#the madman of kirkwall

[vigilskeep]

Since the majority of Hawkes companions don't have surnames would Hawke just... let them use their surname??? Whenever they want??? Which of your Hawkes would be most likely to allow this 🤣

i have said this before, i genuinely think that the four companions without so much as a surname to their name would use hawke’s whenever necessary. which hawke would let them do it? bold of u to assume they get asked. bold of u to assume they even find out until after the fact. sharing is caring hawke dont be greedy. ugh yes it can mean we’re family don’t be sappy and gross abt it i just want to send ur estate my hanged man bill

#one of the dai era keir snippets i found in my doc #was him correcting someone who referred to ‘anders the madman who destroyed the kirkwall chantry’ with ‘anders HAWKE’ #and i actually think that would be an even funnier move from a hawke who didnt romance him #thats my boy and dont u forget it

[moontheoretist]

Anders felt himself take a few steps to where the warrior sat perched on his bed. He paused, returned to the desk to collect the small, furled stack of parchment. He then returned and sank to the ground between Fenris’s legs, holding the documents up so the warrior could read over his shoulder. He absentmindedly wove a small sphere of the green, heatless flame and set it hovering a few feet above them to illuminate the writing, and then proceeded to read aloud the entirety of the codex titled “Enigma of Kirkwall”. By the time he finished, his stomach was churning and his chest felt tight. “Maker, Fenris. I… I don’t even know what to do with this information.” Warm, strong fingers slid over his shoulder. It startled him, a little; to be physically touched while distressed… it was a rare thing, in his experience, and precious. Almost immediately, he felt himself relax into the touch, tilting his head to lean against Fenris’s left knee. “It’s maddening, really. These notes explain so much and… absolutely nothing at the same time. The abnormal rates of maleficarum, the tunnel under the mansion… what were the damn fools thinking, deliberately weakening an already thin Veil? It makes no sense! And what did they come here for in the first place? And… oh, Maker, the blood…” Fenris’s right hand smoothed down his arms, then trailed back up, applying light pressure to the knot that was forming in his biceps and trapezius. “I do not know, but it is worrisome. Do you intend to return to the tunnels?” Anders craned his head back, looking up at the warrior’s expression for any indication of reticence. But Fenris just looked back calmly, his hand still tracing idle patterns up his arm and kneading lightly on the way back down. He sighed, head falling back to the warrior’s knee. “I don’t know. I want to. This alone isn’t proof – who the hell are these people, anyways? It could be the delusions of a madman…” “Except we know the tunnels are real. From the sound of it, we found you in the quarters of these ‘researchers’.” “Perhaps there’s something down there that can prove that Kirkwall is harming mages – making them turn to blood magic, fail their Harrowings. This might be the very thing to end the Gallows Circle. Or maybe I can do something about it – about the Veil, or the lingering blood magic.” He took a shaky breath, then forced himself to ask, “Do you think it’s a bad idea?” Fenris didn’t reply right away, but his hand continued to trace soothing nonsense patterns over Anders’ arm. At length, he leaned down, his head in the crook of Anders’ right shoulder, and lifted his left arm awkwardly around Ander’s leaning head to point at a specific passage. “But we've discovered the Magisters were deliberately thinning it even further. Beneath the city, demons can contact even normal men.” A long pause ensued as both men considered the weight of those words. Eventually, Fenris asked, “Do you think it worth the risk?” Anders gave the question due consideration. At some point, Fenris dropped the hand away from the text and rested it against Anders’ chest. Anders reached up to cover it with his own. “I do. I mean, I don’t know – I understand the issue with Justice a little better now, and understanding is the key to control. But, like I said, we’re a team. If you don’t want to go back, knowing what we know now, I’ll drop it.” Fenris didn’t hesitate. “I trust your judgement. What about Hawke, or the others?” “I think we could use all the help we can get, but… is this is something we want everyone to know about?” He paused to consider it, his thumb rubbing idly over the back of Fenris’s knuckles. “With all the tension in the city, I’d not be surprised if Meredith did something drastic, if she found out. She’d find a way to twist it, to blame the mages, or incite a riot. I just don’t know, Fenris. What do you think?” He tilted his head further, absentmindedly grazing his stubbled cheek lightly back and forth against the warrior’s arm. “I do not believe any of Hawke’s crew would allow this information to reach the Knight Commander.”

Goat Rope by AlwaysOrithia

I used to disagree with explosion of the Chantry as “the only solution”, but nowadays, I can’t agree more simply because mages are not treated as people and their voices are not listened to at all, and if the system doesn't listen to you, the only thing you can do is break it and fight. However, I still feel that DA2 was having closed and unchangeable ending on purpose. Even more than DAO, where you have to kill Archdemon anyway, because Anders is your friend or your rival, so it stands to reason that you should be able to influence him somehow, but the game goes with “Hawke doesn't have any power over Anders” despite the fact that ENIGMA OF KIRKWALL codex entry exists. If the explosion was made avoidable, then this codex entry is the best way how to ensure that Anders will be able to do something about the Chantry and help mages. Just imagine what a huge political repercussion it would make if regular people learned that Circle of Magi was created in a place that was the same or possibly worse than Aeonar prison, to the point that even regular people could be possessed by demons. I feel like even then, the explosion still could happen, as it was a perfect “fuck you” to the institution of the Chantry and its power. Crumbling that huge building, full of towering columns and statues of Andraste, really sends the message across the best. Destroying that symbol of oppression is always an ok to me, but it bothers me that the Enigma of Kirkwall is never actually addressed or used in the story. That Hawke doesn't talk with Anders about it at all. And it’s not only that one codex entry that contains important lore that affects your companions’ storylines that is not utilised in the game. There is plenty more in all DA games. That codex entry from the hut in DAI? That describes what Templars did to women? Why is Inquisitor not given a chance to discuss that with someone? Why is the game insisting “Templars are still our heroes” after scattering codexes like this all over the place? It just feels like such a lost opportunity to address important things.

#dragon age #dragon age 2 #da2 #dragon age fanfiction #fenders #anders #fenris #blood magic #kirkwall #enigma of kirkwall codex entry

[sapphim]

I always read Cullen as somewhat sympathetic even in Origins. Not that I agreed with his whole "slaughter all mages they are all evil" thing but considering he just spent Maker knows how long being tortured and watching other templars being tortured and killed and was chill in the origin and chills out quite a bit in 2 it just seemed like a traumatic response rather than malice.

DAO non-canon epilogue slide:

The young templar Cullen never quite recovered from his ordeal. After months of attempting to convince his superiors that the tower was still a danger, he finally snapped and killed three apprentices before being stopped by his fellow templars. Eventually, Cullen escaped from prison, a madman and a threat to any mage he encountered.

DA2 Codex entry: Knight-Captain Cullen

Knight-Captain Cullen was one of the few templars who survived the incident at the Circle of Magi in Ferelden. The possessed blood mage Uldred took over the tower, and in his madness, he filled it with summoned demons and abominations. Cullen was imprisoned, tortured, and forced to watch the slaughter of his fellow templars. The ordeal shook him, and he emerged from it convinced that even templars fail to see how dangerous mages can be. After Cullen returned to his duties, it became clear that he would go to any lengths to enforce the Chantry's rule. His zeal troubled Knight-Commander Greagoir, who feared it unwise to let Cullen watch over the men and women he deemed responsible for his torment. Greagoir sent Cullen to serve under Knight-Commander Meredith in Kirkwall, and Meredith found Cullen's view of mages similar to her own. Of her company, only Cullen had seen mages' potentially terrifying power firsthand, and she believed he could influence the other templars' views. Consequently, Cullen rose quickly through the ranks to become Knight-Captain and Meredith's second-in-command.

Yes, Cullen experienced trauma. Meredith also experienced the trauma of watching her sister become an abomination and murder 70 people. She's still the BBEG of DA2. And Cullen was still her second in command.

I can't think about Cullen these days without thinking about the legions of angry, isolated young men that the alt-right have been actively recruiting. They take their legitimate feelings of anxiety and and misdirect and warp them into a weapon of violence to be wielded against the most vulnerable populations of our society.

Greagoir feared that Cullen would be a direct danger to the mages under his custody. Meredith liked Cullen, and Cullen liked Meredith. Out of all the templars in Kirkwall, Cullen is the one who quickly rose to become her second in command. There were templars who pushed back against Meredith's reign of terror in the Gallows. Cullen thrived and excelled under it.

Lots of characters in this series experienced severe trauma at the hands of others. Not all of them radicalized and went on to commit an act of genocide.

#you'll notice that inquisition doesn't let you confront cullen about like #anything at all #ever #because the way he was written in the first two games #is completely at odds with the writers' goal to make him likeable and romanceable in inq

[dalishious]

Fiona and In Hushed Whispers

People are some stunned about my girl Fiona in my inbox, so let me educate you assholes on why the Fiona in The Calling and Asunder is pretty much an entire different character in DA:I’s In Hushed Whispers. And subsequently, why it is unbelievable that she would sell herself and her people to Tevinter; it actually still disgusts me to think about the implications of this writing decision.

“But characters can change!” Yeah, of course they can. Too bad there is nothing about the changes in the way Fiona is written in DA:I compared to the novels that is linear, sensical or anything other than feeling like her name was attached to the need for a character’s role as an afterthought, rather than coherently weaving her into the story as the character she is established as.

Unfortunately, the person who could help me explain all this so much better is no longer here with us, so I will have to do my best alone in their memory.

1. What Happened to “Fuck the Divine?”

I am starting with this point, just because even with everything to come after, it is the one piece that still boggles my mind the most.

In DA:I, when asked about the possibility of compromise with the templars trying to kill and jail them, Fiona says “all hope of peace died with Justinia,” with a solemn frown.

Do you know what Fiona has to say about Divine Justinia in Asunder?

“We are to discuss Pharamond's research,” Wynne insisted. “Nothing more. If you derail this conclave, Fiona, we'll never get another.” Fiona snorted derisively. “This isn't a conclave. This is a joke! We could discuss what to do about the Rite of Tranquility until we were blue in the face; do you believe the templars would even think about following our advice?” “The Divine is willing to—” “Fuck the Divine.” She sighed when the others stared at her, stunned by her blasphemy, and rubbed her forehead in agitation. “I'm certain the Divine is a perfectly nice person," she continued in a more conciliatory tone. “So was Grand Cleric Elthina in Kirkwall. She did her best to keep everyone happy, and what happened? Nothing was resolved, until finally her inaction killed her.” Wynne frowned. “She was killed by the act of one madman.” “I'm not going to condone what Anders did,” Fiona said, “but I understand why he did it. I'm only suggesting that we act, not blow up the White Spire.” “Aren't you? How do you think the templars will respond to this?” “We are not responsible for their actions. We're only responsible for our own.”

Fiona doesn’t give a fuck about Justinia. Fiona doesn’t believe a damn thing from Justinia’s claims of wanting peace between mages and templars. In fact, she verbally calls Justinia’s inaction out, claiming she will do nothing but try to appease everyone rather than address the problems with the Circles. Even if Fiona gained some respect for Justinia between Asunder and DA:I, it is still unbelievable that Fiona would put all her hope and plans into the Chantry, the very organization she has spent years rebelling against. That she would have no contingency plans. Hell, even within the game there is conflicting dialogue from her on this! In Val Royeaux, she says the reason she did not attend the conclave personally is because she did not expect to be safe there. And yet back in Redcliffe, she changes her tune to mourning the conclave’s failure.

2. Fiona Hates Tevinter Magisters

Fiona is very empathetic about elven oppression, just as much as she is with mage struggles. Throughout The Calling, she speaks of past and present injustices against elves on multiple occasions. One of the lengthiest bits is pretty early in the novel:

“Is it an elven thing? I knew a lot of elves back in Val Royeaux, and every one of them had a chip on their shoulders. Even the ones that didn’t come from the alienage.” She shot him an incredulous look. “It’s not as if we don’t have a good reason to be bitter, you know.” “Yes, yes, I know. We terrible humans destroyed the Dales. One of the elves I knew fancied himself a Dalish elf, even painted up his face to look like them. I thought he’d finally gone off to the forests to search for one of their clans, but it turned out he’d gotten himself arrested. Anyway, he used to talk about the Dales all the time.” She stopped, stamping her staff down onto the stone so that the globe flashed brightly for a moment. Her exasperation with him was obvious. “There’s more to it than that. Far more! Don’t you even know?” “Know what? That your people were enslaved? Everyone knows that.” “There was a time,” her eyes flashed crossly, “when elves lived forever. Did you know that, as well? We spoke our own language, built magnificent wonders across all of Thedas, had our own homeland—and this was long before the Dales ever existed.” “And then you were enslaved.” “By the magisters of the Tevinter Imperium, yes. Just one of their crimes, and probably not even their greatest.” Fiona turned away from Duncan and ran a slender hand across the corruption covering a nearby wall. “They took everything from us that was beautiful. They even made us forget what we once were. It wasn’t until the prophet Andraste released us that we even realized what we had lost.” “And she was human, wasn’t she? We’re not all so bad.” “Her own people burned her at the stake.” “I meant the rest of us.” She looked back at him, smiling gamely even though her eyes were tinged with sadness. “Andraste gave us the Dales, a new homeland to replace the old. But your people took that away from us, too, in the end. Now we either live in your cities as vermin or wander as outlaws, but either way we’re unwanted.” Duncan smirked mockingly at her. “Aww. Poor elves.” The mage swung her still-glowing staff at his head, but he danced aside, laughing merrily. The sound hung oddly in the gloom. “Not sympathetic enough, I suppose?” He grinned. “I grew up on the streets, so if you were looking for reassurance on how good us humans really are, you aren’t going to get it from me.” “You did ask,” she reminded him. “About the King I did.” He pointed at the others, who now had gotten ahead of them. Fiona noticed it, too, and began hurrying to catch up. He kept pace. “Those things you talked about… they happened so long ago hardly anybody who doesn’t keep their nose stuck in a book would even know half of them. Elves aren’t just slaves anymore.” “You think so?” Her look was dark, her tone suddenly brittle. “Do you think slavery just up and disappeared that day for every one of us?”

