vibrato. Cassandra grabs her and grabs hold of the wall before they enter the servants’ quarters “Wait!” She prays to the Maker, and the music fades in Imladris’ ears. The atmosphere is sticky, but they can breathe. They can control their own limbs. “Two of the musicians, then,” Imladris says. “Should we take them out now, or wait for the concert? I think they’re just rehearsing.” “Rehearsing foul magic!” Cassandra says. Yes, Imladris thinks but does not say. I did just say that. They follow the quiet vibration of the music down the opposite hallway. A faint glow comes from Cassandra’s eyes as she pushes the compulsion of the Fade away. Imladris tests the handle of a door. It’s warm to the touch. She nods at Cassandra. The venatori mages are in this one. “I have never seen music like this,” Cassandra murmurs. Imladris has. Weaving magic into the dance is par for the course for most community gatherings, and a nice way to get drunk. Her brother specializes in luring targets in with a song, when he isn’t trying to get himself commissioned to paint a poisonous painting in the nobility’s bedroom. She supposes he learned that from his Tevinter master--or maybe those Tevinter masters learned that from the elves. She says, “On three.” One, two, and thr--Cassandra charges into the room with a war cry exactly as Imladris was murmuring the word, yelling the Maker’s fury unto the earth. Exasperated, Imladris hurries in after her. Before them the two musicians play in a small, unadorned chapel. The altar is wood and worn. Andraste and her mabari look very, very old. Before the altar King Alistair turns in slow circles as he singsongs, “Of course I miss my mother, the idea of her, but that doesn’t mean I can do anything, Ferelden comes first--” Cassandra slams her sword into the ground and the spell cuts. Alistair says, “What?” as the venatori throw their instruments away and charge at them. Imladris hastily rings them in fire. They howl. Alistair says, horrified, “Oh, for fuck’s sake--stop it! I order you, stop it! Cut their necks!” Imladris keeps the spell going and Cassandra charges into the ring of fire, overpowering the mages quickly. She kills one quickly and chases the other one. Imladris blasts her with fire, and the venatori goes down quickly. Alistair looks at them angrily. “What was that?” “You were enchanted,” Imladris says shortly. “Sir.” Alistair crosses his arms. He is still moving uneasily from foot to foot. The venatori agents’ spell stirs beyond the Fade. He sings at her, “I don’t like to look at you.” “Really,” she says flatly. “I wonder why.” Cassandra tries to interrupt, but the compulsion still remains. Alistair keeps talking to the beat of dead music. “Those scars,” he says. “All those I can’t save.” His eyes are a little glazed. It’s no excuse. You would think the Hero of the Fifth Blight would learn some tact, especially since her people number among his constituents. He sings, “You wear guilt on your face. I’ve heard that in Wycombe, people tell stories about you to scare their children. Guilt on your face.” Imladris scowls. She tells Cassandra, “You keep him safe. Try and cut the spell before he says something more offensive. I’ll deal with what’s going on in the kitchens.” She walks and does not run out of the chapel, and if the air goes hotter and hotter as she goes by, it is only because she is testing for ambient magic, not because Rage is pulling at her from beyond the Veil. As she heads to the kitchen, a hooded servant brushes past her, carrying a silver ewer studying with rubies. Her nose itches, that’s lyrium, that has to be lyrium, and she turns around--and Felassan and Rope, covered in flour, rush past her. Imladris steps aside, amused. She had been wondering where they ended up, and how exactly Felassan was avoiding Solas. Felassan tackles the servant to the ground, and Imladris winces at the thunk as the venatori’s head gets smashed against the stone ground. Rope leaps onto the pile, dagger drawn. Imladris takes a step back, not sure the melee needs even more flailing limbs added to it. Eventually, the struggle ceases. Felassan, with his back to the hallway, lifts the cloth to check on the corpse, pulling it over himself to shield the gorey sight from view. It is ridiculous. Why is he hiding under the tablecloth? At the mouth of the hallway stands Solas. “Can I be of assistance?” he inquires melodiously. Ah, Imladris thinks. That’s why. That could’ve been revelatory. She glances at Rope, and Rope shakes her head sternly. She squashes the impulse for chaos that always arises when she is around the two of them, and moves Solas along. “No,” Imladris tells him. “We have it from here. Cassandra is guarding the King in the chapel--would you join her?” Solas raises an eyebrow but lets it be. He walks away. When they are entirely sure he is out of earshot, Rope stands over the tablecloth, hands on her hips. “He’s gone,” Rope says. “Thought he’d look more interesting. Just yet another bald hedge mage.” Felassan pulls the sheet off, wiping away the gore of the venatori’s shattered skull. “He looks really good naked,” he assures them. “Hung like a horse.” Rope looks at Imladris. “Well.” Imladris says, “What?” She points to the blood pooling around the cooling corpse. “We need to put that somewhere safe. And don’t touch the ewer directly, it’s embedded with red lyrium. Did they contaminate the food? And why are you both covered in flour?” Rope says, “Well, we saw him adding lyrium dust to the pastry dough, and I happened to have a sack of flour, so I hit him with it.” “Except he ducked,” Felassan adds. “So I tried to trap him in the tablecloth, but he slipped away.” Imladris is exasperated. “Weren’t you supposed to help with catering?” Rope says, “Things changed. They were clever, putting lyrium in the utensils rather than the food. Did you get the musicians? There’s four, over all. Do you have someone guarding the Crown?” She hurries towards the banquet hall, hoping to find Leliana. The Inquisition needs to regroup. Alistair has Cassandra and Solas guarding him, but she isn’t sure who is watching the queen, and there is a whole assortment of Ferelden nobility where just removing one upsets the balance of power across the whole region. If she is going to set off a civil war, she wants to brief the Jennies beforehand. The banqueting and dancing are going on as if the palace weren’t riddled with blood mages. Leliana is watching Arl Teagan dance with the new teyrn of Gwaren closely. Imladris takes her arm. “We’ve neutralized at least three venatori agents,” she whispers. “Solas and Cassandra are with the king. Where’s Anora?” Leliana frowns. “She just left--she was speaking with Madame de Ver. They had a rather biting conversation about the changeability of Orlesian court fashions. Be wary, Inquisitor. Anora has always been brusque, and she may not think of you as an ally when you find her.” Imladris leaves barely after Leliana finishes speaking, hurrying to Vivienne. “Such wonderful furs and such awful stitching,” she muses. “Do you need anything, darling?” “You let the queen walk off by herself?” Imladris says. “I’ve just killed three blood mages! Where is she?” Vivienne looks sardonic. “Then you have it well in hand. Fereldens have always liked a nice show of force. Check the courtyard, Cailan’s cloister. She’s gone there to sulk. And, please--walk, don’t run.” She leaves the banquet hall and begins searching for the cloister. She should have asked for directions, but now she is too afraid to stop. Every delay implies the upset of the very delicate balance of power she is trying to display. She can stabilize Ferelden and guard the king, rooting out spies in his very own palace. Where they fail, she succeeds. She must. She must find the queen, at least before the last venatori does, because what will arls like Edgehall say when they hear the Inquisitor let the queen die? When Gwaren passes to one of Redcliffe’s loyalists? What happens to her people? Imladris stalks the dark halls, nettled by how empty the palace seems. Torches barely illuminate the heavy stone walls, and though her eyes are good, and elves in general see well in the dark, she can barely see through the gloaming night. She conjures her own light, flaring against the Veil, but the magic splutters in her hand like it’d been dunked in a bucket of water. She realizes: blood magic, and she’s getting closer. She walks slowly into the darkness, hand on her hilt, and tells herself she is unafraid. The shadows increase and Imladris can taste the blood magic seep stickily against the Veil. The air is wet and heavy, and she finds herself slowing as she reaches the cloister. The queen stands by a potted orange tree, her back to her. Imladris takes the humidity and crackles it into her fist. The shadows recede, and the queen turns. “Inquisitor,” she greets. Dressed in black and red, Queen Anora looks like a storm crow. Anora plucks an orange dreamily. “Welcome to my arboretum. A later addendum to the palace, with trees specially imported from Orlais.” She smiles thinly. “Oranges and olives and apricots, not like our native mulberry trees. A little garden paradise, in this cold and muddy place.” Imladris says, “Let me see your eyes. We’ve found the venatori, can you feel it? It’s like a storm about to break.” Anora looks at her, glazed over. “I can taste the salt in the air. When I was a child in Gwaren, my mother would take me to the shipyards to see the merchants come in, with goods laden from all around the world--Orlais,” she snorts, “Antiva, Nevarra, Rivain. I dreamed of becoming a Lord of Fortune, like Eleanor Cousland. But Ferelden had other plans for me.” The colors of the cloister flatten. The tree becomes pale, and the orange in Anora’s hand is the only spot of color as she whitens into the background. Her dress becomes a frame. Imladris says, “Anora--queen--” She cannot bring herself to call anyone “my lady.” She huffs, and grabs her by the shoulder. Anora barely reacts. Imladris forces the Veil around them, disrupting the spell. Anora becomes herself again, cheeks reddening in outrage. She shoves Imladris away. “Unhand me, serah!” Imladris puts her hands up. “Fuck--duck!” Imladris twists as she falls to the ground. Anora pulls a dagger from her belt and throws it, staggering a creeping shadow. The darkness recedes, revealing a simple woman in blood-stained homespun. “Vishante kaffas,” the venatori agent sputters. She wrenches the dagger out and pulls at her own blood, and heat pools into the cloister as Rage unfolds out of the orange tree. Imladris draws her spirit-blade and charges, pulling electricity in her wake. Anora is right behind her, and quickly they disable the agent. “Don’t kill her,” Anora orders. Imladris has the woman by the neck. The women look at each other, breathing heavily. The adrenaline fades. The venatori is crying in pain. Imladris lets her go. She hates the sound of wailing, she would rather kill her outright than listen to her bleed out. Anora wipes her dagger clean with a handkerchief. She says, “Inquisitor, I do believe you just saved my life.” Imladris says, “Your health is central to the stability of Thedas. And blood magic is a nasty way to go.” Anora looks over at the wreckage they have left of the garden. The orange tree smolders in its pot. She says, “He built this for Celene. I must thank Corypheus for the excuse to remodel. And bill him, too.” Shocked, Imladris laughs. The enchantment is still at work. She escorts the queen back to the banquet hall in silence, leaving her to her burning thoughts.

