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emerald-amidst-gold · 3 years

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Hey! 1,5,8,15,20 for the uncommon OC ask please! 😊

Why hello! Thanks for stopping by! 😊😊

Are you ready for a ramble? Because I'm ready for a ramble! >83 I'm actually going to do this for my Hawke, Rylen! *gasps* Not Fane, you say? Oh, trust me. Rylen's a treat in his own way. Eheh~

1. What’s the maximum amount of time your character can sit still with nothing to do?

Rylen is a terrible, terrible busybody. The man cannot sit still to save his life. It's more or less a subconscious fear of being perceived as lazy or not trying to better himself or his family. A lot of the unintentional guilt that Leandra put on him had adverse side effects to where this is Rylen's constant frame of mind. He literally reiterates, "I need to go do something. Check on Anders? Oh wait. Already did that. Should I see if Varric has any new jobs? I don't really need the gold, but..I'll check anyways. Maybe I'll take the mabari out while I'm at it. Don't want Mother getting upset if he pisses on the marble again. Oh! Fen might be around, too! I'll stop by! Then.." He goes around and around in circles, so from dawn til dusk, Rylen is go, go, go. He doesn't stop until Fenris or Varric make him stop, or he just collapses at the end of the day.

5. How easy is it to earn their mistrust?

Act 1 and Act 2 Rylen is more inclined to trusting most folk due to literally needing to, to make ends meet. Now, Act 3 Rylen is where this question comes into play. After Leandra died, Rylen...spiraled. Heavily. He saw himself as a failure, a poor son, and a lousy excuse for a man. It also shifted his views on magic and mages heavily to where any mage they came across, Rylen would hesitate when otherwise he would have helped them within a heartbeat. He realized he needed to be more aware, to be more cautious or the same thing could happen again to his found family. Anders' actions leading up to and including the explosion of the Chantry don't help this mindset. When Anders more or less questions Rylen's need for an explanation before the explosion, that's when their friendship sort of...dropped. Rylen realized Anders didn't trust him and in turn, he began to lose trust in Anders. So, the minute someone close to Rylen questions his motives, after all he's done for them and all they've been through, that's how easy it is to earn his mistrust.

8. What were they told to stop/start doing most often as a child?

Rylen was a little shit as a child. Not lying. He went out of his way to antagonize the priests and templars in Lothering's Chantry because:

One: He thought it was hilarious every time the Mother who rapped him with a cane because he was 'too wily', found lizards in her pillow or in the unlit braziers.

Two: While it drew attention towards their family, it was in an alternative way. He did it to push the attention onto himself, a misbehaving, mischief child, and away from Bethany.

Despite this, both Malcolm and Leandra lectured him and told him there were other ways he could protect the family. Secretly, however, after Leandra would walk away, Malcolm would turn to Rylen and whisper with a smirk, 'Next time put water on the coals. Make steam to sweat the templars out.' So, it was both to stop and to start doing this trick of his more.

15. How do they speak? Is what they say usually thought of on the spot, or do they rehearse it in their mind first?

Rylen blurts out the first thing that comes to mind. His mouth is a fountain of nonsense that has no filter until he hears himself utter the words. By then, it's obviously too late and he just has to smile like he planned it! Literally upon meeting Isabela, he goes, with finger guns:

"How you managed to do all that without pants is amazing! You should teach me how to do that with my daggers! ...With pants, I mean. Uhhh... I fucked that up, didn't I? I did. I did.."

Internally, he's screaming at himself. Screaming, I tell you. Thankfully, Izzy hits it off with Rylen from the get go, and his boundary-less words don't even phase her. If anything, it helps her relax since she doesn't have to worry about Rylen freaking out when she does her harmless flirting.

20. If they were asked to explain the difference between romantic and platonic or familial love, how would they do so?

Do as the Fereldans do, equivocate with mabari! Not joking. Rylen would literally describe it like how a mabari feels when its imprinted and then bonded.