(SIDE NOTE: for those of you who are no doubt saying “what the fuck, Duncan,” rest assured he learns better before the novel ends, and obviously much more as he becomes an adult, since by the time of DA:O he shows a far greater sympathy and understanding. Please also know that Duncan was a homeless orphan with no real education; he doesn’t need to be such an asshole about it here, but he really, truly, does not know the extent of what Fiona is talking about at this point. Though there’s something else entirely that could be said about Gaider writing a Black man be so dismissive of slavery...)

Fiona tries to educate Duncan on Tevinter’s history of elven genocide, and how it laid the groundwork for the continuous inequalities in Thedas. She gets so frustrated that it ends up more like a vent/rant. This exchange is more than just lore exposition to the reader, but part of establishing her character as well. Up to this point in the novel, it is not explained why Fiona is so mistrusting of Maric, and irritated by his presence. This is the chapter that reveals that she expects him to be no different than the magisters, her former master, and any other human in power. And why should she, when her only experiences have been nothing but this?

I would also like to specifically point out the part where when Fiona talks about Tevinter, she turns away. Throughout the novel, this is an action she repeatedly does when she is uncomfortable and/or distressed with a conversation, feeling she can’t speak. This is a painful topic for her, for multiple obvious reasons. The fact that she touches the corrupted wall when saying the magisters have committed even greater crimes is her way of non-verbally referring to the fact that on top of everything else, the Tevinter magisters started the Blight. The very thing they as Grey Wardens exist to battle.

If it takes Fiona an entire novel of getting to know Maric to believe the King of Ferelden is not just as bad as the magisters, how exactly is she so willing to trust a single thing an actual Tevinter magister like Alexius says, after a single, suspicious “rescue?” She herself even says that there are pieces of the events to occur that don’t make sense. And yet instead of questioning this, she agrees to be indentured to his services. She agrees to enslave herself and her people. This is utterly preposterous, considering what she herself has been through.

3. Fiona Has Already Escaped Slavery

[TW for kidnapping, child abuse and paedophilia]

Fiona was formerly enslaved and a CSA survivor. When slavers came to the Montsimmard alienage, they saw a seven-year-old orphaned Fiona and lured her in with food. They then sold her to an Orlesian noble who kept her as a child sex slave.

Count Dorian, as she learned her new master’s name to be, had been in search of an elven whore he could keep as a pet, something he could put in a pretty dress and bring with him on one of his many trips to the capital, like baggage. The Countess had permitted him his new toy, and completely ignored Fiona as she went about her own dalliances. Fiona lived in that household a prisoner, invisible and not even knowing that any of it was wrong, only that she needed to please the Count or suffer his wrath. Often his wrath came whether he was pleased or not. Escaping the man had not been easy. Fortune had brought her to the notice of an elderly mage on the streets of Val Royeaux, though the Count’s fury when he discovered it had been immeasurable. She still flinched when she thought of how he had whipped her that night. He had gouged and bled her until she had pleaded for death, and he had denied her even that. And then she had grown angry. She had dug deep down inside and demanded that whatever talent for magic she had, a talent in which she did not even truly believe until that moment, come forth and save her. And it had. She had killed the Count with raw magical force, and lay bleeding beside his corpse as exhaustion took her. The demons had come, then. They had whispered soft things, promising that they could take all the pain away. So desperate was their desire to possess her they nipped away at her mind, and it was all she could do to lie there and cry silent tears as she resisted. The Countess found her in the dungeon, unconscious and lying in a pool of her own blood. Almost dead. Why the woman had contacted the Circle of Magi to come and take Fiona away, she had no idea. She never saw the woman again. Perhaps the Countess had felt pity? Perhaps she had felt some gratitude for the elf who had finally slain her cruel husband and transformed her into a rich widow? She could just as easily have called on the watch, or let her die. The Circle, sadly, had been little better. At least the nightmares grew fainter in time. She thought that she had finally put them behind her, but apparently it was not so.

Fiona has firsthand experience with not being in control of her life. And when life in the Circle turned out to feel much of the same, she swore she would never let it happen again. That is the whole reason she joined the Grey Wardens.

“I don’t know what he did to you, but…” “I was a slave,” she answered, as easily as she could. “The Count bought me from slavers when I was seven years old, and I was his pet until I was fourteen.” The words came out in a rush, and she felt the flush crawl up her cheeks. She had never spoken of this to anyone. It was a part of her life she had buried, pushed down into shadows never to be thought of again. Yet she felt like she had to tell him. “What you saw, that was my life until I finally murdered him and escaped to the Circle.” Maric’s eyes were wide with horror. “I don’t know what to say.” “What is there to say?” She shrugged. “Slavery is illegal in the Empire, but it still goes on. Nobody pays attention if an elf disappears here or there. Nobody cares what happens to us in the alienage. Wealthy, powerful men like the Count get to do whatever they like, to whomever they like, so long as nobody cares.” “I’m sorry.” “No need to apologize. I was lucky. I had the talent for magic, a curse for every other person and yet for me it meant freedom. It meant an escape to the Circle, the lone elf in the tower, uneducated and frightened of anyone who even came near me.” She grimaced at the memory. “The mages were just men, I discovered. Capricious and sad and bigoted just like everywhere else. I swore I wouldn’t let them keep me, and I escaped them, too.” “To the Grey Wardens.” She nodded. “Some people look on becoming a Grey Warden as a duty. Maybe even a punishment. Duncan had to be forced. I begged to be recruited.” The memory was an unpleasant one. The Joining ritual that had followed it was even less so. Drink the blood of darkspawn, they said, and if you survive it will only be for a time. You will be a Grey Warden until the Calling comes at last. And she had drunk it gladly. And she hadn’t looked back.

And so what does Fiona do when she does return to the Circle after being cured of the Taint through the events of The Calling? She turns her life’s work into campaigning for not just regaining her own freedom, but for the freedom of all mages.

But in DA:I, she woefully tells the Inquisitor she felt no choice but for the free mages to “pledge themselves in service to the Tevinter Imperium”, becoming indentured to Alexius.

The idea that someone who escaped slavery would willingly give up her independence, willingly give herself back into slavery, willingly give up the freedom of all the mages she is trying to fight to gain freedom for, is gross. Imagine if in DA:I, Varric informed the Inquisitor that after everything Fenris went through, he decided to become a magister’s servant. That is literally the equivalent of what has been written here with Fiona.

Fiona says that her options were to either lead the free mages in a last stand at Redcliffe, or serve Alexius and his crew. So she chose to save as many lives as she could. However, I cannot understand why she would need to make a last stand at all, when the King and/or Queen of Ferelden granted the mages safe haven at Redcliffe. I understand that certain parts of the events that occurred leading up to this decision do not make sense due to the time travel involved, but I do not know how this can be explained away.

4. Fiona Will Not Be Silenced

During the pseudo alliance between the Inquisitor and Alexius, Fiona steps up and asks Alexius if her mages are to have no say in their fate. Alexius dismisses her completely, though the Inquisitor has the option of inviting Fiona into the conversation on the Inquisition’s behalf. If they do not do this, however, Fiona simply shies away again.

This is extremely out of character. As surely you can understand given her background, Fiona does not like being pushed around. I’d be willing to believe that with age this could get more relaxed, if not for the fact that she still holds this trait as of Asunder, which only takes place a year prior to DA:I. What does Fiona do when she is similarly ordered to be silent in Asunder?

“We're not waiting,” Fiona declared. “We're here now, and we're well aware of what we're to discuss. We don't need another Tranquil to underline the kind of contempt in which the templars hold us.” “Will you keep it down!” one of the first enchanters hissed fearfully, an Antivan man with a braided black beard. “No, I will not.” Her staff flashed as she turned her glare on the other mages before her. “This is the first time we've been allowed together in a year, and I'm not going to waste it.”

Fiona has no problem standing up to an entire room of mages, half of whom disagree with her, but backs down from a single, crusty Tevinter man? I think not.

I’m not saying that Fiona being strong and independent means she should never be allowed to show vulnerability or insecurity—because she does have these sides too in the novels, just like any fully realized character—what I’m saying is, this is not a time and place where she would.

5. Fiona Believes in Democracy

As if all of the above isn’t enough to add up against why it makes sense for Fiona’s character to do as she does in DA:I, there is also the fact that Fiona as a leader does not issue commands over such big decisions. She declares a vote.

At the end of Asunder, mages from across Thedas flee to Andoral’s Reach, where the start of the rebellion truly begins. As Grand Enchanter, Fiona could have made a fair decision to push that they all rebel at that moment. Instead, she calls for a vote on what they should do, and asserts that they will all follow the winning vote. It stands to reason that Fiona would lead a vote on the fate of the mages in this case as well, yet the other mage characters around Redcliffe like Talwyn, Lysas and Connor tell the Inquisitor they had no say at all in the decision.

Anyway…

The fact is, the character who leads the mages in DA:I and the character of Fiona we know from The Calling and Asunder might as well be two different people entirely. It feels more like someone scrolled through a fan wiki page about her when adding her to the game, rather than reading the actual novels that she comes from. And as consequence, Fiona’s characterization suffers, which in turn just adds to the confusion with the whole In Hushed Whispers quest. And it’s a shame, because Fiona really is one of the best characters to come from the novels, in my opinion.

If anyone is interested in getting a grasp of who Fiona really is, then I would recommend reading The Calling first and foremost. While I can’t say it’s phenomenally written overall, she and Duncan most definitely stand out. (Maric as well, to a somewhat lesser degree. I have to admit that I enjoy him more in The Stolen Throne, but in his defence I can hardly blame him for being super depressed for the majority of The Calling.)

#fiona #grand enchanter fiona #dragon age #dai #in hushed whispers #the calling #asunder #meta

[aarongoldenwrites]

Alright. Get ready for a trip. I'm gonna go point by point through this because I'm obsessed with these games, I dig the real world connotations, and the new trailer just dropped and I haven't played any DA since the flood. So...

We need to start with a discussion of Solas in general. He's Fen'Harel, the Dread Wolf. He fought against institutionalized and systemic slavery, freed his people, and fought alone against corrupt being powerful enough to be considered gods (and they are the old gods of the Tevinter Imperium, I believe, but that's a whole other thing). He created the veil and imprisoned the gods, possibly in Black City, and doing so nearly killed him and sent him into a thousand year coma. He didn't understand the consequences of his actions, but he trusted people enough not to mess it up further.

And then he woke up.

Let us start with the Qun. The Qun is fascism. Individual Qunari are fascinating individuals, especially when they are removed from the Qun as a whole – Sten and the Iron Bull being our prime examples. But everything we know about them paints them as fanatics that torture mages and lobotomize anyone that doesn't accept their philosophy. Their entire culture is systemic slavery, which is the very thing Solas opposed. Of course he hates them.

There's two instances that can change his mind: one is a possible Qunari Inquisitor, but your Inquisitor is Vashoth (edit 2020/09/03: as noted by @felassan -- thanks!), someone who was never part of the Qun. He's not been awake long enough to see it, and it shocks him out of binary thinking. He's apologizing badly, because he's personally a social disaster who doesn't know how to people (and we'll get to that). The second is if you choose to save the Chargers; Solas turns around on the Bull instantly, shows genuine concern towards him, and helps him deal with Fade-related PTSD.

In fact, all he ever wants to do is teach. If he comes out and says he's Fen'Harel people are going to assume he's a crackpot, but I think Solas, as a persona, is actually who he is. He jokes with the Bull and Blackwall about his Fade knowledge, and offers them both knowledge on how to kill fade spirits more efficiently. All three of them respect one another as soldiers. He compares knowledge of magic and history with Dorian, Cassandra seeks his opinion on organization and faith, Josephine appreciates his insight, Leliana asks his advice, and Varric and he chatter and shoot the shit.

He constantly tries to teach or learn. The only two people he has issues with are Sera and Vivienne, and even there he tries to offer advice and wisdom as best he's able. Sera can't stand him because she hates elves, and Viv is a victim of the Circle and can't imagine a world without an entrenched power structure, regardless of how many people it hurts.

And I suppose that's a thing a lot of people have trouble with when it comes to Solas: he tells you straight out at the end of Trespasser that he's going to tear down the Veil and destroy the world as we know it. And that's terrible. That's destroying a world state and trying to return thing to how they were, kind of like how the Inquisitor and Dorian reset time in Redcliffe. I mean, that world was a hellscape where everything you ever cared about was dead or corrupted, and fixing it was the right call. It's not at all like how the world Solas wakes up to is a hellscape where everything he ever cared about was dead or corrupted. Fixing it is the right call?