#dragon age fanfiction #solavellan fanfic #lavellan #imladris ashallin lavellan #dai #dragon age fanfic #fen'harel's teeth #denerim #crestwood #alistair #anora #cassandra #dorian #blackwall #felassan

1 note · View note

wrenbee · 7 years

Text

Eleven Questions

Tagged by @galadrieljones , thank you! <3

What is your favorite plant? HOW CAN I CHOOSE?! I love all the plants. My “favorite” changes by the day. I’m really in love with night blooming flowers lately. I’m trying to grow moonflowers at the moment, it’s still warm enough here that they’re doing pretty good. Also, the wild Morning Glory (the moonflower’s daytime sister flower) growing up the side of my house is still going crazy and I love it.

Did you dress up as anything for Halloween this year? If so, what? If not, what would you like to dress up as in the future, given the opportunity? I didn’t :( Halloween is my favorite and my dream couple’s costume is The Maitlands from Beetlejuice. OH and ONE year I want me and bf to dress up as Felicity and Mr. Fox from Fantastic Mr. Fox.

(Stealing) What is something you disliked as a teenager, but like now? “The Country” which is where I grew up. I wanted to move to a far away, busy city with “culture.” Now that I’m a little older, I appreciate the slow, quietness of the country and the “culture” that that is. Not that the “city” has given me that perspective. It’s a very small city. How do you feel about your hometown? I love being in my hometown. It is in the middle of nowhere, and while I never fit in with the people there, I still love it (more so now, than I did growing up.) It’s really only about a 30-minute drive there from where I’m at and I go pretty often to see my dad and grandmother.

Your favorite Dragon Age related headcanon? Okay, there are so many! I’m just going to share one for Aura (because I miss her): Those elven glyphs you can find that show memories and feelings are too intense for her, as she is a highly sensitive person. Like the really evil ones in the Fallow Mire make her physically ill and sort of stick with her well after the moment is gone.

What is the first fandom you wrote fan fiction for? How old were you? Skyrim and I deleted everything I wrote because I was embarrassed LOL I was 23! It was like right before I found Dragon Age. At that point, the story of Skyrim wasn’t compelling anymore, and I would just run around with Vilkas, raiding bandit camps and killing things. Everything I wrote was basically just that; my half-blood wood elf Dragonborn and Vilkas running around killing shit…with bad smut…*hides face*

(Also stealing this one) If you had to be stranded on a desert island, which three fictional characters would you bring with to help you escape/survive? Blackwall. He could find me food and build a nice shelter, I think lol.

What is your FAVORITE breakfast? My favorite breakfast is just good toast, like leftover homemade bread toast, and some good french press coffee. And some fruit. I’m simple.

Do you have any tattoos? If not, would you ever consider getting one? I have one tiny Harry Potter tattoo, the 3 tiny stars from the pages of the books, behind my right ear. I will get more one day. I want a random “spooky” tattoo. Like a cute flying saucer, or witch’s broom. Also, I’m still very set on the Neko Case lyrics, “I own every bell that tolls me” from “At Last.” It’s been a sort of mantra for me this year.

What is one of the most important things you have learned (about anything) in the past year? Relating to the Neko lyrics, I have just really come into the knowledge that I am ultimately in control of my life. Like I can choose how I’m feeling at any given moment. I don’t have to be controlled by “circumstance” and life doesn’t happen to me, I make my life what it is. It’s been a strange year and I feel like I’ve grown up a bit. Not too much though :)

I’ll skip tags since I know this has made its rounds already.

#stuff about me #thank you for tagging me #:)

6 notes · View notes

bisexualsatan-blog · 7 years

Note

Your turn! The companion ask with your favorite inquisitor/warden/hawke :D

Oooh yay! Thanks! I actually have an ongoing headcanon in which all of the origins in all of the games exist, just in different roles. So I’m going to do my Trevelyan from that universe.

Character Name: Sabine TrevelyanRace / Element / Class / Specialization: Human Mage, prior to the events of the Conclave she was somewhat of an artificer, interesting in creating practical magic for daily use, including things that could be used even by those without magic. After the explosion of the conclave, she is one of those who devotes herself to studying the Rift and it’s relationship with the Fade.Gender Identity: Woman

Short bio: Sabine Trevelyan was born to a devout, dutiful family, who planned to send her to serve in the Chantry before her magic was revealed. The quickness with which her family sent her to the Circle and cut off all ties save those necessitated by maintaining their image was enough to make her question what she’d been taught, and the reality of Circle life solidified her belief that the Chantry was a cruel failure. But she still had the ambition of her Trevelyan blood, and the knowledge of how the Chantry and nobility worked, so she did everything she could to establish herself outwardly as a good, loyal, devout mage. In time, she was able to levy her bloodline and the connections she herself had established into becoming magical advisor to the Divine, a similar position to the one Morrigan held in Celene’s court.

Recruitment Quest: When the Circles rebelled, Sabine stayed at the Divine’s side, helping with reaching out to her fellow mages for the Conclave. She was attempting to reach out to her family for aid when Corypheus attacked. She presents herself at Haven after the Inquisitor returns from their first journey to the Hinterlands and offers her services.

Where they can be found in your headquarters once recruited: At Haven she is found with Minaeve, studying the materials you bring back. In Skyhold she is down in the Crafthold with Dagna.

Side Missions (eg: fetch / gather / kill quests): You can use her to gain connections with her family in the Freemarches for influence points; she also has knowledge of several small groups of mages who can be recruited, and caches of magical tomes and artifacts, but these will only be revealed if the Inquisitor sides with the mages.

Personal quests:

Quest 1: Available upon recruitment is a fetch quest to recover a forbidden tome with collected legends regarding Andraste being a mage, rather than or in addition to being chosen by the Maker. The tome is located in the Fallow Mire, and requires defeating several waves of undead. Extra approval will be gained if Sabine accompanies you on the quest.

Quest 2: There is a couple that Sabine has helped before, a Chantry Sister and a mage from her circle that took advantage of the rebellion to flee together. She receives word that they are being hunted by a group of Red Templars and asks the Inquisitor for help rescuing them. If the Inquisitor refuses, all potential romance and further friendship is cut off although she will remain with the Inquisition. If the Inquisitor agrees and brings Sabine along there is a large approval gain and this can trigger a romance. The Inquisitor has the option to recruit the mage and the Chantry Sister as agents at the end of the quest.

Quest 3: Sabine’s family, thanks to her position with the Divine and now the Inquisition, has invited her to a ball they are hosting in Orlais. Sabine invites the Inquisitor if romanced or on friendly terms. The Inquisitor can decline which, depending on dialogue, will result in an approval drop but not the romance ending. If the Inquisitor attends, there is a potential duel, some stolen kisses (if romanced), and the opportunity to compliment or insult Sabine’s parents. Both result in approval gains.

Things that raise their affinity with the player: Siding with mages, helping those in need, insulting Orlesians, criticizing the Chantry, pursuing every quest related to gaining magical knowledge, asking Sabine’s advice, supporting Leliana as divine, and politically motivated decisions during Judgments

Things that lower their affinity with the player: Siding with templars, refusing to help people, agreeing with the Chantry’s actions, agreeing with Cullen, insulting Sabine, putting Gaspard unilaterally on the throne, overly harsh decisions during Judgments

Are they romanceable? Yes, by women only.Can the relationship become sexual? YesAre they open to polyamory? Yes.If they can be romanced and are not, will they begin a relationship / relationships with other character(s)? If so, who? If the Warden did not romance Leliana, and the Inquisitor does not pursue a romance with her, there will be clues that Sabine and Leliana have formed a romantic partnership, one that will continue after the game if Leliana becomes Divine. If the Warden romanced Leliana, Sabine and Josephine will be often seen together.

Which other characters are they friendly towards? She would get along with all the mages. Her and Dorian are the ultimate in wlw/mlm solidarity and love to have wide ranging magical debates. She respects Solas and finds him fascinating, asking endless questions of his knowledge of magic and history. While she, at least internally, has a lot of disagreements with Vivienne in regards to the role of mages and magic in society, she very much respects the other woman personally, and her political finesse, and regards her as a valuable ally to cultivate. She and Varric get along well, and often discuss the political situation of the Free Marches while sharing a bottle of whiskey. She secretly loves the way Sera pulls Nobles noses, and is always friendly with the other woman although Sera’s clearly wary of her magic and noble birth. She knows Cassandra from her time serving the Divine and while they are not particularly close, they get along fine and she respects her.