Loyalty, deepest devotion, and a strong sense to protect even at the cost of your own well being. That's what platonic or familial love is to him. To cast aside all to make sure your family is safe and whole. Especially if they can't defend themselves due to age or experience, or are in a state where they can't fend for themselves, even though they typically could.

Obviously, these aspects could roll over into romantic love, but Rylen sees romance as more of a relationship of mutual respect and unyielding trust in the other - whether it be through faithfulness or believing, knowing the other can take care of themselves in a fight. He would equivocate romantic love as more of when a mabari has tightly bonded with their master. There's a link, a connection, an understanding that sometimes friends or family don't necessarily see or wish to see due to insecurities or not wishing to be a bother.

So, platonic and familial love to Rylen is more when a mabari first imprints. Careful, cautious, still loving, but unaware of specific boundaries. While a romantic connection is when that choice has been tested through trials and tribulations. Those trials yield the fruits of trust, respect, pride in each other, and knowing the other has your back, and able to communicate without fear of boundaries, but knowing and admitting when you have. Of course, this depends solely on the relationship Rylen has with each person he's close to.

***

Thank you so much for the ask! <3 I always enjoy them, and I'll try to make a habit of asking all you lovely people questions, too! Reciprocation is key!

#oc asks #oc: rylen hawke #dragon age #asks #sorry if the last answer is a bit scattered #i need to sleep but i wanted to do this before i conked out lol #rylen is just as complex as fane~#well no fane is actually a lot more complicated #especially now #my mind just likes to make characters with so much shit going on #rylen just has a huge shift between act 2 and act 3

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probably-writing-x · 4 years

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Early greetings, late nights.

Andér x Reader (Gender not specified)

Request from @isthatmaryanna : hi!! could you write a imagine with ander? where he’s not gay and fall in love with the reader at a party and the finds out she’s the new girl from las encinas and then their first kiss

Gif is not my own (But this gif is literally my favourite thing - I’ve rewatched it so much😂😭)

Requests are open❤️

“Okay but I’m not saying I’ll hate it,” You defend, “But I definitely won’t fit in.”

Omar laughs from beside you, “Definitely not, please don’t become one of them.”

“Do you think it will be that bad?” You ask as you hand him another one of the glasses to set up for the night at the club.

“It will be worse, (Y/n),” He grins, “You’ll forget all about me!”

“How could I ever?” You gasp, handing him the final glass before tossing the kitchen towel over your shoulder, “You’re already ditching me for this shift so you owe me one. When I need saving at school, you need to be there.”

He grins and steps through the opening of the bar, “Of course, I’ll be your knight in dodgy-shiny armor.”

- - - - - -

It’s a busy night at the club and you find yourself counting down the minutes until Omar would return for his late shift so you could escape for the night. It felt like you were serving carbon copies of every single person - the same drinks, the same smug looks as they assumed you’d never be able to pay for it.

“What can I get you?” You ask the same question as you clean off another of the taps and toss the towel over your shoulder.

When you look up, the eyes looking back arent like the rest. They’re piercing and lit up by a light smile as you look back. He looks about your age, dressed in an open shirt and white tee - a simple, understated look. But the curls on his head give him a boyish, friendly characteristic.

You swallow the lump in your throat, “What would you like to drink?”

He smirks gently, “I’ll take a scotch please... Omar?”

You glance down at your uniform and chuckle, “Not my uniform, but nice try!”

You go about grabbing the bottle and glass to make his drink, trying your best to not notice how his eyes followed you for the entire time. He seemed interesting. Like he had a personality beyond the money his parents bank account held.

“Shall I put it on the tab?” You offer, going to tap the screen to put his drink through.

“I’ll be back for another soon enough,” He raises the drink to you and turns away, only glancing back once as he takes a second take in your direction.

You try to stop yourself from getting too flustered as you serve the next customer, and the next.

- - - - - -

“Alright (Y/n)!” Omar calls as he comes behind the bar, “You’re done for the night, go home and feel bad for me.”