And we could argue that the future that we averted was a monstrous place, but how does Solas see his own world? His people worship the slavers he defeated and die with a terrible frequency. Elves die and face fates that are about as terrible as that faced by mages; he's fucked coming and going. And we know he went to the Dalish and tried to talk to them and they attacked him. Why wouldn't they? He knows about what's happening outside of the Plato's cave that the Dalish are dying in.

His actions are going to kill thousands. His actions are going to save millions. The Dalish are dying in droves and the city elves are going to follow. Giving them a fighting chance at survival means reminding them who they are.

He also tells us that waking up was like “swimming in tranquil”. I think creating the Veil crippled the elves in some way, and he's not trying to give them magic so much as he's trying to heal them of a disease he inadvertently created. And while I know it's hard to take him at his word, it shouldn't be: he lies by omission once (about being Fen'harel, as we've covered the reasons why already), and lies directly twice.

After Orlais, he talks about how much he missed intrigue and court. If you ask him about this, he stumbles and you get disapproval – the only time you get disapproval for asking him a question. He lets his guard down around you and still doesn't know what to do.

The last time is in Crestwood and only happens if you romance him. He's about to tell you who he is and he chickens out and tells you about the slave marks on your face instead. Because – and this is the important thing – he cares. He's viciously selfless; he doesn't believe he deserves happiness and he can't imagine a world where he can save his people and be happy.

Make no mistake: the elves are threatened with extinction with the world as it is. The city elves in Origins are blamed when they react to some of their number being raped and killed by human nobles. The Dalish in Origins can be wiped out by the werewolves. The Dalish in Awakening are wiped out regardless of what you do. The Dalish in DA2 can be wiped out in Act 3. The city elves in Kirkwall are hunted for sport, see their children kidnapped and raped before being murdered, are locked away and left to burn whenever there's any problem at all. Three different Dalish clans can be wiped out in Inquisition, and it's so easy for Lavellen to lose her clan.

The status quo is killing the elves. It is wiping them out. This is an existential threat that no one is doing anything about, except Solas.

He's also lonely.

He says he was derided by his enemies also when he offered to share his knowledge of the Fade. We took this to mean the Dalish before Trespasser, but given who he is, we can speculate that he's talking about the old elven gods. But if his enemies derided them, that means his allies did, too. His old allies still saw him as a madman and a fool, probably because he was one man standing against an empire. He clearly couldn't trust anyone in the old days, and even tells Sera he had to sacrifice some of those closest to him for fear of betrayal.

Consider that the Inquisition was the first time he had friends. No one knows him as anything other than the elven apostate hobo with bad fashion sense and a weird relationship with spirits, but, as mentioned, he has mostly good relationships with everyone. People rely on him. They like him. Lavellan potentially loves him, and he loves her.

You change his mind on the Qunari race (but not their culture). You show him that he was wrong and he accepts that with good grace and moves on; he keeps coming to the Inquisitor afterwards because he respects you and he does not want to do what he sees as the only way to avoid genocide. I don't think he ever stops feeling bad about any of the things he's gotten wrong; he wears his mistakes like a chain and tries to do better, never stops trying to do better, but his perspective and capability are so much greater than anything the Warden, the Champion, or even the Inquisitor currently understands.

And I wouldn't be surprised if we get a chance to fold him back into the party at some point. I think the actual villain of the series lies with the monsters the Evanuris fought against and were corrupted by.

I think the actual villains are the Forgotten Ones, and I think they are the Blight, and I think they are what lies in the corruption we know as Red Lyrium.      

#dragon age #dragon age 4 #dragon age origins #dragon age awakenings #dragon age 2 #dragon age exodus #solas #fen'harel #the dread wolf #redcliffe #evanuris #tevinter #dorian #blackwall #the iron bull #the chargers #sera #vivienne #kirkwall #dalish #dalish elves #lavallen

[dragonswithjetpacks]

I’m going to say this one time about Cullen and that’s it. And my opinion will be out there and done. This is not a negative post. But this is a long post so buckle up babes.

*warning for use of language because I swear like a sailor*

*also brief mention of rape*

Anyway, Cullen is a perfect example of poor planning in the gaming industry.

He is also a perfect example of fans thirsting so hard and wanting something so bad that the writers and developers change a character and even game elements to suite their needs. They didn’t even give him a book or a comic for redemption. You know what they did instead? They switched writers. Cullen has three writers. All of them with a different character in mind.

Cullen was a fucked up mess in Origins. He was meant to be creepy and sociopathic. I get that. The writer who basically created him had no idea he was even going to be not only a reoccurring character, but one that was going to be romance able in future games. She even apologized. Which wasn’t necessary. And so many people who played the game missed a big point about Cullen. He was never supposed to recover from Origins.

“The young templar Cullen never quite recovered from his ordeal. After months of attempting to convince his superiors that the tower was still a danger, he finally snapped and killed three apprentices before being stopped by his fellow templars. Eventually, Cullen escaped from prison, a madman and a threat to any mage he encountered.”

“Once the tower was rebuilt, Knight-Commander Greagoir stepped down from his post and retired to a life of private contemplation as a brother in the Chantry. His health failed over time, and after refusing treatment, he perished in his sleep. Knight-Commander Cullen was said to be more strict and less trusting of the mages even than Greagoir was. He ruled the Circle with fear.”

I’m sorry. But yeah. That’s the epilogue on two different choices involving the Circle’s fate in Origins. And it was ignored. I agree with that, too. But it wasn’t just Cullen that was ignored. It was the entire Circle at Kinloch Hold. If the mage warden sacrifices their own life, the Circle is supposedly free. Which... is not mentioned... ever again. And not to mention is impossible? Like okay thanks Anora or whoever but I don’t think you can just do that.

Poor writing.

I’d also like to mention for the record I did not like Cullen in Origins. I still don’t.

Now, I don’t know why exactly Cullen was brought back in DA2? I know his writer got bullied out of Bioware. I do not have an opinion on that. I mean the woman co-wrote my favorite part of Origins (Anvil of the Void). She also wrote Anders. Which I don’t think is a coincidence. People, men and women, often have this idea of fixing a broken person. It’s heavily romanticized. It’s called codependency. And you see it a lot in romance novels. But that’s another topic. It seems this writer implemented that in the game (along with some of her own personal things she had) without fully knowing Cullen would even be a romantic interest in Inquisition, but also still wanting to give him some sort reason to be desired. And all the while knowing Anders was fully romanceable. Even... a little forcefully... romanceable... if I may add... (I am uncomfortable) I also dislike some of Anders’ writing but that’s another post and I don’t want to compare the two. But Anders was the opposite side of Cullen that was done better because they had time to write it.

Regardless, Cullen seemed to hold some resemblance to his former character. But we do see a lot hesitance with him. He’s basically that “good” cop that doesn’t do anything when the bad cop is beating the shit out of everyone. Still not good, hence the quotes. Not a good guy. He has his meh he’s alright moments. And seems to generally disregard Hawke in every single way. But he’s still an ass hole for letting things happen the way that they did when he could very much so have put a stop to it. Maybe it was the writers’ intention to make it that way to show he was still suffering from trauma in Origins.

Again. Poor writing. BECAUSE WE DON’T KNOW. DIDN’T HE KILL THREE PEOPLE, BIOWARE? ISN’T HE SUPPOSED TO BE KNIGHT COMMANDER IN FERELDEN, B I O W A R E??? WHAT. HAPPENED. BIOWARE.

So here’s the next thing. They decided to slip him into Inquisition for whatever reason. His writing was fair enough in DA2. Could have been better. But these people are still thirsty. They want some Curly. At the last minute, they throw romance on him. Not a bad idea. But are we supposed to forget the man was basically raped by desire demons? Is he even ok to have a relationship? OH WAIT THAT’S RIGHT. We didn’t closure on that because they ignored it.

Anyway, Cullen in Inquisition seems to be different. But because they couldn’t just, oh I don’t know, write a different character with the same traits but better, they had to somehow put the events of the previous games and how it affected him into this new current game where he supposed to be... better? Ish? Which is where we get the stereo type soldier with PTSD and a substance abuse problem. Now, if you’re any good with imagining and writing fanfic, then you probably know or already have figured out a way to connect everything better than Bioware could. But hey. Last minute romance written in on a character who was already all over the charts? Count me in. I like a good writing challenge. Poor girl who took the job of writing Inquisition Cullen likes a challenge too, apparently. Because it was her first big project. And she didn’t do a bad job. But imagine working hard on trying to write a character half the fandom hates into someone somewhat likeable just for everyone to shit all over it.

The way I look at it.... we have three different characters. And he is not really a good example to look at analyze wise. He is inconsistent. And was molded for Inquisition for thirsty fan girls. And some boys (I see you). A good example for study would be Morrigan. Or even Alistair. And Alistair is in several of the comics and still remains pretty consistent. Leliana is a prime example of character development over a course of three games. And I highly recommend you fall in love with her good and bad side because she is written beautifully. Don’t @ me.

Cullen, and I mean Inquisition Cullen, has a lot to like. And a lot to dislike. Every character is flawed. I think a lot of hate that gets tagged onto Cullen is really from poor writing. They really got lazy with him. And it is a shame. I feel like he could have been redeemed way better. He could have had one hell of a redemption. Or possibly just skipped over all together. I see a lot of posts about putting Samson in his place and I often agree. It was never quite the character that made him appealing to me. It was the personality. And they could have easily done with anyone. They could have made Samson sexy, too. It didn’t have to be sexy Cullen. And let’s face it. With Cullen’s writing in Origins and even some of the writing in DA2, Cullen siding with Coryphedouche is way more fitting than Samson.

Basically, it is up to us to fill in the gaps. So I love seeing fanfic with Cullen backstory. Because it gives better insight than what the writers could accomplish. And I applaud you if you’ve done that. BUT the over sexualization of this character is a bit... wrong. It feels wrong. And that’s all I’ll say to that. Personally, I’ve been working on some Cullen romance fic for awhile and it’s been challenging trying to find a way to make him less douchey. One minute, he’s yelling at you about mages. And the next, he’s got this soft tone and nervous look. Like, yeah... you can tell it’s rushed. And awful. And even the dialogue is just... painful. It doesn’t fit. (you can check my Cullen tag in blog to see how I feel about that). I will say that even speaking to him on a personal note, asking him questions about life as a templar, he even says he does not agree with the Order. And he wants to change his thinking. But he still gets angry when you go to side with the mages. It feels like they wanted redeem him but they also needed someone to side with the templars to provide conflict at the war table.

So in my opinion, calling him controlling and abusive is a bit of a stretch. He was clearly used by the writers. It just seems ridiculous to put so much effort in bashing the character when clearly... he was not planned out... or put together... I just... I don’t get...

I know what you’re thinking at this point: Kay.... why do you like him then?

Beacause. I am weak for a man who gets nervous around girls he likes. His awkward mannerisms despite being a man of power makes me weak. The need to protect also makes me weak. But also the ability to admit vulnerability makes me suuuuuper weak. So like I said. There was a lot there. It just was not delivered correctly. You know what I would have done? If I had to put him in the Commander shoes, I would have made the whole Kirkwall thing a life changer for him. Maybe even give him a soul searching type situation before joining the Inquisition. And definitely tell him to keep his mouth shut about siding with the templars.

Long story short: Ya’ll thirsted over a weird dude in Origins and Bioware went hmmmm okay. But by the time they gave him to you on a silver plate, it was last minute. Like you just found out your crush Jared is going to Becky’s party but you’re already at Jessica’s house and have like nothing to wear so you have to just wing it. And your shoes look tacky, but Jessica’s shoes don’t fit. So you either have to wear shoes that don’t fit or just look like omg total garbage. And Bioware went with the shoes that don’t fit. And Jared totally likes them.

I’m also going to say the most controversial thing on this entire post by just... saying... by calling Cullen out as trash without realizing the writing, the directive, the lack of development, the rush on this character, and the complete absolute bullying this community does to it’s FANS AND WRITERS kind of feels like you didn’t really put any effort into understanding why and just jumped on a band wagon. And the fact that some of you make other people feel bad for liking this character is awful. Some of the most toxic shit I’ve seen. Like maybe they like this character from Inquisition because, I don’t know, maaaaaaybe he was written out almost like a new character with a last minute fantasy romance.. because he kind of was...

Now for my opinion on Greg Ellis.

FUCK THAT GUY.

And that’s it. Thanks for stopping by. If you agree cool, if not cool. I’m not here to argue with anyone or say your opinion is invalid. We all have reasons why we hate or love the color blue. So we can all disagree or agree and live in peace and still love a game.

You can always message me, too, guys. I have a lot of opinions. And reasons for my opinions. And theories. And just things in general. But I will not hate characters written in Dragon Age. Someone wrote them. Someone is out there working their ass off to deliver a character. And I refuse to hate someone fictional.