Which other characters do they not get along with? She avoids Cullen at all costs, but speaks civilly to him when circumstances require it, although the Inquisitor can walk in on a heated argument between them after the Mages or Templars are recruited. She has little interaction with Blackwall, and is wary of Iron Bull given how the Qunari treat their mages and his apparent belief in the rightness of the Qun. She finds Cole fascinating and very sweet, but tends to avoid him because the idea of her personal thoughts being spoken aloud is one of the worst things she can imagine. Privacy is very important to her after life in the Circle.

Opinions on other races? Other elements?

She doesn’t know much about elves, dwarves, or Qunari, but doesn’t trust Chantry doctrine on them, and much like Leliana in Origins, will correct her behavior if called out on racist speech or actions. Her friendship with Dagna, and her own interest in artificing, has made her deeply curious about the relationship dwarves have with lyrium and magic and she intends to study it further, particularly after the revelations regarding the Titans.

How do they feel about magic / religion / the government?

Sabine is very pro-mage, and anti-Chantry, but also believes that the Chantry is too big to be destroyed and so must be reformed from within, willingly or not. She admires Anders actions and believes the rebellion was necessary, but ultimately thinks it requires someone like Leliana to step in and force the hierarchy and system to change, and thus being to alter the opinions of the people who believe in the Chantry.

Something guaranteed to make them leave the party: If the Inquisitor has gained no approval with her and recruits the Templars instead of the Mages, she will leave the party, believing the Inquisition to be an ineffective tool to accomplish her goals

#sabine trevelyan #women of consequence #i need to work more on the overarching universe she belongs to #thank you!!!#this was a lot of fun #aspartame-addict

3 notes · View notes

feynites · 7 years

Note

how about 10 for companion sharkbait realising that they really like kissing one another?

This is entirely Uthvir’s fault.

Thenvunin cannot stop staring at their mouth.

It starts when they get back from the Fallow Mire, of course. Thenvunin goes to meet them, to make certain everything is in order, and to be on hand in case any medical care is needed. Of course, Solas is also there for such things, and has more of an aptitude for it. But one never knows, and Thenvunin is nothing if not conscientious.

He sees Uthvir’s hart on the bridge, and lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. Uthvir is sitting in the saddle, with what looks to be some sort of small deer slung over the back, all in their riding leathers and bits of armour, looking tired and road-weary but whole and unharmed.

They smile when they see him.

Thenvunin’s heart stutters, and a moment later he is quite sure that is a predatory smirk, and that his stuttering heart was owed to the inappropriate gleam in their eyes, but the idea does not quite manage to settle in as it should. And so Thenvunin’s eyes fixate on Uthvir’s mouth, just a little. Remembering their kisses, in unbidden flashes that are wholly unwelcome, of course.

It’s just that they had kissed him so… thoroughly, before they left, and their mouth is so unruly. Dangerous, despite the deceptive plush of their lips. It’s only practical to keep an eye on dangerous things, of course, but it is also entirely inappropriate of him to stare at Uthvir’s mouth so openly. He fends off the impulse as they make their way into the keep, and turns and makes conversation with the Inquisitor for a moment, instead, before he notes a slight lurch to Uthvir’s gait, as they dismount from their hart.

He looks, but they seem fine, a moment later. Leading the animal towards the stables. Walking slowly, but steadily, and with only a slightly telling slope to their shoulders. Of course, it is not strange for someone to be exhausted after such a long trip. None of the Inquisitor’s party seem fresh, or anything less than grateful to be back in the keep.

Except… it is not much like Uthvir to show it.

Thenvunin follows them, as one of the stable hands takes their hart, and notes that their gait is different from usual.

“Are you injured?” he asks, as the realization strikes him.

Uthvir blinks at him, and scoffs.

“Do you imagine I wouldn’t have an injury seen to?” they counter. “I am not so foolish. No, Thenvunin, I am not injured. Just… tired.”

He frowns at that.

“Did the lavender not help?” he wonders, before he can think the better of it. Uthvir blinks at him, and then ducks their head, just a little.

“It was pleasant,” they assure him. “But the mire is a challenging place to rest in.”

They pat their front pocket, and Thenvunin glances down, and pauses as he sees a familiar sprig of purple jutting through the top. His heart lurches, again, and he clears his throat. Looking at Uthvir, and then again at their lips, before he stares at a random point over their shoulder instead.

“I did not imagine you would keep one on your person. They are meant to go in your bedroll,” he informs them, perhaps a little stiffly.

Uthvir shrugs.

“I did not unroll it much,” they admit. “And it helped with the stink from the mire.”

And they kept it in their pocket all the way back to the mountain? Thenvunin doubts it has much scent left to it, after all that. Which makes his second attempt at repayment somewhat lacklustre, too. He frowns at the thought, as Uthvir’s gaze strays to the spot where they usually set up their tent. But they don’t often sleep there, Thenvunin knows. And he cannot imagine it would do them much good to crawl off to some stray corner of the keep to go and have a rest, either.

“Well, then, I suppose you had better come with me,” he decides.

They raise an eyebrow at him. Lips twitching.

Thenvunin licks his own.

“Had I?” they wonder.

He shakes his head, and then nods, briskly.

“Yes, you had better. We have some things to discuss. Entirely public and upfront issues about… magic… research,” he manages, which makes them look impertinently amused, for some reason. But also just the tiniest bit hesitant.

“I do not know that I have much energy for a spirited discussion,” they admit.

Thenvunin sniffs.

“Well, then, perhaps it might be a civil one, for a change,” he replies, and starts walking. He has found that if he goes, Uthvir will generally follow. No doubt chasing the promise of his tempting form, but if they are as tired as they seem, then Thenvunin supposes he is in little danger of being accosted.

Small mercies.

Though he finds himself disquieted by how complacent they are, and by how slowly they walk. It would not be so noticeable, he thinks, if he were a less observant sort of person, who was not accustomed to seeing them in their usual, relentless form. But they are being very… careful. Ginger, almost, and he wonders if they have blisters perhaps, or riding sores, and then he thinks of how a bath might help, and then he recollects the disaster of the last bath he attempting, and finds himself oddly out-of-sorts.

But he gets them to his room, at least.

“The trip was a success,” Uthvir informs him, as he shuts the door behind them, and they settle into the chair nearest to it.

“Good,” he says. “And it’s done with, so you may as well get your gear off. My bed is much more comfortable than a tent floor.”

Uthvir lets out a breath.

“I really am tired,” they admit, just a bit ruefully.

Thenvunin gives them a rather arch look.

“Precisely what a bed is for,” he reminds them. “Unless you imagine I would do something untoward? Which is entirely absurd, I will point out. That kind of behaviour is your end of things.”

They blink at him, and look, for a moment, as if they don’t quite know what to make of things. It takes Thenvunin far more prodding than should be needed, all things considered. But after a few more attempts and just the littlest bit of cajoling, he gets Uthvir to strip down to their leggings and tunic, and climb into his bed. He pulls a fresh satchel of lavender from one of his drawers, and puts it rather pointedly under the pillow, and tries to look at them without getting caught at it. But if they are bruised or blistered, the clothes they are still wearing cover such things.

And Thenvunin is, perhaps, not as stealthy as some.

Uthvir catches him looking, and then reaches over. Closing a hand on his forearm.

“I suppose I could manage something…” they say.

“Certainly not,” Thenvunin counters. “You are much too out-of-sorts to overpower me.”

They snicker, just a little.

“Ah, true,” they permit, as their eyelids droop, and they seem scarcely able to fight it.

“It smelled like you,” they say, after a moment. Their grip going lax, and their mouth softening. The sharpness slipping away from them, no matter how they try and hold onto it, as exhaustion and Thenvunin’s very comfortable and proper bed drags it away. “Lavender, and something else. Like your soaps. All the way there. And now it smells the same again…”

They draw in a breath, and let it out once more.

“You smell nice,” they tell him.

Thenvunin clears his throat, as his face heats.

“Well of course I do,” he says. “I make an effort at it.”

“Mm,” Uthvir mutters, in vague agreement. Their eyes droop shut, and they let out another breath. “Stand a watch?” they ask, blearily.

“We are in the keep,” Thenvunin reminds them. “It is perfectly safe here. No need to worry about ambushes or standing watch.”

Their brow furrows a little, and he hesitates.

“But… I will make certain nothing disturbs you,” he promises, and after a few minutes, the furrow clears.

He finds himself standing a watch of sorts, just the same, as they proceed to lose the battle with their exhaustion bit by bit. Until, after a few moments, their breaths have evened out, and they are all tucked up into Thenvunin’s blankets, hair falling onto his pillow as their chest silently rises and falls. And their lips, their mouth, goes so soft and slack, and Thenvunin cannot help but feel his own tingle. Cannot help but recollect how fervently they had pressed to his, in their passions before they left.

It is spring, now.

Thenvunin swallows, and then leans forward. Just a bit. And then he wonders what in the Maker’s name he thinks he’s doing, and leans back again. But Uthvir is asleep, and everything is quiet, and he thinks… he just…

He just needs to check something.

Something about their lips, perhaps. Though even as he settles on it, he knows he is being ridiculous. Knows it is untoward, as he leans back in, and very, very lightly, brushes his lips over their own. The touch so scarce he barely feels it, before he recollects himself and moves back at once. Heart pounding, as he expects to see Uthvir’s eyes open. Glinting with suspicion or amusement or lust or even anger, perhaps. Because even Thenvunin cannot deny, he is taking a liberty.

But their eyes do not open.

Their breaths do not change cadence.

After a long, tense moment, Thenvunin lets out a long sigh of relief, and then slumps to the floor next to his bed.