#dragon age #dragon age critical #cullen rutherford #commander cullen #cullen critical #dragon age cullen #analyzing cullen #fuck greg ellis #kay has spoken

[midnightprelude]

SIX SENTENCE SUNDAY

WHAT THE HECK YOU PEOPLE! I was tagged by a million of you, @pikapeppa, @theaiobhan, @charlatron, @fandomn00blr, @kunstpause, @oftachancer, @faerieavalon, @cornfedcryptid, @serial-chillr, and @elveny! Thanks lovelies!

Now I get to make you suffer with this stupid thing that was kind of @tryvyalsynnes’ idea that left me sobbing for the better part of the day. Can someone send me some tissues?

It’s sad, I’m not going to lie, but the full thing has somewhat of a hopeful ending? Also, this is our heavy angst world state. Let’s be real, I’m not about to let these wonderful men suffer any more than they already have.

The candles in the mausoleum were burning low, flickering in the darkness. It was an unusual ceremony, not because of the rituals—those were common in Tevinter—but because of the man they were being performed for. Typically only heads of house, Magisters and the most powerful Alti, were interred in this manner, bodies magically preserved and displayed for family members to gawk at at a formal wake, their heir standing guard over the corpse.

The man lying silently in repose upon the dais had no blood relatives he recognized as kin, was born a farmer in a country far away, once a criminal and a fugitive, a hero, a villain, a madman, a prophet, a revolutionary, a politician, a healer.

There were a thousand words that could be used to describe Anders of Kirkwall, but only one that mattered to the man who stood vigil at his feet: amatus.

Tagging forward to @tryvyalsynnes for something less depressing (plz?), @aban-asaara, @johaeryslavellan, @simper-fi, @solas-disapproves, @kittimau, and @wardenari for whenever you have a chance, friends!

#dorian pavus #anders #dorianders #death cw #major character death cw #six sentence sunday #midnight writes #i am so so sad

[gremlinquisitor]

Recreate His Worldly Glory ch25

Chapter 25: Conclave Summary: Word of the explosion at the Temple of Sacred Ashes reaches Starkhaven, throwing Hawke into despair that Sebastian is unsure how to help her with.

Word Count: ~5100 this chapter, total so far ~144500

This story starts at the end of Dragon Age 2 and goes through into Dragon Age: Inquisition. This fic is complete and will update once a week, hopefully on Thursdays as my schedule allows.

READ IT HERE ON AO3

READ IT FROM THE START ON AO3

Excerpt from Chapter 25:

To ask how she is would be foolish, even though he wants little more than to know what’s going on inside her head, and what he can do to soothe the storm that rages there. It’s been two days since they received the news of the Temple of Sacred Ashes, two days since Hawke had eaten, or slept, or spoken more than Varric’s name. They know nothing yet of his fate, if he was at the Conclave with the Right Hand of the Divine when an explosion ripped open the sky and shattered the temple, killing everyone inside. Sebastian sent ravens as soon as he heard, but he cannot imagine the chaos that must reign in and around Haven, and as much as it frustrates him, he continues to ask the Maker for patience for himself as they wait for answers.

News of the explosion drew Starkhaven to a halt, with businesses closed and the streets emptied of any not making their way to or from the Chantry. Outside the Keep the bells continue to peal in a slow, solemn rhythm, a call to all those touched by the Maker’s Light to mourn their beloved Divine Justinia and all those killed at the Conclave that she called in order to broker peace between the warring mages and Templars. Sebastian sent a note that he would come to the Chantry at his earliest convenience, but seeing Hawke in this state, there is no way that he is leaving her side.

He knows that there is a storm in Hawke’s mind because there is one in his as well. The Temple was a Chantry building, and the Divine their leader. Even from such a distance, the explosion sent them all back - to Kirkwall and the staircase to Hightown, to red light in the sky and stone raining down on the city, and a man with the face of a friend ranting like a madman.

tag list: @cullenlovesmen​ @aban-asaara​ @barbex​ @luciferesque​ @levikra​ @mutantenfisch​ @lauraemoriarty​​ (lmk if you’d like to be added or taken off!)

#sebastian vael #sebastian x hawke #sebastian x f!hawke #sebhawke #dragon age 2 #dragon age ii fic #dragon age 2 fic #my fic #recreate his worldly glory #is it okay to have favorite chapters in your own story? bc this is one of my favorite chapters

[mrstethras]

WIP Wednesday

Tagged by: @kita-lavellan who has tagged me for months, now I finally have a tumblr & some stuff to share! <3 This is pre-Inquisition, how our Lavellan sisters get to where the game begins!  Tagging: whoever wants to do it! I barely know a soul on here. Sorry for those of you who have already done it! @kita-lavellan @hauuke @curiousartemis @fandomn00blr

The neighbouring, unusually settled, clan of the Sabrae had assured safe travel for Nel, which would bypass the bustling city. While the Lavellan clan had traded fine bear skins, pelts and plants that did not grow by the coastal weather and sandy earth of Kirkwall, and in turn, the Sabrae had been able to use their closer connections to arrange passage for Nel on a ship. Nel had left the Lavellan clan, swiftly said her goodbyes, and Nel, Kita and a handful of their hunters spent one jovial night by the fires of the Sabrae, sharing stories, whittling arrows, singing and dancing. The Sabrae had asked Nel tell a tale of Falon’Din, since her gold vallaslin told them that lethanavir was her patron, Nel spoke of the two brothers, Falon’Din and Dirthamen, as she smiled through the fire, at her sister who sat on the opposite side. It was here, with the Sabrae, Kita was expected to stay and share knowledge of Lavellan, and study with the Sabrae’s First until it was time their own clan left again for the safety of the wilderness. Kita would be studying the mighty corpse of a guardian beast the Sabrae spoke of -- a varterral  -- since slain by the Champion of Kirkwall, and Nel would head towards the docks, board a boat and sail onward to Ferelden. Such had been the plan, at least. Nel had woken early the following day. So early that the sun had not yet risen, and the world was cloaked in quiet, dusky dark. Some stirred in their aravals, sleepy voices heard rousing within them, the central fire had dwindled to down sizzling embers. Nel nestled a dry log in orange glow before rolling her bedroll tight and tying to her pack. ‘I would hope you were planning to wake me before you left…’ A humorous tone, the creaking of wood, as Kita stepped down from araval steps, a loose smile on her features, luminous skin in the lowlight. Her vallaslin barely visible, blue traces of leafless branches beneath her icy eyes. The sigil of her patron goddess, Mythal, just like their mother, and their grandmother too. Nel, by this point, was perched on a stone, already wrapping her feet for the journey ahead. ‘I’d never leave without saying goodbye asa'ma'lin.’ A silence fell between them. A small sadness. Nel had never been without her older sister, seven-years her senior, and Kita was sure to have felt the same, watching as she always had done, over Nel. ‘Don’t worry yourself, I will be back before you know it --’ Nel smiled widely, though her words lacked conviction. Both sisters knew there was cause for worry in this venture. As the human world raged against magic, had rallied in madness, and a deeper thread still, was their loathing and fear for their kind. There was much reason to stay on the outskirts, hidden in woodland, living the way that they did. Elves were rarely welcome, and the dalish welcomed nowhere. Nel could read the creases on Kita’s face, a flash of concern, they both knew the dangers of Nel’s strange and rare magic, the animal skull at the tip of her staff was an ivory target to a sword wielding madman, a reason to let loose a hundred arrows, even Chantry spells would fly if they saw it, the human superstitions ran deep and were deadly. Even the tips of Nel’s ears or vallaslin etched on her face were reason enough to tempt them to strike. Such as the world was. Still, this was Nel’s task, given by the Keeper. They each understood what it meant. They hugged tight, for what felt like a long while. Kita enveloping her sister in warmth, crushing her ribcage, until she let out a squeak. And they parted with shining eyes and wet cheeks, laughing. The Sabrae themselves were woken and bustling, bidding Nel well-wishes and words of wisdom for her long journey ahead. Small trinkets offered, for encouragement, protection and prayer. Kita was already being summoned away, as Sabrae hunters gathered with their own -- eager talk of seeing the varterral of legend. ‘Dareth shiral,’ Kita whispered, against Nel’s wild hair, lips pressed once to her cheek, and Kita cast one last look back over her shoulder, a single wave, before she was swarmed by those preparing meals and packs and weapons. Nel waved back, though no one was left to return it, and she blinked hard, swallowing the twinge of tears that ebbed in the back of her throat. Such was the dalish way, the swiftest of goodbyes. She would miss her sister, beyond that of her grandmother, and even her own mother, but Nel turned on her heel to the beaten path ahead, knowing what must be done, breathed in a lungful of watery air, and took the first stride forward, her head held high. As the sun peered over the horizon, glinting was Nel’s golden vallaslin in the hazy morning light.

#wip wednesday #dragon age #lavellan #dai #dragon age inquisiton #my writing #kita lavellan #nel lavellan

[athena1138]

33 alena

What kind of presents do they get each other? Do they only do it on special occasions?

Alena will bring neat little odds and ends back from her adventures, just things she thinks Cullen might find interest in. Sometimes it’s a pretty rock, maybe a strange kind of whetstone, maybe a neat sword even though she knows he’s attached to his (”It was just neat, love, I don’t expect you to wield it.”) She tries not to overload him with bobs but she’s a bit of a hoarder because she’s never really had a chance to have shit before. (She’s absolutely delighted to find that he’s kept everything she’s ever given him. There’s a whole chest in his room dedicated to things she’s brought him.) Oh, and food. She knows he’s never really had a chance to get out and travel, either, so any food she finds that she thinks is unique or weird or overly delicious (and will hold up on the travel,) she’ll bring some to him. 

Cullen will have things made for her, or maybe he’ll buy things from her. Since he can’t really ever get out, he has to rely on other people to provide him with the stuff. He’s had some stuff enchanted for her, to help protect her and keep her safe and warm on her journeys (like a pair of boots with a heating rune so her toes don’t get cold because she hates the cold.) And coats and boots along those same reasonings. He’ll requisition charms and accessories for her staves, things that he knows would be useful to a mage out in the world and ruefully he will admit that he knows exactly what to give her because as a Templar it’s the last thing he’d want to give her. He also tries to get her to wear anything other than an antaam-saar “because really, Alena, you’re not protected at all!” (She’ll joke back that he wears poleyns and greaves but not cuisses which protect arguably the most important artery south of his chest.) He’ll get her perhaps a necklace he thinks would complement her eyes, or maybe a book on some type of magic she’s expressed interest in before, or a fancy (but not ostentatious) hair pin to keep her curls out of her face. His gifts are fewer and far between than hers, but that’s partly because he’s busy and a commander only makes so much money, but also because he’s shy. 

The boots are what makes her begin to forgive him for Kirkwall, actually. He’s gonna ask her to stay behind after a war table meeting and awkwardly present her with the box while blushing like a madman and mumble something about, “I know you like to stay warm soIhadthesemadeforyou.” Since their fight, that’s the first thing he’s done for her that’s been hard for her to write off as just “commanderly concern,” and she has to sincerely thank him for his thoughtfulness. 

They even fit right. 

[sulky-valkyrie]

Sulkyyyy, OC codex prompt #4 for oc of your choice?

Ooooo, what a fantastic choice from the OC Codex Prompts!

Any letter Ris would write to someone she loved/loves is gonna be angsty as hell, so I've also included something the Madman of Kirkwall would send to Fenris while stuck in Skyhold. for @dadrunkwriting

Alistair, This is stupid Ignore that.  Not that you'll ever read this. They told me writing a letter would help.  I think they're full of shit and want their stupid hero to stop looking so unheroic.  The Grand Cleric visited me, you know that?  Said I should take comfort knowing you're at the Maker's side.  I threw her out. How could you be so selfish?  "Just in case," my ass.  You thought I could’ve carried on without you with no problem?  Or did you think Morrigan would've stayed if you were gone?  Joke's on both of us, because I can't and she didn't.  Everyone is gone and I hate it here.  Hate you a little bit too. I've been promoted.  It should've been you.  You're better with people.  Nicer.  Also human. A lot of things should've been you.  And you should've been a lot of things.  Had a lot of things.  Would it have been different if you married Anora?  Would you have been so pissed at me that you wouldn't have done it?

She sighed, crumpled the parchment into a ball, and threw it at the fire.  Maybe the words would get to him that way.

Babe, This castle sucks.  Cullen’s here, and he still sucks too.  Met a one-eye qunari big as the Arishok.  Is it true there's a difference between a magister and a mage in Tevinter?  We got a guy here who gets awful pissy about that.  Cute though - might ask him to wreck me.  The Wardens are all badshit now except Al and this bear from Orlais.  He doesn't swing that way or I'd be in his lap instead of writing this.  Good luck with the slavers, save me some hearts. -Hawke P.s.  rubbed my dick on this

#da drunk writing circle #prompt fills #ris #the madman of kirkwall #angst #absurdity #implied sexytimes

[imakemywings]

Fandom: Dragon Age 2

Pairing: Orsino x f!Hawke

Summary: Orsino reveals the truth about Quentin and worries about Hawke’s support for the mage cause.

AN: I couldn’t write this pairing without addressing it--it had to come up.

AO3 | Pillowfort

______________________________________________________________

“You knew the man who killed my mother.” The Champion’s voice was soft, but Orsino was not deceived for a moment. When she lifted her eyes, he remembered this was the woman who had voluntarily walked into the Qunari compound to tell the Arishok that his most prized, sacred relic was gone, stolen out from underneath him— again.

                “I didn’t know the extent of what he was doing.” Orsino wanted to look away from her, but he forced himself to hold her gaze, as though he might spur her to attack by showing weakness.

                “But you knew there was blood magic.” The softness was seeping out of the Champion’s voice: the shock was wearing off. “You knew what he was studying.”

                “I knew…some of it,” he said. “He pushed boundaries, against what the Templars and the Chantry would consider acceptable, but how long have they stifled research that might be useful because of what they fear?”

                “Meredith is right.” Shock reverberated through the Champion again, sparing him a few more moments from the full extent of her temper. “You are harboring blood mages.”

                “No! Quentin was…alone in his…research. Don’t you see? I couldn’t turn him in—Meredith would have used it to invoke the Rite of Annulment!”

                “Might have! She might have! You know what did happen? My mother died! She died in agony, she was tortured by a madman and her body was desecrated and…and…!” The Champion began to pace in agitation, then looked up at him with a terrible, awful smile. “I should have known, huh? You are a slippery one. Should have known you’d play any card to keep Meredith off your back.”

                “She has backed me into a corner,” Orsino defended himself. “If I do nothing, blood magic proliferates in the city. If I tell her, she will use it to slay every mage within these walls, guilty or not. Either way, people are dying.”

                “You knew. You knew all this time.”

                “That’s why I’m telling you,” he pleaded. “I’m trying to be honest with you, Hawke.”

                “Don’t call me that.” Again, she seemed to struggle with words, struggle to pin down a tone or phrase or feeling. “Why now? Why choose to tell me now? You could have gone the rest of our lives never saying anything about it.”

                “I didn’t want to lie to you,” he said. “It felt like a lie.”

                  “Do you know? How hard I worked to track him down, how many demons I fought to get to her, only to get there too late? To see what he had done to her? Do you know what bodies in that state of decay with that kind of preservation smell like? I do. There’s a fun fact! One I’ll never forget!”

                “Please, if I had known what I was doing, I never would have given him anything!”

                “It was your job to know,” she said, her voice rising. “You’re the First Enchanter. It’s your job. He was under your care, even after fleeing the Circle! Andraste’s holy ass, is there not one honest person in this shithole city?” She jerked a hand back through her hair, a flush in her face. “Of course you knew. Of course! Why wouldn’t you know?” She tittered hysterically. “Why should I have ever thought you didn’t know?”

                “I’m sorry,” he said, clasping his hands together. “What he did was horrific, I never would have condoned it—I would have turned him over to the Templars if I knew what he was trying to do.”

                “Would you? It’s easy to say what you would have done, isn’t it? If Carver had lived, I would have fought with him less! If we had never come to Kirkwall, I would have made a fortune! If I had never met you, I would sleep through the night! See?”

                “Champion—”

                “Stop.” The Champion held up a hand and silenced him. “I don’t want to hear it. I don’t want to hear anything. I’ve spent years trying to get away from that day, and every time I walk back into my empty house, I remember it. I don’t need any other reminders. Go fuck yourself, Orsino.” With that, she took her leave from his office. Orsino promptly poured himself a cup of wine and sat down at his desk with the pitcher.

                “Well that could have gone worse,” he said aloud, taking a long drink. He snorted and slouched down in his seat. Of course. Of course he would be denied Hawke’s company. Naturally, Quentin had to have murdered Hawke’s mother. It wasn’t possible to condone the man’s actions, but if he had stopped short of becoming a serial killer, Orsino might have had the chance to discuss the realities of blood magic with Hawke. He understood the kneejerk rejection of it; he used to share it. But there was more to it than that! Not that Quentin had ultimately done anything but prove everyone’s fears justified. Orsino downed the rest of his cup and poured himself another.

                Being honest—what had that ever gained him? What fool notion had possessed him to think he could talk through having unknowingly supported Leandra Hawke’s murderer? In what twisted world would Hawke not react furiously to finding out the man she had been sleeping with had had a hand in the death of her only remaining immediate family member?

                “I don’t regret it though,” he murmured. That, he was half-surprised to find, was true. The alternative—continuing in his affair with the Champion with full knowledge of what he had done, while never revealing it to her—was untenable. He was not that kind of man, he didn’t want to be. If Hawke hated him now…well, she could get in line with most of the city.

***

                The Champion vanished off the roster of Orsino’s visitors, to no surprise. Every time there was an unplanned knock at his door, he hoped he would see Hawke’s jaunty bob cut and mischievous eyes, but it was never so. Too often, he ran across things, or had thoughts he would have shared with her, if she ever returned. Nightly, he lay alone in the vast bed and recalled the shadow of her laying there beside him. His hands ached to reach out and touch her, to feel her warmth beneath his fingers. His conscience was haunted by the question of whether or not Hawke was right. What if he had become too permissive in his quest to protect the mages from persecution?

                When he saw her next, it was in the courtyard of the Gallows. She was speaking with Solivitus about exotic potions. He considered passing by without addressing her, but while he lingered making the decision, Solivitus called out to him.

                “First Enchanter! Fine morning, isn’t it? Can I interest you in anything today?”

                “First Enchanter.” The Champion greeted him rigidly, barely acknowledging him.

                “Champion.” He gave her a nod and clasped his hands behind his back as he turned to Solivitus. “I’ll take a look.” He didn’t need anything, but there was no sense rushing away—he had missed his chance to slip by unnoticed. Perhaps Hawke would be willing to talk.

There was a gash on her cheek, just barely scabbed over, and a few smaller scrapes on her chin. “Looks like you’ve been busy, Champion,” he said after a few moments of picking through Solivitus’ wares.

                “Mm. Can’t sleep without at least one knife wound,” she said, but she did not look at him.

                “Perhaps you should have that looked at,” he said, fighting the impulse to reach out to touch her face. “If you wanted, I could—”

                “No, thank you, First Enchanter,” she interrupted. “I have someone for that already.”

                “Could I interest you in a rock armor potion today, First Enchanter?” Solivitus gestured towards a box of displayed bottles. “Excellent for practicing with apprentices. Teach them to break through any armor!”

                “No, thank you, Solivitus,” Orsino replied, as evenly and politely as he could. “Are you sure that will be sufficient?” he asked the Champion.

                “Has been so far,” she said curtly. She went on sorting through a stack of herbs on the table. Orsino picked up an orange bottle and turned it over without managing to read the label at all.

                “An excellent choice, First Enchanter!” Solivitus exclaimed. “That’s the finest electrical defense potion you’ll find in the city. I can offer it at a special price for the leader of the Circle of Magi too!” Orsino set the potion down.

                “Fighting bandits again?” he asked the Champion.

                “Does it matter?”

                “It might.”

                “I’m keeping the city safe as best I can,” she replied. “Which is more than I can say for some people.”

                “How about some of my home-brewed mana restoration tonics, First Enchanter?” Solivitus waved a blue bottle around. “Hands down the most restorative tonic on the market today.”

                “Yes, thank you,” Orsino said wearily. “I’ll take a dozen of those.” He looked back at the Champion, who was picking through Solivutus’ collection of healing potions. “I’m sorry…for any injuries you’ve received,” he said.

                “Don’t worry, it’s nothing new to me,” the Champion chirped, a biting undercurrent of resentment dragging down her perky tone. “I’m used to it. But somehow, injuries from an unexpected source always hurt more, don’t you find? It’s one thing for a stranger to take a knife to me, but for someone I know!” She laughed and Orsino cringed inwardly. Solivitus was busy packing up a crate with the mana tonics.

                “You’re very right, Champion,” he acknowledged. “But I’m certain your friends would never intentionally cause you harm.”

                “Does it hurt less when it’s unintentional?” she asked. “Isn’t the end the same?”

                “I find intention matters a great deal,” he answered.

                “You would, First Enchanter.”

                “Anything else I can get for you today, First Enchanter?” Solivitus asked. Orsino wrestled down the urge to hit the man with a sleeping spell.

                “No, thank you, Solivitus.” The Champion was pushing a few bottles towards Solivitus for purchase. The gloves she wore were new—they left her fingertips free. For the dexterity, he imagined. As a dual-weapon wielder, she made up for her lack of brute strength with deadly speed. The Darkspawn in the Deep Roads probably never knew what hit them. He wondered if the open gloves left her hands cold. “I suppose mistakes like that are why the Chantry believes in penance,” he remarked.

                “Maybe you should talk to a Chantry sister about it,” Hawke retorted, gathering up her bottles and sliding them into her bag.

                “I’m curious about your opinion, Champion.”

                “On what? The concept of penance?”

                “Generally speaking,” he said.

                “I think the size of the penance depends on the crime,” she said. “And it’s useless without genuine regret.”

                “So intention does matter?” The Champion scowled and slapped her coins down on Solivitus’ table.

                “Perhaps to the Maker,” she said. “But he is far more forgiving than most of us.” His time was running out; the Champion was looking for a way out.     

                “Here are your potions, First Enchanter!” Solivitus hefted the crate over to Orsino, possibly to remind him he had not paid up. He dropped a gold piece into Solivitus’ eager palm and picked up the small crate. Inside, the mana tonics were nestled cozily into a bed of stringy straw. “Thank you for your business and do come back if I can help you with anything else!” The Champion had taken the moment of his receiving the crate to start moving away. Mumbling thanks to Solivitus, he hurried after her.

                “There is no hope in your mind, then?” he said and saw the Champion disguise the moment she rolled her eyes. “For forgiveness?”

                “That depends on the sin,” she said, glaring. She wanted to drive him away, but it had been weeks since he had seen her last, and he could not let her cow him that easily. He had only until she reached the gates of the Gallows to speak with her anyway—anything beyond that was out of his reach.

                “Some things are unforgivable?”

                “Yes, I think so,” she said.

                “No matter the penance?”

                “How should I know?” she snapped at last. “Do I look like a philosopher to you? Go talk to Grand Cleric Elthina if you have so many questions! Good day, First Enchanter!” She quickened her step and this time, Orsino let her go.

***

                It was less time, before his next encounter with the Champion. Once again, he walked through the main hall of the office wing of the Gallows to the sound of the Knight-Commander shouting in her office. He couldn’t make out the words—she had not yet reached peak volume—but he could pity the sod inside. Aging hadn’t done a thing to diminish Meredith’s ferocity. The door popped open just before he reached his office, emitting the Champion of Kirkwall, followed by the banshee herself.

                “First Enchanter,” she greeted him with a curled lip.

                “Knight-Commander,” he answered. “Champion.”

                “First Enchanter.” Hawke flashed a smile he knew she didn’t feel. Keeping up appearances for Meredith? Would it not please the Knight-Commander to think he and the Champion had had a falling out?

                “Remember this, Champion,” Meredith instructed the Champion, gesturing with her finger like Hawke was a wayward apprentice. “I want you to remember my generosity.”

                “Is that what we’re calling this?” the Champion asked. Meredith’s flinty stare bore down on Hawke, but didn’t even dent the roguish little smile on her lips. If she was afraid, she kept it to herself.

                “Remember it.” The Knight Commander gestured towards the exit and shut herself back in her office. As soon as she was gone, Hawke’s amused resting facial expression vanished.

                “Champion.” He stood aside for her to pass. Hawke paused a moment, appraising him. His breath caught in his chest at the notion she might speak, but she did not. She fixed her gaze back on the door and walked by as if there were no one there at all.

***

                It was thus a surprise when he received a note from her, requesting his presence in the Gallows courtyard in the afternoon. Over a month had passed since he first revealed to her his knowledge of Quentin and he had begun settling into the grim status quo that the Champion was no longer a part of his life. The whispers that reached his ears from the mage underground reassured him that she did not (yet) mean to abandon the mage cause as a whole, merely cut out her association with him. As distressing as that was, it could have been far worse, and he was relieved that she would not paint all mages with a black brush based off the First Enchanter’s actions.

                But of course she wouldn’t, he thought to himself. She isn’t Meredith. He had begun beguiling the Champion to his cause by playing on her compassion. Despite her feckless attitude, her actions told of someone who cared for the well-being of the city, and the people inside it. She understood the injustices the mages faced. If Orsino and his failures threatened to turn her away, he was sure the memory of her sister could help cleave her to the cause.

                Maybe her note was in that vein—the continuation of their partnership to defend the rights of mages against the encroachment of the Templar Order. It was something he could accept, but a yearning part of him still clung to the possibility that she was willing to talk on a more personal level. The association with Quentin was a damning mark against him, he was well aware—but did his efforts to save lives outside of that not counter it? Did she know he had come into his position striving to lower the rate of suicide among Kirkwall’s mages?

                The sun was shining in the courtyard when he left the Circle, beaming down the barest hint of summer’s remnants on the citizens about that day—the Tranquil hawking wares or standing about aimlessly, the armorers and weaponsmiths, the Templars, the travelers. It was an unusually gentle day for Kirkwall—the weather rarely favored them that way. The Champion was over by the gate, sitting on a barrel, her face tilted up towards the sunlight. Warmth swept through the First Enchanter, accompanied with eagerness and anxiety in equal measure. Even if she meant not to come see him at the Circle anymore! If she would only keep visiting the office, so they could speak as they had before he had first known the taste of her lips! This, he told himself, he would be content with.