He is going to blame the weather.

#pyrrhy #sharkbait #sharkbait companions au

16 notes · View notes

gaysparkler · 7 years

Text

Recount What We’ve Lost

Dorian Pavus/Samael Lavellan Angst set after In Your Heart Shall Burn 1046 words Read on AO3 (Note: Alcohol used as a coping mechanism)

The Inquisitor had gone missing. After his nomination as official leader of the Inquisition, he vanished. Well, not directly after. Samael Lavellan had mingled with the crowd of cheerful subjects, celebrated with his advisors and then with his companions as he joined them in the tavern, but he disappeared shortly afterward. No one honestly seemed to mind his absence, since most of them were too inebriated to notice. No one, except Dorian. Since they had travelled in time, back in Redcliff, a sincere friendship had bloomed between the two men. Dorian had never met a Dalish elf before, so he was very curious and asked a lot of questions about Samael’s upbringing. They often walked side by side during missions, discussing magical theory, as well as the vast difference between magical education in a Dalish clan and in the Tevinter Imperium. The would also sit together by the fire, at night in the camps, before retreating to their respective tents. Samael always seemed so cheerful, even under the constant rain of the Storm Coast or knee deep in the bogs of the Fallow Mire.

Which explains why Dorian was so worried about the vanishing Inquisitor. After the attack on Haven, Samael had been grim and he isolated himself. He would often leave a conversation mid-sentence or avoid them altogether. Most of the time, the Tevinter would leave Samael alone, but at times, he could not let him walk away. Dorian would chase after him and make sure he was alright. If he was lucky, Samael would confide in Dorian and slightly open up. It had happened a few times on their way to Skyhold.

Dorian was now walking the vast grounds of their new stronghold, looking for the Inquisitor. He was not in the tavern with the others—Dorian had been avoiding this place. He did not want to fall back in old habits. Some guards told him they had seen their leader go inside the castle. Intrigued, he made his way inside. The fortress was in shambles. Fortunately, people were already set on clearing the rubble and building scaffolds to support the fragile stone arches above their heads. The castle was new to him, so he walked around, venturing further into the building. He went down a flight of stairs and arrived in a large open room with paintings on the walls. Impressed, he explored the vast room until he heard shuffling and retching sounds. He quickly made his way to the source of the noise. He found a small room—a wine cellar, easy to miss if one did not know of its existence. He stepped in.

“Inquisitor?” he asked, shocked by the sight.

The Inquisitor was laying on his side, empty wine bottles surrounding him. His skin was even paler than usual, a slight green tint colouring his delicate features. Not far from him were the contents of his stomach that he had thrown up before Dorian arrived. This was not good. The Tevinter rushed to Samael’s side and pulled him up in a sitting position. His friend was miserable. Tears stained his worryingly pale face and there was mucus under his nose. In short, he looked like someone who was drunk and had just vomited. Maker, Dorian thought, how many times had this been him? The man pressed reassuring hands on Samael’s shoulders. The elf slowly looked up at him.

“Dorian…? Even you’re calling me that now?” Samael slurred, his eyes unfocused.

“Maker Samael, what happened?”

“Haven.”

“Haven?” Dorian repeated.

"They all died and I didn't. Why didn't I die, Dorian? They say it was divine providence. No one sent me, I don't even believe in that Maker guy. I'm just someone who was at the wrong place at the wrong time, I'm not special."

Ah, he was at this stage of drunkenness. Dorian listened to him.

“You said you believed in me,” Samael said, almost incomprehensibly. “Why? Why would your Maker send a Dalish elf?”

“Let us not speak of such things right now, my friend,” Dorian answered. “Let’s get you back to your room, shall we?”

Samael did not reply. He only slouched forwards in the mage’s arms and started to cry.

“I couldn’t save them. Minaeve, she died right in front of me…” he sobbed.

Dorian held the young man tight. He had been there in so many previous occasions and how much had he wished for someone to be there for him. So, he did his best to provide the new and overwhelmed Inquisitor with comfort in a moment of distress. He held him close, until Samael’s sobs slowed to a stop and his breathing evened out. He had fallen asleep. Dorian stayed there, unmoving for a few minutes until he was certain that his friend was in a deep slumber. He rearranged their positions, one of his arms under Samael’s knees and the other across his back, and picked him up. Hoping that as little people would see them, Dorian made his way upstairs, back to the main hall of the castle. He quickly turned left an entered the Inquisitor’s quarters. Walking up the flight of stairs, he went by the bed and, hesitating, delicately set Samael down on the mattress. He brushed the hair away from the elf’s face, his fingers carding through chestnut locks. The Inquisitor looked younger when he slept, his face free of the worry that often twisted his features despite his usually cheerful attitude. After a moment, he was able to turn back and walk away, but a hand grabbed the fabric of his robes.

“Stay…?” Samael weakly said.

Dorian hesitated. What would people say if they saw him walk out of the Inquisitor’s quarters in the morning? However, when he faced the elven man and saw his flushed face and turquoise eyes staring up at him under his lashes, he could not refuse. Keeping all of his robes on, he laid down next to Samael, who immediately curled up on his side. He was frozen for a minute, at a loss. After a moment, he wrapped his arm around the other man’s small frame. It was not long until Samael fell asleep, for good this time. As the night progressed, Dorian only had one thought on his mind.

Don’t get attached.

#samael lavellan #dorian pavus #dragon age inquisition #dorian x inquisitor #pavellan #my writing #oh no it's angst again #alcoholism #alcohol abuse #lavellan is in a bad place #dorian helps #pre-relationship #i promise the next one is happy

21 notes · View notes

ellenembee · 7 years

Text

The Revelation of All Things - 37. In which a nomad grows tentative roots

Read the full fic on AO3.

Read on Tumblr (desktop)

On their sixth evening in the Emerald Graves, they checked in at the main Inquisition camp, retrieved the day's correspondence, and headed to a nearby stream to relax for a few moments. Evana now sat on a log a little up the hill from the stream as Dorian and Bull washed up from a particularly nasty set of rift demons. Varric sat to her left, cleaning Bianca, of course.

In the pile of reports, Evana found a small note with Leliana's flowing "L" written across the seal and opened it immediately, her curiosity piqued by the tiny scrap of paper so different from the typical missives from Skyhold. She nearly cried when she read it. Leliana's message was nice - sweet, even - though the tone made Evana feel a little bit like she was failing them. But Cullen's addition left her almost sick with longing.

Samson can wait. Come home. -C

He wanted her home. She had a home, now. Why did that feel like a first?

She put her head in her hands and breathed heavily into her worn leather gloves. She should ask for a new pair, but the gift from Harritt had been her first connection to the Inquisition that hadn't felt like something given grudgingly to a prisoner. She'd received many gifts after that, of course, but Harritt's kindness to her in those first few weeks had made her feel wanted. Welcome. As if Haven could be a home, even if only until they closed the Breach. Then, each friend she'd made along the way had forged another link in the chain that bound her to this group, this cause.

But Cullen made it real. Cullen made it feel like home. And despite how claustrophobic the fortress sometimes felt, leaving Skyhold... leaving him got harder each time. She'd adjusted to the long separation, but she still missed him terribly at times, especially when alone. Thankfully, the company of her friends kept the larger part of her melancholy at bay. She couldn't have asked for better companions.

"You alright there, Snowflake?"

Evana startled and looked up. Speaking of...

"Yes... yes, of course. Just... tired."

Varric let out a grunt. She could tell he was about to say something more, but Dorian's laughter coming from the creek caught their attention. Evana glanced over to see the Iron Bull sauntering out of the creek wearing absolutely nothing. Elves didn't have issues with nudity like most humans, but the Qunari was something else altogether. She raised a hand to shield her eyes and turned away, half laughing and half embarrassed. She hadn't blushed that hotly since Dorian tried to get her to talk about Cullen's... attributes during their time in the Western Approach. She had, of course, flatly refused to talk about it. There wasn't much to talk about, anyway, but Dorian didn't need to know that.

"Creators, Bull! Cover that thing up! You'll scare off the natives and all the wildlife." She glanced over again, but Bull just laughed at her and turned around to show off his backside. She rolled her eyes. "What am I going to do with you, Bull?! And people think we Dalish are savages..."

"You know you like it!"

Evana let out an exasperated sigh. She shared a smile with Varric who then shouted back, "I'm sure someone likes it, isn't that right, Sparkler?"

Dorian let out a haughty, fake laugh. "What was that, dwarf? I couldn't hear your sad attempt at humor over the sound of my own brilliant sarcasm."

Varric chuckled, and Evana gave the dwarf a knowing look. Bull and Dorian had been playing cat and mouse the entire trip... well, in truth, Bull had mostly been baiting Dorian with highly descriptive come-ons. It was equal parts hysterically funny and a little bit uncomfortable for her, especially considering how graphic Bull's come-ons tended to be. Dorian met each attempt with disdain, but she wondered if, underneath it all, Dorian wasn't a bit pleased with the attention.

Turning back, she saw Bull and Dorian emerging from the water, the former still naked as the day he was born, the latter properly covered with a swath of fabric. Shivering slightly at the idea of the water, she began packing up her reports and other items, placing them on a relatively clean portion of her lap.

They'd set up a few other outposts to help hold the Emerald Graves, but each night, she'd asked the others to return with her to the main forward camp. She wanted to send her daily report and then sleep in a familiar place. What she really wanted, though, was to be back in her warm bed at Skyhold underneath a mountain of blankets. Exhaustion pierced through her every bone and sinew. She felt as if she could sleep a thousand years, and the warmth of her comfortable shemlen bed called to her. Shivering again, she thought about washing the blood and ichor off her armor, but quickly discarded the idea as the very thought of cold water made her cringe and curl in on herself as she organized her papers.