                He wished she would stay as she was, with her head back and her eyes closed, until he reached her, but the Maker had run out of favors for Orsino as far as the Champion was concerned. She lowered her chin and opened her eyes to see his approach, again regarding him with that appraising look.

                “First Enchanter,” she said, spreading her legs apart to rest her hands on the rim of the barrel. “You came.”

                “Of course, Champion.” He gave her a slight bow. “I would not ignore a message of yours.”

                “I’ll get to the point then, I hate wasting time.” She let out a long sigh and looked up at the sky for a moment. “I don’t want to hate you,” she said. “I do, but I don’t. I want to hate anyone that had a hand in what happened to my mother and those other women. But I don’t want to hate you, if you see what I mean.”

                “Yes,” he said, swallowing to soothe the dryness in his throat.

                “I want to believe what you said in your office. That you didn’t know. That you would have done differently if you had. And since I can’t prove it one way or another, I will choose to believe that. But I need you to understand.” Her face was as serious as he had ever seen her; in the face of the Knight-Commander’s wrath she had not been so grave. “I need you to understand that my mother was mutilated and defiled, along with Quentin’s other victims. I will live the rest of my life with the memory of her dying in my arms, looking at me with a stranger’s eyes.” She took a breath. “That is something I will never escape. None of the families who were affected by him will ever forget what he did to their loved ones. How they suffered. I need you to understand that.”

                “Believe me, I do,” he murmured, lowering his head. “It is yet another one of my failures.” He stood there, head bowed, unspeaking, as if awaiting benediction.

                “Then I will forgive you,” she said. “I need to, for myself. My mother did not die angry; I won’t either.” Orsino looked up at the troubled expression on the Champion’s face. She was so young! So young to have seen so much tragedy and responsibility! She was trying—she wanted to live up to her legend. Someday, he worried, it would kill her. The Champion slid off the barrel. “If I hear of anything else like this,” she said, “our partnership will be at an end.” She snapped her fingers. “Poof. Smoke. Like Asha’bellanar, and Lothering.” She smiled in a way that was not at all reassuring. 

                “It will not happen again, Champion. I was…short-sighted when it came to him. I will not make that mistake again.” Underestimating the extent of Quentin’s deterioration had been a critical misstep. If he had ever known the man was using live test subjects—if he had known what his goal was—he would have cut off communication with him far sooner.

                “Well aren’t we all peachy then?” She smiled again, with much less of a threat in it. “Good talk, First Enchanter.” She clapped a hand on his arm. “And good job not bludgeoning Solivitus in the head the other day.”

                “It was temping, make no mistake.” Hawke’s moods changed so rapidly sometimes he couldn’t tell if she was just pulling that sarcastic mask back over her face, or whether she was genuinely unruffled. “But it didn’t seem like the best way to persuade you to conversation.”

                “Might’ve been funny though,” she said. Orsino was not sure if she meant him to laugh at this or not, and there was just an awkward pause before she said, “I suppose I should let you get back to work, First Enchanter.” Inwardly, he breathed a sigh of relief at her neutral tone. Was it that easy for things to go back to the way they had been?

                “I would not want to keep you, Champion,” he said. “I know your days are long.”

                “Not as long as my nights,” she said with a wink and a grin.

                “With all the tracking you do on bandits and cutthroats, I imagine your nights are long as well,” he said, not rising to the bait. Half the things that came out of the Champion’s mouth were quips or puns with no purpose.

                “They really are,” she said, a tired expression passing over her face. “We’ve ousted Redwater Teeth from the docks! That will be useful for—lots of things.” He wanted to pry, but was wary of pressing the Champion so soon after she had relented in despising him.

                “Come by my office when you have time,” he said. “We’ll discuss the docks.”

                “Of course, First Enchanter,” she said. “It would be my pleasure.”

***

                When she did make it to his office, it was not the docks he wanted to discuss, but her choice. They exchanged pleasantries and the Champion yammered on about nothing of relevance while Orsino decided whether he was going to ask her about it or not.

                “Why did you let it go?” he asked, and Hawke stopped talking about how Fenris hated it when the elves in the alienage would try to talk to him.

                “Let what go?” she asked.

                “Quentin.” The Champion shrugged.

                “Being angry and hating people takes a lot of effort, and I have better things to do.” She tilted the chair back on its rear legs, something Orsino had told her a thousand times not to do, not least of all because she used his desk to balance her weight with her foot while she did it. “And if I hated you, I’d have to stop coming here. I didn’t want to do that.”

                “You didn’t?” The yearning thing fluttered in his breast and made it difficult to breathe.

                “No.” She glanced away, playing with the strings on her gauntlets. “You haven’t cast some kind of spell over me, have you?”

                “I wouldn’t dream of it, Champion,” he said, putting his hands up. “Well, aside from the ones you like…” That made her laugh, and Orsino relaxed for the first time since she had entered his office.

                “That’s fair,” she said with a smile. “You do have some very…useful ones.”

                “I would agree,” he said. “They’re quite possibly the most useful spells I have.” Hawke grinned and brought her chair back down on all four legs.

                “You flatter me, First Enchanter,” she cooed.

                “Hardly,” he said. “I speak only the truth, Champion.”

                “We’ll see about that later,” she said, jabbing a finger in his direction. Then she glanced around and withdrew a scroll from her tunic and set it on the desk. “As for now, I have some equally thrilling and illicit news for you.” Orsino’s attention turned to the scroll. The Champion gave a tiny nod and he unfurled it, revealing what appeared to be a list of numbers. Coordinates? “Drop points,” she said quietly, leaning in over the desk so he could still hear her.

                “For what?” he asked, looking up.

                “Mages,” she announced in a whisper. “You were right. We must do what we can to improve life in the Circle. But when mages here face death or Tranquility for the smallest infractions…we must have a last resort. With the Redwater Teeth out of the docks, we’ve regained these three points here.” She gestured to the relevant coordinates. Orsino’s heart began to race.

                “You would support this?” he asked, keeping his voice low.

                “After what I’ve seen here? Yes, I would,” she said. “We can’t have any more Ediths or Marillions. I can’t believe the Chantry honestly believes the Maker wants to see mages driven to suicide because the Templars can’t see fit to treat them like people, not prisoners.”

                “Your public support—”

                “—would force Meredith to rally the Templar Order against you,” she said. “But this gives us the ability to help the mages worst off while we work on reining in the Templars.”

                “This is dangerous, Hawke,” he warned her, trying to keep his voice steady. An out, an out, a back-up plan! “If Meredith finds out about this, it won’t matter that you’re the Champion. She’ll have you executed, unless the Chantry can stop her. And they probably won’t.” An irresistibly roguish grin spread across Hawke’s face.

                “First Enchanter,” she said, “daredevil stunts and death-defying miracles are my career of choice.” He looked into her eyes, into the soul of a woman willing to risk everything to help the people he had been so desperately and vainly trying to keep alive for two decades, and nearly swooned. He rose from his seat to cup her cheek with one hand and kiss her with wild joy. “Jeepers, First Enchanter,” she said in a playfully reprimanding voice when he had drawn back. A subtle but delightful blush warmed her cheeks.

                “You are one of a kind, Hawke,” he said sincerely.

                “I am, aren’t I?” She smiled broadly and put a hand over his. “We’ll do what we can,” she promised. “If Bethany had been in there…I would do anything to get her out of there.”

                “She was lucky to have you,” he said. Hawke shook her head.

                “No, she would have been luckier to have someone else. I couldn’t save her. But I can try to save some of these kids. I can spare someone else that pain, maybe.”

                “You are truly…” Orsino tried to think of an appropriate word to describe the Maker-sent miracle of Hawke’s support, but nothing seemed adequate or appropriate, so he just kissed her again and hoped that conveyed it. “The mages will call you Champion forever for this,” he said. “I know I will.”

“That’s all the payment I need,” she joked.

#orsino #first enchanter orsino #hawke x orsino #orsino x hawke #dragon age #dragon age 2 #fanfiction #da #daii #da fanfiction #theodora hawke #rocky writes

[johaerys-writes]

Dorian Pavus x Trevelyan

A World With You, Chapter 5: Brave

The battle of Haven and the appearance of the infamous Elder One does a number on Tristan’s nerves. Who would have thought that surviving an explosion that levelled a mountain, uncovering a Venatori plot, closing a giant breach in the sky and getting knocked out for a few days as a result would only be the calm before the storm. 

Read here or on AO3!  

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

The trek up to the Temple of Sacred Ashes was as cumbersome as Tristan remembered. Cassandra was hopping up the stairs two steps at a time while he lumbered breathlessly behind her. His knees were practically trembling when they finally reached the charred remains of its gates. He almost laughed at how out of shape he was. A few practice sessions with Blackwall would do wonders for his stamina once he got back.

If I get back, a small voice reminded him. He did his best to ignore it.

The huge tear in the sky crackled and writhed above them, sending jolts of energy up the mark on his hand. Within the few months since the explosion, it had grown from a few fine lines on his palm to a network of scars past his wrist. Solas had said that if the Breach wasn’t closed, the mark would spider its way to his heart until it eventually killed him.

If I even live that long, the small voice whispered again.

He tightened his fists and clenched his jaw as he took a few steps forward. The mages were waiting patiently in their ranks behind him, ready to channel all of their energy to the Breach, but he felt all alone. Just him and it, the crack in the sky that threatened to swallow him whole. He felt rather than heard Solas approach him.

“It is time” he said, his voice low, but full of determination. It was comforting, somewhat, to know that at least one of them was determined. “Are you ready?”

Tristan wanted to scream “no” at the top of his lungs and flee, but he nodded instead. The elf’s eyes grew dark for a moment before he turned to the mages.

“Mages!” he exclaimed. “Focus past the Herald! Let his will draw from you!”

The mark on Tristan’s hand burned, pulsating rhythmically. He felt raw energy racing through it as he lifted it towards the chasm in the sky. It seemed so far away, high above him, but in an instant it felt like he was there, in it, around it, floating between this world and the gaping, horrible emptiness of the Fade. He screamed as it pushed and pulled and erupted in green flames around him, sending jolts of pain through his body.

Then there was nothing.

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

A shiny bald head was the first thing he saw as he came to.

He was in his bed. Solas was sitting next to him, bent over Tristan’s hand as he examined the mark on it. He straightened his back when he noticed Tristan’s eyelids fluttering, and placed his hand carefully back on the bed. “Good evening, Herald” he said.

Tristan sat up slowly, rubbing the back of his neck as he looked around the room. Someone had tended to the fire, making the hut properly warm for once. There was a jug of fresh water and a cup on the table next to the hearth, which brought to his attention that his throat was parched. As if he could read his mind, Solas stood up and filled the cup with water, then brought it back to him as he sat back down on his chair. Tristan managed to nod in thanks before gulping it down thirstily.

“How long was I out?” he asked, wiping his lips with the back of his hand.

“Two days, more or less” Solas replied calmly. “You fell unconscious after closing the Breach.”

Tristan’s heart thumped in his chest. “So… is it over?”

A hint of confusion passed over Solas’s features, but it was quickly gone. “The mark on your hand has stopped growing, as I predicted. That should give us enough time to find out more about it. The sky is scarred, but calm. Many questions yet remain, but the immediate danger has passed.”

“That’s good to hear” Tristan said distractedly as he examined the mark on his hand. It looked like a normal scar running over his skin. Nothing unusual about it. Barely conspicuous. For once, he felt neither pain nor the tingling sensation that he had become accustomed to ever since he got it. It was an odd thought, but it suddenly didn’t feel as strange on him. It was like it was a part of his hand, as surely as his fingers and his muscles were.

“Is the mark troubling you?”

Tristan lifted his eyes to find Solas’s inquisitive gaze on him. He shook his head and glanced at his hand again. “Not really. I’m just thinking…” He let out a long sigh. “This mark feels… almost natural to me. As if it was always meant to be there. As if… all the decisions I’ve made have brought me to this.” He eyed Solas, who was watching him intently. “Do you believe in fate, Solas?”

Solas looked at him, but it was like he was gazing past him, far into the distance. “I believe that each of us forges their own fate. There’s no divine plan, moving the world forward. Of this, I’m certain.”

“You don’t think I’m a chosen one, then? That’s a relief.”

“Every war has a chosen one. A hero.” He fixed his dark grey eyes on Tristan. “I’m curious what kind you’ll be.”

Tristan’s mouth twisted sourly. “Hopefully one that won’t set the whole damn world on fire” he said quietly.

They stayed silent for a while, the crackling of the fire and the commotion from outside the only sound between them. Solas stood up and threw his cloak about his shoulders. “You should join the celebrations for the closing of the Breach as soon as you’re ready. The people of Haven will be expecting you.”

“Of course” Tristan said, his sarcasm unmistakeable. “It wouldn’t do to reduce morale now.”

“No, it wouldn’t” Solas said solemnly. With a last, lingering glance at him he turned towards the door. “So long, Herald.”

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

After thoroughly stretching his aching limbs and putting on his leather armour, Tristan walked out of his hut. The celebrations for closing the Breach had already begun. Fires had been lit throughout the camp, with plenty of music, food and drink. The sounds of song and jest were carried swiftly through the cold air to his even colder ears. He ascended the wide stone stairs leading to the upper layer of Haven amidst cheers and merry laughter. Everyone was smiling. He hated to admit that it made him feel quite proud. He quickened his step, determined not to get used to the feeling.

With a quick glance around, he easily spotted what he was looking for – a short, stubby fellow with an ornate crossbow slung over his shoulder, a wide grin and more chest hair than anyone had a right to. Varric was holding what was probably not the first mug of ale of the evening, and narrating what was definitely one of his funnier stories from Kirkwall. Sera was laughing heartily, spilling most of her drink in the process, while Dorian was sipping on his wine in between throaty chuckles. His eyes were glinting with keen interest as he listened to Varric’s tale, his glossy black curls catching the amber light from the fire every time he threw his head back in laughter.

Tristan’s steps slowed to almost a halt. Painfully embarrassing memories from when he had last seen the dark-haired mage flashed before him. The urge to return to his hut, tail between his legs, was tempting, but he couldn’t well do that now. Not with so many people staring. The only option was to stand straight, walk towards them, get a drink, and act as lordly and graciously as he could while pretending that nothing at all had happened.

“Blondie!” Varric exclaimed with a wide grin holding his ale mug high up in the air.

Someone shoved a mug of ale in Tristan’s hands as he approached, and soon everyone around him was toasting to him, shouting praises to the Herald of Andraste and his bravery. Tristan took a hearty sip of his ale, intent on hiding the crimson flush on his face behind the rim of his mug.

“Cheer up, Herald. The people love you” Dorian said with a smile after the clamour had died down. “You did save the day, after all.”

“I did nothing of the sort” Tristan said sharply. Then, flinching inwardly at his curt tone, he let his mouth curl in a small smile. “I would hardly call almost being killed by a hole in the sky ‘saving the day’.”

“Brave and modest. I have to say, Herald, you never cease to impress. I wonder what the Chantry historians will write about you.”

“That I was a madman and a heretic, probably. I have a feeling that Brother Genitivi would consider setting his books on fire and diving in a pool of holy water after a brief conversation with me.”

Dorian’s chuckle came out muffled behind the rim of his mug. Tristan’s smile got wider and wider, and soon he was chuckling, too. Varric glanced at them curiously from across the fire as they both shook with laughter. Dorian’s eyes were shining, the golden flecks in them catching the light of the flames when he looked at Tristan.

Maker, but he was beautiful.

The thought came naturally, unbidden, as if it had always been there. It wasn’t a mere observation, like it had been other times, but a profound realisation. Dorian Pavus, Scion of House Pavus, was beautiful, striking, bewitching, in every sense of the word. Tristan wondered that he had not fully realised that before. Oh, he had noticed how attractive Dorian was the first time they had met, and every time he saw him thereafter. But not like this. Never like this. He paused for a moment, vaguely aware that he was staring.

Dorian raised an inquisitive eyebrow at him. “Is everything alright?”

Tristan came back to his senses with a start. “Of course” he said, glancing away. He hastily sipped on his drink, wondering if someone had slipped something in it when he wasn’t looking.

From the corner of his eye he saw Cassandra approaching him. He tried to ignore her, but when she came and stood right beside him, he had to face her.

“Seeker” Tristan said with a curt nod. He noticed that Dorian had made himself conveniently scarce as soon as she appeared.

“Herald” she replied. “Are you feeling better?”

The warm smile on her face surprised him. He wasn’t used to the grumpy warrior regarding him with any sort of fondness. It made her look almost…friendly. “I’m quite alright, thank you.” He peered at the place in the sky where the Breach used to be. The scar that it had left on the heavens was still visible. “The Breach has finally been sealed.”

“We’ve reports of lingering rifts, and many questions remain, but this was a victory. Word of your heroism has spread.”

“Has it?” he smiled. There it was again. Pride. He cleared his throat and looked away, over the campfires. “I wasn’t alone in this. You know how many were involved. Fate put me at the centre.”

Cassandra nodded as she followed his gaze. “You are right. This was a victory of alliance, one of few in recent memory. But that does not change the role you played in it. You were… very brave.”

The admiration in her voice was unmistakable. Had he not been sober, he would have doubted his own ears. He looked at her, and was startled to see the admiration reaching her eyes as well. He smiled at her, and for the first time it was not forced. “Thank you, Cassandra. I-“

The sound of frantically ringing alarm bells made him forget what he was about to say. The music and laughter died down abruptly, and everyone looked at each other, searching for the cause of the alarm. He turned around to look past Haven’s wooden gates and his jaw dropped.

An army, the largest he had ever seen, was marching towards them.

Before he could realise what was happening, Cullen was running past him. “Forces approaching! To arms!”

“What-“ Tristan started, but Cassandra grabbed his arm.

“We must go to the gates!” she said, drawing him forward.

Varric and Dorian ran to his side, the same panicked expression on their faces as he imagined he must have had. “What’s going on?” Varric asked, panting.

“We’re being attacked” Tristan replied, not quite believing it himself. His hands instinctively fell to the daggers hanging by his belt. He ran after Cassandra, Varric and Dorian at his heels.

They pushed their way through the crowd gathered by the gates until they reached Cullen. He was pacing up and down barking orders, the soldiers running wildly around him as they fell into formation.

“One watch guard reported a massive force, the bulk over the mountain” he told them as soon as they approached him.

Tristan shook his head in disbelief. “Under what banner?”

“None” Cullen replied, his voice edged with worry. “No banner, no communication, no demands. Nothing.”

A loud bang on the main gate drew all of their attentions to it.

“What in the Maker’s name-“ Cassandra started, but another bang drowned her words.

“I can’t come in unless you open!” a voice from outside pleaded.

“Was anyone left outside?” Tristan turned to Cassandra, but she just shrugged, confused. Without waiting, he ran to the gates and unbarred them. A young man, his leather armour more than a little dishevelled and his face obscured by a wide brim hat, was standing before him. Several dead bodies of armed men were sprawled at his feet. The daggers in his hands were dripping with blood.

“I’m Cole” he said, panting. “I came to warn you- to help. People are coming to hurt you. You probably already know-“

“What is this?” Tristan stopped him, struggling to make sense of what the stranger was saying. He glanced at the dead men, blood still pumping from their wounds. Their coat of arms was foreign to him. “What’s going on?”

“The Templars come to kill you” the man that called himself Cole replied quietly, his voice suddenly bleak and emotionless.

“The Templars?” Cullen growled as he advanced towards them, making the boy recoil in fear. “Is this the order’s response after our talks with the mages, attacking blindly?”

“I have an inkling they weren’t particularly pleased about it” Dorian said behind them.

“The Red Templars went to the Elder One. You know him?” Cole whispered, drawing closer to Tristan. “He knows you. You took his mages. There” he said, pointing at the mountain range behind them. The Templar army was spilling over the top of the mountain, the neat lines of soldiers covering the ground towards them steadily, like ants. A dark and abnormally tall figure emerged at the summit, leading them. “He’s very angry that you took his mages.”

“Cullen” Tristan said, his stomach tightening in knots. This was way beyond his comprehension, and they needed to act fast. “Give me a plan. Anything.”

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

“Take that, you filth!” Dorian screamed as he threw a fireball at a Templar’s face. The latter fell on the ground, writhing. Tristan could actually hear the man’s blood boiling inside his armour. Ordinarily, that would be enough to bring his supper up, but there was no time now to even allow himself to feel sick. Wave after wave of Red Templars were coming at them, swords and axes drawn, teeth bared, eyes glowing red from the red lyrium flowing in their veins. A particularly angry one was almost upon him, and Tristan barely managed to step back in time to dodge his attack. With a quick leap, he found himself at the man’s back, where he plunged both his daggers between the gaps in his armour. The Templar groaned as he staggered and fell to his knees. Tristan raised his dagger to finish him off when an arrow flew through the man’s head, and he fell face-first in the snow.

“I think that’s the last of them” Varric said, looking around from his vantage point on the top of an upturned carriage.

Tristan wiped the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve. The snow beneath their feet had turned to red mush. The stench of blood and burnt flesh clung to his nostrils like tar. He placed the daggers back in his belt and made his way towards the last trebuchet. With his hands on its wooden handle, he took a deep breath and pushed for dear life.

“This… is…too hard” he said when it didn’t budge an inch.

“I’ll help” Cassandra replied and grabbed the other side of the handle.

Dorian shook his head as he pulled out a lyrium potion out of his satchel. “I’ll leave this in your capable hands, Seeker. I’m not going anywhere near this cursed apparatus. I think I threw my back out trying to aim the last one.”

“Perhaps you should have taken up Blackwall on that offer to help you exercise, Sparkles” Varric laughed, throwing his crossbow over his shoulder.

“And spend my precious time with that hairy lummox instead of running around the countryside, killing random strangers? Perish the thought” the mage replied, downing the potion.

How these two were able to jest when all of them were on the brink of disaster, Tristan could hardly understand. The trebuchet was finally turned to position, and both he and Cassandra were heaving with the effort. “Everybody stand back!” he yelled. When they were all at a safe distance, he fired.

A loud, crashing noise filled the valley as the large stone from the trebuchet landed on the side of the mountain, causing an avalanche. The cries of the Templars being buried under it was deafening.

“You showed them how it’s done, Blondie” Varric smiled, tapping Tristan on the back. “Let’s go to-“

He hadn’t even finished his sentence when the trebuchet exploded in flames. A huge shadow darkened the sky above them, followed by an ear-splitting screech.

“A dragon?” Dorian breathed. “Was that an actual dragon?”

“More like… an archdemon.” Cassandra was following the beast with her eyes as if she were in a dream.

Tristan’s blood curdled in his veins. If that was an archdemon… did that mean that this was another Blight? Right at their doorstep? Oh, this is wonderful. Just bloody wonderful.

“To the gates!” he yelled, sprinting forward. “Everyone back to the gates!”

They all flew towards Haven so fast, one would have thought they had not spent the better part of the evening fighting off crazed, red-lyrium filled Templars. Cullen was standing at the gate, holding it open. When all of them were safely in, he pushed the heavy oaken doors shut. Tristan bent forward to rest his hands on his knees, gasping for air.

“We need everyone back at the Chantry! It’s the only building that might hold against that… that beast” the Commander said. His forehead was slick with sweat, his breath creating thick, white tufts in the air as he spoke.

Dorian was suddenly next to him. “Let’s go” he whispered, putting his arm around Tristan’s back to help him forward. Tristan straightened up and followed him up the big stone stairs towards the Chantry building.

A muffled scream from a burning hut nearby drew Tristan’s attention. Exchanging a glance, both he and Dorian ran towards it. The wooden building was slowly being engulfed in flames, but the frantic screams and banging from inside made Tristan’s breath catch in his throat.

“They’re trapped inside” he gasped.

Dorian nodded, his brows drawn down in grim determination. He gripped his staff firmly and took a step forward. “Stand back!” he yelled at the people inside. With a flick of his fingers the door exploded, splinters flying in every direction.

Flissa, the innkeeper, was on the ground, and next to her a man. Tristan recognised him as one of Harrit’s, the blacksmith’s, assistants. It was a face that was hard not to recognise, dark haired and bushy bearded, with a scar that ran from the top of his eyebrow to the middle of his cheek. Tristan ran to help him carry Flissa out.

“She’s unconscious, my lord” the man said, his voice choked by the smoke and the flames. “I tried to…”

A loud creak sounded from right above them drowned out his words, and several heavy planks fell around them. Tristan lunged at the man, pulling him out of the way of a wooden beam that fell inches away from him. They both tumbled to the ground, raising a cloud of dust and smouldering ashes.

Tristan’s eyes were burning from the smoke and the dust. “Are you alright?” he asked the man, scrambling up to his feet. The man was simply staring behind Tristan, eyes wide in shock.

Tristan turned around, only to see a mountain of burning wood lying where Flissa had been. His stomach was seized in an icy grip. Like the man beside him, all he could do was stare at what was certainly Flissa’s lifeless body underneath the ruins.

Dorian’s voice stirred him out of his shock. “We have to go!” he shouted, grabbing him and the other man and pulling them outside. As soon as they walked out, most of the hut, or what remained of it, fell down with a loud thud.

Watching the flames and smoke rise high up in the night sky, Tristan thought he was really going to be sick this time.

The three of them ran to the Chantry Building, coughing and wheezing. Chancellor Roderick was at the Chantry doors, helping the injured get inside. His own robe was crimson red, clinging to his body. “Move! Keep going! The Chantry is your shelter” he kept saying, his voice thick with pain. The doors were barred with a heavy steel rod as soon as everyone was inside.

The Chancellor took a step before he collapsed. As if he had emerged from the shadows, Cole caught the old man right before he hit the ground. “He tried to stop a Templar” Cole said matter-of-factly. “The blade went deep. He’s going to die.”

“What a… charming boy” the Chancellor managed to say before his face contorted in pain.

“Herald” Tristan heard Cullen say behind him. He turned around meet the Commander’s solemn gaze. “Our position isn’t good. That… thing”- he grimaced as he said it- “has stolen back any time you might have given us.”

“I’ve seen an Archdemon in the Fade” Cole said, as if talking to himself. “It looked just like that.”