She furrowed her brows as she folded the note from Skyhold and the letters she'd picked up from the smugglers. For the first time, wondered if she might be a little ill. Something had felt off for a while now, but she couldn't quite place it. The mild weather in the Emerald Graves should have been a refreshing change, especially compared to the sandy dry heat of the Western Approach, but she'd been so cold and tired that she could hardly enjoy it. She tried to remember when she'd started feeling off...

"Shit," she cursed under her breath.

She'd noticed faint chills the day of their visit to the temple in the oasis. She'd managed to open all the doors in the cold magic tombs before she'd run out of shards. Why she hadn't put two and two together before, she had no idea. The heat of the Western Approach had perhaps made it less noticeable? Fear pricked at the back of her mind as she wondered whether she might have done herself real harm. Time to go home.

"Good news, everyone!" she called out suddenly. "We ride for Skyhold tomorrow at dawn."

Bull just gave the thumbs up from his seat down by the creek, but Dorian looked at her with relief written all over his face as he shouted up to her. "Finally! I'll need a hot bath, a bed and a large glass of wine the instant we arrive, not necessarily in that order. Maybe two glasses of wine... or a whole bottle."

To her left, Varric's softer voice chimed in. "I'm also glad to hear that, Snowflake. We've had a rough time with so much traveling around." Varric paused cleaning Bianca to give Evana a discerning look. "Are you sure you're alright?"

Varric had already mentioned his concern a couple of times in the past few days, but she'd laughed it off, assured him she was just tired. She tried to uncurl herself, but now that she'd recognized the illness, it seemed that much stronger.

"I'm just tired, Varric. And... cold."

Varric gave her the "Aww, shit!" look. "You're cold? How can you be cold in this weather?"

"I - I don't know. I just am. I think..." She paused and looked away, blushing slightly, then turned back to give him a sardonic smile. "... I might be having a reaction to the magic from the temple."

The look intensified. "Andraste's tits! Yeah, we're definitely heading back tomorrow. And next time, don't try to be a hero. Let us know you're not feeling well, will you?"

"I didn't really notice until now," she offered weakly. "It's subtle. And I think it's worse because of the lack of sleep."

Varric stood up and snapped Bianca in place on his back. "Alright, that's it. Get up. You're going to bed right now."

She frowned and looked at the sky. "But it's only seven... maybe seven thirty..."

"And you'll be asleep before eight. Come on, your Inquisitorialness. Let's go." He turned to the other two, who were still sitting together down by the creek. "Snowflake and I are heading back to camp. Remember, we're leaving before dawn, so don't stay up too late."

"Yes, mother," Dorian called back as he waved them off. "I'll be sure to clean my teeth and wash behind my ears before bed, too."

Varric walked with her up the hill to the camp and found her an empty tent. After she pulled off her soiled armor, she reemerged to request a few blankets. She caught the odd looks out of the corner of her eyes, but in the end, she walked back to her tent with an armful of blankets and assurances that she was welcome to them - no one else wanted them in this weather. Varric had stayed behind to speak to the ranking officer in the camp, and soon after, she noticed that the camp had gone from noisy to dead silent. For her. So she could sleep. Such deference still made her uncomfortable, but she couldn't complain. In the quiet, the sounds of the forest gradually seeped into her tent, cradling her in familiarity - the perfect lullaby for a forest nomad.

As she piled the blankets on top of her and huddled into a ball to conserve warmth, she sent up a small prayer of thanks to her gods - all of them - that she'd been blessed with such amazing friends. It took some time to warm up enough to sleep, but she felt herself drifting soon enough. She fell asleep to the sound of Varric speaking quietly to someone outside her tent.

Dorian glared at her disapprovingly as they rode side-by-side down the path. "Varric and I spoke last night, and we've agreed - you're never to be trusted with your own health again. If I'd known about your previous issues taking care of yourself in the Fallow Mire, I would've been more alert to your idiocy."

Evana could think of nothing to say, so she remained silent. This seemed to irritate Dorian even more.

"Honestly, Evana, I thought you had more sense than this."

"Clearly, I don't, so you can stop being surprised from here on out."

Her tone came out flat, the exhaustion she felt exhibited in every labored breath between phrases. She wasn't angry. Not really. She knew his reaction came from his fear for her. But his sarcastic disapproval made it difficult for her to speak the reassuring words she knew he wanted to hear - that she would be fine, that it was nothing.

In truth, she didn't know if it was nothing. Her body shook involuntarily from the cold, but it hadn't seemed to worsen since yesterday evening. The exhaustion still plagued her, but the long sleep last night had taken the edge off. She needed Solas to reassure her. How could she comfort Dorian before then?

She'd long ago realized that she no longer had the luxury of surety - if she'd ever really had it. People wanted assurance that she could defeat Corypheus. That she'd been sent by Andraste. But she couldn't tell them that for sure. Josephine seemed to think it necessary to reassure people she was, in fact, Andraste's Herald, but it felt like a lie. Just like reassuring Dorian now would feel like a lie.

"Well, you could at least be a little sorry about it," he muttered.

She sighed heavily and then shivered violently. Dorian reached out to rub her back, and she immediately felt the warmth radiating off his hand. She leaned into his hand while giving him a grateful smile.

"OK. I'm sorry," she placated. "Does that help?"

His hand remained, pouring glorious warmth into her body, but his voice turned petulant. "Not really."

"Will you keep doing that anyway?"

"Of course," he replied haughtily, as if he were offended that she'd asked such a silly question.

She patted his leg and then turned her attention back to the trail in front of them, concentrating on maneuvering her horse through the rocky terrain. They had elected to take the flat route between the Exalted Plains and the Emprise du Lion up to the Imperial Highway. Varric and Bull were scouting ahead to find the last leg of a trail the Inquisition soldiers had sworn would get them to the Imperial Highway and then back to Skyhold in less than three days. Dorian continued to push warming magic into her back as they rode together in silence. After a few minutes, she heard a rider approaching, and then Varric appeared. "Trail is just ahead, Snowflake. Think you can ride hard for a while?"

Dorian's warmth had made her feel almost human again, and she nodded vigorously. "If it means getting back to Skyhold sooner, I can."

Dorian patted her back then withdrew his hand. "That's my girl."

She rounded the bend and saw the trail stretching out in front of them, wide and smooth. Once they reached Bull, the four of them set off, riding as hard as the horses would allow. They reached the highway and rode on, making camp later that evening and rising before dawn to continue down the road. Evana felt like she hadn't slept at all, but the promise of a warm bed in just another day and a half pushed her onward. They made it nearly to the Frostbacks by dusk that evening, and being so close, they pushed on until dark. When they finally made camp, Evana struggled to stay awake long enough to get the saddle off her horse. Bull finally took it from her and pushed her gently toward the bedroll Dorian had laid out for her.

"Go. We'll take care of all this."

"But the watch," she protested. "I didn't take one last night either. I want to pull my weight."

Bull laughed quietly. "Then, based on our weight ratios, you get the first fifteen minutes, and I'll take the next four hours. Besides, we've only got a few hours ride until we reach Skyhold. We'll sleep when we get back."

She relented, but only because she could barely keep her eyes open even while standing up. The next morning, she saw the weariness in her companions as they saddled the horses and prepared to ride, and the twinge of guilt pinched her hard. They were doing all this for her. Because they believed in her - believed she could make things better.

Creators, please let them be right.

They rode into Skyhold with quite a bit more fanfare than usual. Usually, she didn't arrive back until late in the evening after the torches had been lit. Now, though, everyone stopped to welcome and bow to her as she rode past the gates and toward the stables. She wished they wouldn't, but she held herself high anyway. They could not see her weak.

Once they reached the stables, Dorian immediately helped her off the horse, and Bull grabbed her bags while Varric headed toward the keep. Dorian tried to put an arm around her, but she held him off.

"No, I can't be seen needing assistance. It will only worry people. I'll take the back stairs through the basement to get to Solas."

Dorian muttered something about her being an "infuriatingly stubborn woman" as he walked ahead of her up the stairs. Once she passed through the kitchen, however, the other mage was waiting to assist her. And good thing, too - even with help, mounting the stairs to Josephine's office wiped her out. The ambassador wasn't in her office, so Dorian half dragged, half carried her to a chair by the fireplace.

"Just rest now," he ordered as he knelt beside her and pushed more blessed warmth into her body. "Varric will bring Solas to you."

Unable to keep her eyes open, she relaxed into the plush chair by the fire as the warmth radiated from Dorian's hand and Josie's hearty fire and leeched into her frozen limbs. The door opened a moment later, and Solas and Varric entered, speaking in low tones as they approached.

"Lethallan, tell me how you are feeling."

She pried her eyes open to see Solas kneeling beside her, a surprising flicker of concern in his expression. She struggled to sit up taller.

"Tired and cold. I can't seem to get warm since the temple."

Varric spoke up. "We ended up going into the temple in the oasis. She opened some stone boxes and pretty lights flew around the room for a moment before ... entering her, I guess?"

Solas arched an eyebrow. "Pretty lights?"

Varric shrugged. "I don't know what you'd call them. They were wispy and glowed. That's all I know."

"Likely some sort of imbuing magic," Dorian clarified. "I felt nothing malignant about it, however. It's a bit of a mystery why she's reacting so poorly."