Cullen flinched as if Cole had pricked him with a needle. “I don’t care what it looks like!” he growled. “It’s cut a path for that army. They’ll kill everyone in Haven!”

Cole blinked at him like the Commander was saying the most absurd thing. “The Elder doesn’t care about the village. He only wants the Herald.”

“Why? Why does he want me? What have I ever done to him?” Tristan blurted out, his voice choked with his anger. His heart was beating so hard, his ears were buzzing. His patience was getting thinner by the second.

“I don’t know. He’s too loud. It hurts to hear him” Cole muttered, shaking his head. “He wants to kill you. No one else matters, but he’ll kill them anyway. I don’t like him.”

“You don’t like…?” Cullen grunted in frustration before turning to Tristan. “Herald, there is no way to make this survivable. The only thing that slowed them was the avalanche you caused. We could turn these trebuchets, create one last slide…”

Tristan simply gaped at the Commander, his breath catching in his throat. “To hit the enemy, we’d bury Haven. And us with it.“

“We’re dying, but we can decide how. Many don’t get that choice.” The Commander’s brows were furrowed, his lips a tight line. He really looked like a man who was ready to die, who had made amends with the possibility long ago.

Fear slithered up Tristan’s spine, its icy tentacles freezing him to the core. He regarded Cullen levelly, trying as hard as he could to keep his voice steady. “We can’t go down like this, Cullen. Not without a fight. There’s got to be another way.”

A faint cough came from Chancellor Roderick’s direction. “There is… there is a path” he whispered, struggling to sit up on the chair. “You wouldn’t know it unless you’d made the pilgrimage, as I have. The people can escape. She must have shown me… Andraste must have shown me, so I could… tell you.”

Tristan glared at the cleric. “What are you on about, Roderick?” he spat, annoyance bubbling inside him. Of all the times in his life he might have needed to hear about Andraste or whatever other nonsense Chantrics spouted left and right, this must have been the worst possible one.

The old man took a laboured breath, and fixed his eyes on Tristan. His eyes had taken on an odd, glazed expression. “It was a whim that I took this path, years ago. Now, with so many in the Conclave dead, to be the only one who remembers… I don’t know, Herald.” He winced at the pain, but he held Tristan’s gaze intently. “If this simple memory can save us…” The man sank back in his chair, placing a bloodied hand at his side.

Tristan turned to the Commander. “What about it, Cullen? Will it work?”

Cullen regarded the Chancellor carefully, who was struggling to keep his eyes open. “Possibly. If he shows us the path. But what about your escape?”

Tristan looked away, his stomach in knots as he tried to force himself to think of something, anything. The Chantry building was full to the brim with injured soldiers, men and women clutching the only belongings they had managed to salvage from the attack, children clinging to their parents, too terrified to even cry. They were all watching him and Cullen, their eyes wide and glittering in the near dark, their breaths bated.

A sudden, violent rage flooded him. That damned Elder One, or whatever he was called, would stop at nothing until he got his hands on him, even if it meant cutting down hundreds of innocent people. Who the hell did that bastard think he was, sweeping in and destroying everything and everyone in his path, as if they were nothing but ants to be crushed under the heel of his boot?

“Never mind me” he heard himself say in a low growl. “Get the people out of here. I’ll find my own way out.”

Cullen’s eyes shone with steely determination. He turned abruptly towards the crowd standing behind them. “Inquisition! Follow Chancellor Roderick through the Chantry! Move!”

Cole placed the Chancellor’s arm over his shoulders and pulled him up. The man groaned as he took a step. His robe was dripping with blood and his face was ashen. “Herald… If you are meant for this, if the Inquisition is meant for this… I pray for you.”

Tristan nodded grimly before he ran to the door. Perhaps, this once, a prayer might actually save him.

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

Tristan ran out of the Chantry Building, Cassandra, Varric and Dorian at his heel.

“We have to keep the archdemon’s attention on us if the others are to have a chance” he said, following the path towards the remaining trebuchet.

“Being noticed happens to be a specialty of mine” Dorian said, twirling his staff in a flourish.

Swords hissing and battle cries greeted them as they neared the trebuchets. Without missing a breath, Cassandra drew her sword and leapt into battle. The man approaching her was tall and built like a tree-trunk. With a roar, he lifted his enormous axe over his shoulder and brought it back down to crush her. Stepping to the side with more elegance than Tristan would have ever imagined, she brushed the axe away with her sturdy shield and plunged her sword into his neck. He only made a gurgling sound before he collapsed.

Dorian was hurling spell after spell, laughing maniacally as he watched the Templars disperse in panic, while Varric, situated on the platform of the trebuchet, was picking them apart with his crossbow, one by one.

“Keep them off me!” Tristan told Varric as he ran to the trebuchet. With as much strength as he could muster, he pushed the handle, aiming the trebuchet towards the mountain.

“You got it, Blondie!” the dwarf shouted nocking an arrow. By the time Tristan had finished aiming the trebuchet, only one Templar remained standing. With one swift blow, Cassandra finished him and he fell to the ground with a thud.

“Ready to fire?” she said, placing her sword in its scabbard. Tristan nodded and placed his hand on the lever.

A fireball exploded next to the trebuchet, knocking Tristan on his back. He pushed himself up, looking around him frantically through the thick cloud of smoke. The flapping of enormous wings echoed everywhere around them, but the archdemon was nowhere to be seen.

“The trebuchet is on fire!” Cassandra exclaimed.

Dorian cast an ice spell, quenching the flames. “That should do it” he said, dusting his robes.

“Where is the Archdemon? Can you see it?” Tristan looked around, straining his neck.

“I can’t see it, but I can hear it. And it doesn’t sound good” Varric said.

The earth trembled with the thundering roar, and Tristan finally spotted the beast. It was flying right above them, circling them slowly when it stopped abruptly and prepared to dive towards them.

“Run” he muttered under his breath as he took a step back. “Move! Now!” he yelled at the others, that were staring at the dragon wide-eyed. Tristan’s panicked screams shook them out of their daze, and they started running towards the Chantry. Sprinting after them, he stole a glance at the fiend over his shoulder. Suddenly, he found himself face-first in the snow when he tripped on a rock.

“Herald!” Dorian shouted and turned back to help him. With a sharp wave, Tristan stopped him.

“Go! Run!” he said, pushing himself up. Dorian stared at him, unmoving. “Just go!” Tristan shouted desperately at him, arms flailing. Finally, with a pained grimace, Dorian turned around and followed the others. Tristan stood and watched his form disappear behind the clouds of dust and smoke, wasting precious seconds that he could have used for his own escape. Right then, suspended in a moment that felt never ending, he couldn���t really bring himself to care about that. At least one of them would have a chance to get the hell out of that place.

His tentative relief didn’t last very long. The gust of wind that hit him when the enormous beast landed in front of him pushed him flat on his back. Its eyes, peering at him from under thick, rock-like skin, were glowing like embers in the night.

“Pretender” a deep and raucous voice said behind him. It looked like a man, or what once might have been a man, but its features and body were twisted and shaped beyond recognition, red lyrium crystals sprouting from its abnormally large skull. “You toy with forces beyond your ken. No more.”

“What are you?” Tristan yelled, hauling himself up to his feet. More than fear, he felt anger. Hot, burning anger, directed at the cause of all this pain and destruction. “Why are you doing this?”

The creature took a step forward, its long, spindly legs crushing the snow and ice beneath him. “Exalt the Elder One. The will that is Corypheus.” He lifted a bony arm, and pointed a long and sharp claw at Tristan. “I am here for the Anchor that you have stolen. The process of removing it begins now.”

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

The trebuchet fired with a loud, thunderous crash. Before drowning in a sea of white, Tristan remarked absently that being brave was perhaps a little overrated.

#dorian pavus #dorian pavus fic #dorian x trevelyan #dorian x inquisitor #dragon age #dragon age fanfiction #dragon age inquisition #dorian x tristan #dorian x tristan trevelyan #a world with you #johaerys writes

[transgressivepistoleer]

Hawke and The Hero

The Hero of Fereldan, Mage-Warrior, the Fade bleeding around them in a show of power. Slayer of the Archdemon, Warden of Vigils Keep, Savior of The Circle.

Yet none see beneath her helm, were weary eyes look with corrupted blood pulsing through, enemies around every corner, and the horrors of the Broodmother’s truths seen twice. None feel the weight she does, the sheer effort to maintain the magic that keeps her armor and sword at her side, to keep her battle ready. None know of the stings where the Archdemons flames still scar hot across her skin, where the wounds of blades still ache in her bones.

Hawke, Champion of Kirkwall, Life of the Party, Slayer of the Arishok. The Twin Fangs of Justice and Mercy, Defender of The Helpless, Slayer of The Corrupted Commander.

And none see beneath still. The pain of her family, ripped away one by one. Illness, Darkspawn twice, and a Madman. She still wakes in a cold sweat at what she found in the sewers beneath the city. None see her behind her eyes, cheerful and sarcastic, to the tiredness there. The years of running, from The Blight, The Law, The Chantry. How she just longs to be with her beloved, though it’d mean their deaths. None see the tremble in her scarred hands, the weakness in her knives that weren’t there before. The scar that just misses her spine has taken toll over the years. Lungs aren’t meant for such damage.

#blah blah text #dragon age #self indulgent stuff #Just wanted to do this #get good description practice

[dalishious]

"The young templar Cullen never quite recovered from his ordeal. After months of attempting to convince his superiors that the tower was still a danger, he finally snapped and killed three apprentices before being stopped by his fellow templars. Eventually, Cullen escaped from prison, a madman and a threat to any mage he encountered." was this ever like... explicitly retconned/addressed, outside of the fact that cullen shows up in da2/dai and... isn't a fugitive?

Again, the DA:O epilogues are such a mess of what is retconned and what isn’t that I’ll suggest just decide on your own. Most people I know say that this was actually just a rumour, therefore retconned. I don’t know of anything in game that outright says this.

The reason he’s in DA:2 is stated in his codex entry:

After Cullen returned to his duties, it became clear that he would go to any lengths to enforce the Chantry's rule. His zeal troubled Knight-Commander Greagoir, who feared it unwise to let Cullen watch over the men and women he deemed responsible for his torment.

Greagoir sent Cullen to serve under Knight-Commander Meredith in Kirkwall, and Meredith found Cullen's view of mages similar to her own. Of her company, only Cullen had seen mages' potentially terrifying power firsthand, and she believed he could influence the other templars' views. Consequently, Cullen rose quickly through the ranks to become Knight-Captain and Meredith's second-in-command.

#Anonymous #ask

[fandomn00blr]

This chapter, tho...

[Context: Samson being a gossip-whore during post-DA2 Gallows cleanup when Agatha excuses herself to Orsino’s offices to secretly mourn, and oh, oops! Sullen...]

[Disclaimer: This is a mess. And the rest of the chapter so far is mostly just flashbacks to Kirkwall Templar drama pre-Cullen, Agatha/Orsino, Thrask, Meredith, but Samson ends up all over THAT, too! HOW DOES THIS KEEP HAPPENING?! Dude can be canonically EVERYWHERE! He is mucking up my very straightforward story (ha!)...and I love it.]

...

“She and him had a thing, you know…” Samson whispered in his ear, as soon as she was out of hearing range.

“Have some respect, for once in your blighted life!”

“They were very good at hiding it. Even Meredith didn’t know. If she had, she’d have probably had Agatha tossed out into the streets right along with me. Orsino was her forbidden love, after all. And she wouldn’t have liked for anyone else to have had him when she could not.”

“You’re beginning to sound like a madman,” Cullen huffed, trying not to encourage him, but knowing full well that a comment like this probably would.

“Beginning? That's a compliment coming from you, Captain.”

He pretended to swoon, but Cullen looked unamused.

“I don’t think it could’ve lasted long, anyway, or Meredith would’ve found out, eventually, but the way they’d linger in each other’s company. Those sad little stares of longing when they thought no one was looking…” He let out an exaggeratedly wistful sigh. “‘Twas heart-breaking, truly!”

“You’re a ridiculous man.”

“Nothin’ to be jealous of, Captain! Just thought you’d like to know.”

“Who exactly would I be jealous of, in this scenario, if there were any truth to your outlandish claims?”

“I’ve just noticed that you seem to enjoy cold, bossy women telling you what to do…”

Cullen’s face went stony again and he stared through Samson for just a moment, before shaking his head and blurting out, “I harbor no romantic feelings for Ser Agatha, I assure you.”

“Then maybe you had a crush on the First Enchanter?”

“While I do consider him to have been a handsome man...no. It would have been inappropriate. A violation of our vows.” He stared pointedly at Samson.

“What? Do you consider me to have been a handsome man, as well?” Samson’s lips curled into their usual villainous sneer, but there was something more behind it. Something that he was trying with great effort to hide behind sarcasm and wickedness.

Cullen’s stare softened a little at the realization. “Well, yes. Perhaps,” his face had begun to twist itself into the tiniest of grins as he saw that he was making Samson uncomfortable for a change. “...if you weren’t such an infuriating bastard all the time!”

...

#my writing #disaster Templars #Samson #Cullen #Sullen #dragon age #this fic has quickly gone completely off the rails #Samson/Cullen #lost and found da2 endgame canon divergence