Solas and Dorian began debating the finer points of magic theory, and though she tried to keep track of the conversation, she found her eyes drifting shut again. She vaguely registered another person entering the room in a rush, but it wasn't until she heard him speak that she knew Cullen had arrived. The anxiety in his voice made her want to get up and comfort him, but her body wouldn't obey any of her commands. She shivered violently and opened her eyes long enough to see Solas leaning over her again, his hands hovering just above her body. Her eyes searched for Cullen, and she found him pacing in front of the fire. He met her gaze, his face etched with worry bordering on panic.

"Her body is simply adjusting to her new resistance," Solas concluded. "She has apparently been imbued with additional resistance to cold magic, but it is currently causing her to feel the cold more acutely. It will pass, and more quickly with rest and relaxation."

"You're sure? How can you tell?"

Cullen's voice reflected his doubt, but Solas answered with patience. "I am familiar with her aura. It has changed - become stronger. It may be that this is a one-time adjustment or she may have to endure this with each new type of resistance she gains. It is difficult to predict such things without having been there to assess the temple and the type of magic imbuing the resistance. I have settled her magic as best I can, but right now, the best thing for her will be sleep and warmth."

Relieved, Evana opened her eyes and tried to sit up from where she slouched in the chair. Solas had told her what she needed to hear. She wasn't dying, so she didn't need special treatment.

"Ma serannas, lethallin. I will head to my quarters."

She barely got halfway out of the chair before Dorian, Cullen and Solas surrounded her. The others hesitated, but Cullen immediately took hold of her, pulling her from the chair and placing and protective arm around her waist once he'd steadied her.

"Really, I'm fine," she forced herself to say, even though his warm, solid presence comforted her in a way she couldn't define. "To avoid gossip, I should attempt to make it to my quarters alone."

Dorian waggled his fingers in front of her. "Ah, but I can provide the warmth. You're going to stand there and tell me you'll have enough focus and energy left after climbing that loooong flight of stairs to warm your own bed? I think not. Let the tongues wag. You need me."

Cullen loosened his hold enough that she could turn and face him. His eyes betrayed his concern, but he seemed much calmer after Solas' proclamation.

"Dorian is right. You need rest, and he can help you with that." He briefly squeezed her hip before dipping his head and lowering his voice to add, "I'll check on you later."

She gazed into the golden eyes she'd so missed and reluctantly assented to be escorted upstairs by Dorian. Cullen seemed just as reluctant to let her go, but finally, he handed her off to Dorian. Thankfully, only a couple of nobles who had taken to hanging around the great hall were there to see her enter the hall with Dorian's arm around her waist. Just as they were turning to head toward her quarters, Cassandra entered the great hall from the courtyard. She walked quickly down the hall to meet them. "Inquisitor! I heard you had returned. May I assist you?"

"Yes, thank you, Cassandra."

The two had her upstairs in no time. They found a full tub of water waiting for her, so Dorian heated the water as Cassandra helped her undress. She felt a little self conscious in front of Dorian, but the mage just laughed at her.

"Darling, I find you beautiful in the same way I find a sunset beautiful. You are aesthetically pleasing to me, but nothing more."

"That's... good to know, I suppose."

"Take it as a compliment, Your Worship. I don't give them often, but for you, I'll make an exception. Because you've rather grown on me these past few months."

She smiled at him. "That must be why you haven't ditched me for your own bath and a bottle of wine."

Dorian mocked offense, but then shrugged. "Believe you me, I'll get there soon enough. You'll be asleep in no time after your bath."

Indeed, she felt herself drifting to sleep several times before she finally finished cleaning herself entirely. Dorian warmed the water a few times to make sure she wasn't cold and then placed a warming spell in the air around her as she got out and toweled herself dry. He dried her hair while Cassandra pulled out a thick sleeping gown, quickly heated her bed and guided her underneath the blankets.

Evana looked at the mage from her pile of heated blankets. "Dorian, go. You're exhausted. Cassandra will stay here with me, won't you?"

"Of course, Your Worship."

Dorian looked at her through narrowed eyes, but finally shrugged, kissed her on the forehead and practically waltzed out of the room with an "As you wish!"

She laughed weakly at him and then turned to Cassandra, who was now standing a bit awkwardly beside her bed. Evana patted the side of the bed.

"Have a seat. I doubt this will take long. I'm having trouble keeping my eyes open already."

Cassandra hesitated for a moment, but then perched gingerly on the very edge of the bed. "I hope you are comfortable, Inquisitor."

"Yes, thank you. I'm warm for the moment at least." Evana paused, then decided now was as good a time as any. "Cassandra?"

"Yes?"

"Would you call me Evana? Not all the time, of course, but when we're among friends?"

Cassandra seemed a little surprised but answered almost immediately. "I would be happy to... Evana."

"And you don't mind if I call you Cass, do you? If you do, I'll stop right now - I promise."

"I have always tried to avoid the nickname in public, but - as with you - if we only use the name in private, I do not mind."

Evana smiled, but then her face quickly grew serious again. "Oh, I forgot! Could you get the papers from my bag and give them to Cullen? He's waiting for them. I didn't want to risk sending them by crow."

Cassandra smiled and stood from the bed. "I am happy to."

She watched the Seeker pick up a bag to retrieve the letters, but her eyelids were too heavy to watch the progress any more than that. She drifted off to the quiet sound of shuffling papers.

Evana slept like the dead for hours. She woke once toward evening to relieve herself and eat some broth and bread brought up by Cassandra. After shivering herself warm enough to fall asleep again, she woke a second time in the darkness. She had no idea of the time, but the coldness of the room as well as her full bladder told her it was probably two or three in the morning. She threw the covers back and sucked in a breath as the cold hit her. In the dim light of the dying fire, she barely saw the dark form at the side of her bed before she tripped over it.

"Fenedhis! What-?" "Oooff!!"

After several seconds of flailing limbs, she found herself sitting on the floor, or rather on the lap of someone sitting on the floor. Too weak to summon any magic, she tried to push away but found herself encircled by rather familiar pair of arms.

"Cullen?" "Yes. I'm here." "Wha- what are you doing on the floor, vhenan?"

His pause let her know he was somewhat embarrassed at being caught. "I- I came to check on you, but you were asleep. I thought I'd wait for a while to see if you woke up, and then... I fell asleep."

Her muddled brain still couldn't comprehend his words. "On the floor?"

"Yes? Where else would I..."

"On the couch perhaps, or better yet, in the bed with me, keeping me warm. I'm so c-cold."

As if on cue, her body convulsed with the cold and his warm arms circled around her more tightly. She hummed in appreciation. Unfortunately, it also reminded her why she'd woken in the first place.

"I have to... uh... take care of something. I'll be back."

She returned from her private room to find Cullen, sans armor, sitting on the edge of her bed and looking at her rather shyly in the light of the fire he'd built up in her absence. Even with the extra heat, her body shook with the cold. She ran past him and snuggled down into the blankets, but it was too late. The bed had gone cold. She reached up and tugged at his arm gently.

"P-please, will you stay awhile? I'm so c-cold. At least until I g-get warm? Then you can go... if you w-want."

Cullen didn't say anything. Instead, he pulled off his boots and slid under the blankets next to her. She scooted toward him, and he reached out to pull her back against him, wrapping around her small body in a cocoon of delicious warmth. She let out a loud gush of air as her back met with his solid chest.

"Creators... h-how are you s-so warm?"

He chuckled softly in her ear as his warm breath fanned her neck. "I don't know, but I'm glad I can be of use."

She reached back and pulled his arm around her under the covers. "I m-missed y-you. And n-not just because you're w-warm."

He laughed outright. "I'm glad of that." She felt his lips brush her ear and then her neck, and a different kind of shiver spread through her body. His voice was hesitant as he continued. "But mostly, I- I'm simply glad you have returned and that you... Solas says you will be well soon." He paused and took a deep breath before whispering, "I... I missed you so much."

She couldn't respond. Her heart was too full. She let the silence lay over them like a comfortable blanket as his warmth radiated through her. The shivers diminished to the occasional shudder. Each time a shudder ran through her, she would feel an almost imperceptible tightening of Cullen's arm around her, as if he were trying to pull her even closer. She felt herself beginning to drift again, but part of her wanted to stay awake - to savor the feel of him so close to her. It couldn't last, though. She was far too tired to keep sleep at bay.

She woke again mid morning, and she was alone. Someone had left a tray of porridge and some fruit on her bedside table, and they must have built up the fire again, too. She assumed Cullen had left as soon as she'd fallen asleep, but she couldn't be sure.

She smiled to herself as she recalled the feeling of his body next to hers. Her craving for his touch still surprised her. Even something as simple as a brush of the back of his hand was enough to fluster her completely. To feel him next to her, the length of his body curling around her - it was almost too much.

And yet not enough.

She threw back the covers and realized that, for the first time in days, she didn't feel like she might freeze to death. The occasional chill ran through her, but she didn't want to stay in bed any longer. Opening the curtains wide, she let the sunlight filter into the room and then sat down in the expanse of sun cutting across the carpeted floor. She heated the stone cold porridge and began sifting through four weeks of reports. The mountainous pile was daunting, but she soon realized a majority were simply reports from her advisors to keep her informed about matters they'd dealt with in her absence. She dug in and started reading.

A couple of hours later, the sun had shifted angles, so she grabbed a blanket and transferred her work to the couch. Slightly after the noon hour, she heard a faint click of her lock and rattle at the door. Solas appeared at the top of the stairs with a tray in hand.

"Good morning... or should I say afternoon?" she called to him.

Solas turned in the direction of her voice and nodded to her. "I have brought you some broth and bread for lunch... unless you feel well enough to come downstairs?"

Evana didn't want to stay in bed, but she also had no desire to show herself to anyone either. "I think I'd like to stay bundled up here next to the fire, if that's alright with my friends and advisors."

Solas gave her a soft smile as he approached with the tray. "Ma nuvenin, lethallan. I also came up to examine you briefly. May I? I would like to confirm that the adjustment of your body to the new resistance is progressing as I thought it might."

"Of course."

Solas set the tray on the table and crouched in front of her. He raised his hands to hover close to her as she sat. His magic flowed over her, and she briefly closed her eyes, feeling herself pulled toward him. Confused, she flushed slightly and glanced at Solas. Thankfully, he was not looking at her face. She swallowed hard and tried to focus on something - anything - else. After a few moments, he nodded and stood.

"It is as I thought. I have further settled your magic, but keep yourself warm and continue to rest today. You should be back to normal by tomorrow."

He then bowed and turned away, as if he were going to leave. The words left her mouth before she could think better of them.

"Will you not keep me company for a while, Solas?"

He looked back at her and a shadow passed across his face. The next moment, the shadow disappeared as if it had never been, and he turned back to sit in the space she cleared for him on the couch.

"I am glad that you are feeling better," he began quietly. "Dorian and I have discussed the various possibilities and have yet to come up with a viable explanation to the severity of your reaction. However, I do not believe you were in any real danger, despite appearances."

"Ma serannas. I have to admit - I was relieved by your assurances yesterday. I thought perhaps... perhaps I might have been foolish to just accept the magic instead of be wary of it."

"You were worried you had poisoned yourself with magic?"

"It is possible."

Solas considered. "Yes, I suppose it is for lesser people. But you are not one of those lesser people. You are strong and wise and willful. I have great respect for you, lethallan."

Her mouth gaped open, but she quickly shut it and smiled warmly at him. "Ma serannas. I feel the same about you, lethallin. I respect you and your talents greatly."

A sad smile passed over his face, but it quickly faded to serenity. "The peace talks at Halamshiral are approaching quickly. Have you thought of who you will take with you?"

"There are so many reasons I might take each of you. I think I've settled on Cassandra for sure. She'll hate it all, but her connection to nobility lends credence to our position in the Game."

Solas nodded thoughtfully. "Have you considered Cole? He might help you sort through all the intrigue."

"I thought of that, but I'm worried so many people would be distracting for him. I'll certainly consider it. I'd rather let Varric rest before the assault on Adamant. And Sera..."

"Would not do well in a ballroom full of nobles."

Evana sighed and shot Solas a wry grin. "Precisely. This is another moment when I feel I did our cause an injustice by ignoring Madame de Fer's invitation up to now. She would be an asset in this situation. I guess I'll see when I meet with her in Halamshiral."

"I understand your point, but I feel I must caution you. She is misguided about mages and believes that Circles are a good thing. She is willfully stubborn. Nothing you say will ever change that - which means instead of a help during this time, she would be constantly questioning your decisions. We do not need her. She needs us. Do not forget that."

Evana tried to hide her grin but finally gave up. "We are of one mind on that, at least."

"I have found us to be of one mind on a great many things. Those few things on which we do not see eye to eye should not define our relationship, do you not agree?"

She tried not to react to Solas' word choice but answered carefully nonetheless. "I do agree. I value your friendship and council. I hope we can always be as open and honest with each other as we are now."

Solas said nothing but turned his eyes away from her. They sat for a few moments in silence. Then he shook his head.

"I should go."

"Oh... alright." He stood and walked to the door, but she stopped him with her words. "Whatever it is, Solas - whatever makes you sad - I'm sorry for it."

His back was still to her, straight and tense. After a moment, he turned his head slightly toward her and spoke.

"I know, lethallan."

He quickly disappeared down the stairs, and she was left alone with her reports once more. Despite her time with Solas practicing her focus, learning new spells and reviewing healing spells, he was still a mystery to her - impenetrable and a little bit frightening - but he'd always been kind.

Kind but distant and uncommunicative... just like Hanir.

And suddenly, her initial wariness of him made a lot more sense. She knew logically that they weren't the same person, of course, but the similarities had been enough for her to keep her distance - that and her distinct feeling that he was hiding something. The feeling had only grown since she'd known him, and unlike Varric, she knew she hadn't uncovered the source of her gut feeling.

Solas' secrets were not her concern, however. Or, at least she hoped they weren't. It seemed secrets in the inner circle always ended up being connected to the Inquisition in one way or another.

Her eyes wandered to the reports sitting in her lap, but she pushed them aside to eat. Bull had harped at her constantly about her eating - or lack thereof - so she'd taken to eating whatever they put in front of her whether hungry or not. Although she hadn't gained any weight with the travel rations, she hadn't lost anything in the last couple of weeks either. She wasn't about to give Bull another reason to be mother hen. Besides, she still had a few more hours of reading reports to get through the stack on her desk. Then maybe she'd take a nap.

Yes, an afternoon nap sounded like just the thing.

7 notes · View notes

sappho-official · 7 years

Note

hi i hope its not too much trouble to ask you but i've noticed you reblogged da:i in the past and i just got the game so i was wondering if you have any advice for a beginner? like any helpful tips or tricks will do. (sorry in advance)

Yeah sure! Don’t apologize, I love Dragon Age, so I’m happy to talk about it, as evidenced by how freaking long this got.

I wasn’t sure if you wanted combat or story advice, so like here’s both (I threw lore and combat under the cut because that got LONG), and also I sort of assumed you hadn’t played any other Dragon Age games before by the phrasing in the question (sorry if you have lmao).

When picking between the three dialogue options that don’t have emotion indicators, what they actually are is basically:

Top: Passive and placating, traditionally the most friendly answer. Often wins you over allies in political stuff, and it’s usually the most emotionally-conscious option. Some characters may feel like you’re being too passive, Sera tends not to enjoy this one, for example, whereas Cole tends to. (these are, ofc, situational)

Middle: Witty and curious, most likely to be humorous. May occasionally allow you to ask extra questions as well. A lot of companions tend to approve of this one, though characters like Cassandra may sometimes feel like you’re making a poorly timed joke. Sass the villains! It’s my favorite.

Bottom: Aggressive and direct, a bit more likely to make people mad at you, though that depends on the person. Maybe not the option to pick while trying to comfort someone. Still, being direct is a pretty good trait for a leader to have. Characters like Sera, Cassandra, and Bull really enjoy this one.

(Dragon Age 2 had the personality feature, and each of these options were actually labeled and would affect what your character said even when you weren’t controlling them. It seems like DA:I was supposed to have this feature, but was cut at some point)

The Star option (top left) is the “you did a sidequest/said a special thing!” option that opens up some extra stuff. If it’s an option, I’d usually take it. Sometimes there’s another icon, based on your race/class and other stuff as well, usually fun to take because it’s more unique to your character.

Far left [investigate] lets you ask questions. Do this before picking anything else. Some characters (Solas and Varric) really like when you ask questions.

When it comes to picking a character I’ll tell you quite honestly that playing as a Human (especially mage) or Elf will often give you the most story stuff. Qunari are also pretty rad, but playing as a Dwarf gives you very little story stuff unfortunately. Makes me sad, I like Dwarves.

You’re gonna probably want the Trespasser DLC if you finish the game. It’s $15. You need it to finish the plot+get the lead in to DA4 whenever that’ll happen. Sorry.

The power feature is a load of Bullshit and honestly a feature I don’t enjoy. Basically, just go play sidequests that sound cool! Don’t worry about spending power to unlock new areas, there’s so much fun shit there I promise. Some side quests can be tedious, but each area (except the Hinterlands) has a main quest line. That’ll be the quest that Scout Harding assigns you when you first arrive in an area, and I promise that most of them are really neat. I especially recommend the Crestwood and Hissing Wastes questlines, but the Western Approach is actually my favorite area in the entire game.

DA:I is a bit tedious, but a game that I think is best enjoyed if you take your time. It makes it feel like you should rush the main questline, but seriously, don’t. The main quest of DA:I is...honestly kind of crappy imo. It’s just a bit generic. Now, the DLC plots? those are awesome.

Some quests will lead you into like, dungeon areas. These are always dope, and often a bit more difficult, so bring lots of health regen potions with you. Some of them are unlocked by doing war table missions, so keep an eye out for stuff that’s like, related to Elven history, since that’s usually where those start. A bunch of them have neat loot at the end! And bring Solas to the Elven ruins, he’ll have some comments. Sera will complain the entire time, which can be funny as well. I like those two a lot tho.

Also don’t spend too much time in the Hinterlands at a low level. It’s massive and you’ll wander into an area that’s for a way higher level. Go mess around on the Storm Coast and Fallow Mire early on. tbh the only reason the Hinterlands is so big is because they wanted to be like “look!! we made an area larger than the past two games combined!!! aren’t we great!!!!!” no bioware, I just got killed by 6 bears at level 2. fuck off. It’s pretty though.

Pay close attention to the War Table stuff, especially the stuff that revolves around your character’s family/friends. I won’t spoil it, but if you play as an elf you can, uh, fuck that up real bad.

Don’t worry about collecting Shards or Mosaic pieces or whatever. Seriously, there’s no point in doing it (I say this as someone who’s like 99%ed this game okay, it’s a waste of time unless you really really want to)

Dorian and Iron Bull can get together if you don’t romance either of them. You’ll need to have them in your party a lot though, because party banter (the conversations your companions have out in the field every 12-17 minutes) is what triggers their romance. If you really want to get them together, just put them in your party and leave the game running.

You don’t have to read every single codex entry, but I would recommend picking them up because it’ll give you experience I think. And it’ll give you stuff to read during loads. And like, during the plot heavy stuff, sometimes there’s neat shit? I like worldbuilding tho. The stuff in the Fade and the Temple of Mythal is the most interesting, I think.

It’s kind of difficult to know how your approval is with companions, but it is evidenced by what they say when you talk to them. If you’re really worried about what a character thinks of you, go take a glance at the Approval part of their wiki page (don’t read the other stuff!!) and it’ll help you figure it out. Certain characters have approvals that are easier to get up than others. (take Iron Bull to kill a dragon, take Varric to destroy red Lyrium, basically do their quests while they are in your party)

Lore and Combat are under the cut.

If you don’t know much about the setting I’d recommend checking the Dragon Age Keep, which lets you change what happened in previous games, and then have someone read it back to you! Full of spoilers for the other two games though, sorry. There’s a few decisions that effect DA:I (Morrigan’s dark ritual, who’s in charge of Ferelden, who tf is Hawke) but over all most of them won’t make any major changes (with the exception of Morrigan’s dark ritual from DA:O).

Steer clear of the wiki, seriously it spoiled a MAJOR thing for me. Also maybe don’t go hunting through my dragon age tags..........uh. There’s spoilers.

Basic Lore:

(some of this is technically wrong, but this is what your average player would know going into DA:I)

The Chantry (the catholic church), and they worship the Maker (god) and his wife Andraste (Jesus+Joanne of Arc) a mortal woman who raised a slave rebellion in Tevinter and was burned at the stake as a result. The Southern Chantry is headed by the Divine (the Pope), presently Divine Justinia. Cassandra and Leliana are her bodyguard and spymaster, respectively. (I say Southern Chantry, because the Tevinter Chantry has a different mentality on a lot of this. Go talk to Dorian about it when you meet him.)

The Southern Chantry preaches that the power of Mages is dangerous, so they should be confined to Circles, where they can study and also not fuck up the world. The Chantry employs Templars (think Paladins) to keep the mages in line. Templars take stuff called Lyrium to give them magic-suppressing powers. Talk to Cassandra and Cullen about Templars. Lyrium is mined up by dwarves, and it’s very dangerous when raw, just not as dangerous to dwarves. Lyrium can also be corrupted into Red Lyrium, which is Really Bad News and makes shit float and makes you go all kinds of loopy and also want to eat it? Bad stuff. Varric really hates it.

Mages get their power from the Fade, which is the dream world. Dreamers are especially powerful mages who have control over dreams. In the Fade there’s The Black City, which is supposedly where the Maker rules from. In the Fade there’s Demons, who can possess you, which mages are more susceptible to, and are all around bad news. There’s also spirits, and if you want to know about them go talk to Solas and Cole.

A bunch of old Tevinter Magisters (Roman Senators but mages and worshipped dragons) a longass time ago decided that the best way to get more powerful was to enter the fade themselves and go to the Black City. As the story goes, the Maker got pissed at them and sent them back to Thedas (earth) with The Blight (kind of like a zombie curse?) which is really bad news. So what was basically the zombie apocalypse (well they’re technically Darkspawn) started, causing the Wardens to be created. Wardens are sort-of blighted destroyers of the Blight. They shoved them into the Deep Roads, which is where the Dwarves live, so the Dwarves have been sectioning off areas to live in that are safe. Ferelden (the country where you are) recently got over the Fifth Blight (DA:O’s plot). Blights happen when one of those big ol dragon fellows (Old Gods technically) meet up with a bunch of Darkspawn and decide to terrorize the surface.

At the end of Dragon Age 2, the Mages started up a rebellion because they were basically being imprisoned. The Templars got mad and fought back, and succeeded from the Chantry, starting the Mage and Templar war. The title screen is the Conclave (peace conference run by Divine Justinia), at the Temple of Sacred Ashes (where Andraste’s ashes once were). Your character is attending the Conclave.

There’s also a civil war in Orlais between Grand Duke Gaspard and Empress Celene. Also, there’s this lady named Flemmeth, or Asha’Bellanar, who’s a major figure in Elven mythos and can turn into a dragon. She’s Morrigan’s mom and shows up in every game and is sort of immortal.

Combat Basics:

When it comes to combat, I think DA:I has the easiest but least intuitive combat system out of all of the Dragon Age games (there’s a casual mode and don’t worry about starting out with that mode if you haven’t played any Dragon Age games before).

Early on it’s totally a great idea to try out switching between different characters to see which class fits your playstyle best (I think that rogue archer is the simplest for a beginner), and if you want to recreate your character early on that’s totally rad (it took me three tries to realize that I really love 2 handed warriors the best, for example). Basically, here’s a breakdown of playstyles:

Warrior, sword+shield: melee tank, not built for damage. Best with the Champion (Blackwall) or Templar (Cassandra) specializations. One of the better AIs, so don’t worry about switching onto your tank as much. Would recommend having one of them in the party at all times tbh.

Warrior, two handed: melee AOE, built for damage. Basically just stick your two-hander in the center of everything and they’ll kill a bunch of people. Not as good against single-enemy fights (like dragons). Best with the Reaver (Iron Bull) or Champion (Blackwall) specializations.

Rogue, Dual Dagger: melee critical-based, does the most damage out of any build but fairly easy to kill as a result. Good with any of the rogue specializations, but really really good with Assassin (Cole).

Rogue, Archer: ranged damage, does the most ranged damage. Big bonus is the fact that you can move while attacking, which mages cannot do. Leave Varric as an archer, and upgrade Bianca a lot and he’ll become pretty strong! Sera also makes a pretty good archer, but she does pretty well as dual-dagger as well. Good with Artificer and Tempest specializations.

(you don’t get specializations until level 10, at which point you’ll get to pick your own for your character! Lot’s of fun ones, I recommend Reaver, Assassin, Tempest, and Rift Mage as my favorites to play, but just go with what sounds cool/fits the character tbh. Necromancy is a bit glitchy, just a heads up. Also you might need a guide for the quest, depending on which specialization you pick it can be a pain in the ass to figure out)

Mages have a lot more variety to them, and I recommend picking two trees for each mage (+their specialization once you get there). I personally go for Spirit+one type of damage for each one, and it doesn’t matter which type of damage you go for for each mage, since their specializations don’t change a ton of their playstyle. I would recommend having at least one Winter mage and one Inferno mage, so that you can fight dragons/tough enemies with the opposite type of element (there’s no Spirit dragons, and Storm is the least useful against big enemies anyways.)

Spirit: The most useful skill tree in the game, I promise. Barrier, dispel, and whatever the resurrection spell is are some of the most useful spells in the entire game. Also, dispel can be used when a rift is about to spit out more demons and like, you can see the lil circle-y bits on the ground, you just cast dispel on one of those spots and boom, the demon won’t show up! The AI for spirit mage is pretty alright I guess, I usually switch onto my main spirit mage during big difficult fights (dragons especially, dragons are Tough), but honestly I don’t enjoy constantly having to pause to cast barriers so I don’t play it myself.

Winter: CC, does the least amount of damage but the slows/freezes are So Fucking Useful, I swear. If you’ve got a pretty heavy damage team, Winter is great for a purely support mage. I basically build my favorite mage (Solas) to be Winter+Spirit, which is the best combo for playing what is basically just a healer that does very little damage. Also has the fantastic spell, Fade Step, which allows a mage to FWOOOSH across the battlefield to get out of trouble. If your mage is taking a lot of hits, switch onto them and move them out of the way with this.

Inferno: DOT, some AOE. I think Inferno and Storm are sort of tied for damage, but Inferno does more damage to individual enemies. Can also terrify enemies, which is a little bit annoying if you’re playing as a melee character. Just mostly damage, all around pretty solid. Makes my PS4 lag a bit when the entire screen is on fire.

Storm: AOE mostly, can also shock enemies. Basically allows you to chain attacks between multiple enemies. Super neat but my least used mage tree tbh? Not sure why. Does damage, not as useful against big enemies (especially dragons. I feel like I talk about dragons a lot, but there’s like, 12 dragons in the entire game? I just liked fighting them bc A. it’s Dragon Age and B. my character literally drank dragon blood okay, it was sort of badass and C. I like dragons)

I would have to look at my old skill-trees if you want advice on which kits work best together, I couldn’t tell you off the top of my head.

When it comes to building a balanced team, my go-to is:

One Sword-and-Shield Warrior

One Two-Handed Warrior or Dagger Rogue

One Archer Rogue or Damage-y Mage

One Support Mage

So like, pick some favs and build them to fit into that pretty much. Mix up your party though! Some characters, like Sera and Solas, have strange perspectives that can be hard to understand at first, but are really interesting once you get to know them, so stick them in your party!

And I think that’s it? I’m sure I’ve got tons more advice I could share with you (I’ve introduced a few people to the series now so this is almost all stuff I’ve already told them) but this is already like a bajillion words. Also I have to do homework still. whoops?

#dragon age #dragon age inquisition #dragon age inquisition guide #long post #why did i write so much i still need to finish these storyboards tf am i doing with my life #i just love dragon age so much you guys......#wordbarf #cyekic

3 notes · View notes