“So it’s (Y/n).”

You go to reply to Omar but stop instantly when you hear the words. The boy from earlier was stood at the bar, evidently expecting a second attempt at learning a little more about you. And Omar handing that attempt to him with ease.

“Maybe you won’t be going straight home,” Omar wiggles his prominent brows, “Give me my name tag and get out of here.”

You laugh and unclip it, untying your apron and handing that to him too, “I’ll see you tomorrow, Omar.”

The boy walks the length of the bar until he pushes through enough to meet you where you’d be exiting for the end of your shift.

“What do you say to having my second drink with me?” He suggests, leaning close to ask you the question.

You glance at him once more and smile a little, “I say I’ll have whatever you’re having, I’ll be back down in five.”

Hurriedly, you push through the staff door and grab your things to at least make yourself a little more presentable. You comb your hair through and try to perfect your appearance just slightly - though there was only so much it could improve by whilst you were still wearing this uniform.

When you get back downstairs, the boy is leaning against a nearby wall with two glasses of scotch in his hands. He pushes off and grins a little when he sees you.

“I thought you might have found a back exit and left me alone,” He comments, handing over one glass to you.

“I tried, it was locked,” You joke, having to yell over the music blaring through the room.

He gestures over for the two of you to go to one of the emptier corners of the club and settles a hand on your back with such ease as he leads to over.

“You seemed so set on knowing my name, you never told me yours,” You point out, taking a sip of the drink and wincing at the taste.

“Ander Muñoz,” He responds, dipping his head to speak to you.

Muñoz. That name sounded oddly familiar.

“You enjoy working here?”

“Serving a bunch of snooty rich people that just complain about us not having the right champagne or not making their drinks fast enough? It’s a dream!”

He laughs and it makes his eyes crinkle and dimples appear on his cheeks, “Is it really that bad?”

“They pay me so I can’t complain,” You shrug, “And I have Omar.”

“So am I one of them?” He raises his brows, “The snooty rich people?”

You laugh a little and shake your head, “You tell me Ander Muñoz.”

Before he can say anything more, somebody knocks into the back of him and causes him to stumble into you, tipping his drink onto both of you a little.

“Do you want to get out of here?” He suggests, setting down the empty glass onto a table.

“Yeah, definitely,” You nod, swigging back the rest of the drink with a hiss and setting your glass next to his.

- - - - - -

It’s another three quarters of an hour later when you find yourself still strolling around the empty streets with him. You’d talked about anything and nothing and were yet to get to a point where the conversation ceased.

“Okay, where in this town do you go to then?” He asks you, having grown jokingly tired of you mocking his ‘rich boy’ lifestyle.

You laugh a little, “You want to see how the other half live?”

“Please, do tell, (Y/n),” He smirks, looking at you expectantly.

You reach out a hand for him to lace with his own and tug him out of the path you’d been following, “Down this way.”

Your hands stay locked the whole way as you eventually reach the docks and you lead him up the steps to the top of the bridge.

“Isn’t this just where people do drug deals?” He laughs, stumbling behind to catch up with you and hold your hand a little firmer.

“Well, yeah,” You admit, “But at night, you get the best view of the stars.”

You let go of his hand and push yourself up onto the edge, shifting your weight until you sit on the edge with your legs dangling over.

“Woah, woah, careful!” He holds out his hands like he’d have any hope of catching you.

“Don’t worry,” You laugh, turning and laying down on the hard surface so you could look up to the sky above.

“Isn’t there a much safer way of seeing the fucking stars?” He mutters to himself as he mirrors your actions opposite you.

“Nobody ever did anything good by being safe,” You roll your eyes, glancing up to watch as he cautiously lowers himself to lay against the rock.

You two stay in silence for a while as you watch the stars stationary in their movement, until one comes shooting across as if by fate.

“I think that’s a good sign,” He comments quietly, voice a little raspy from the lack of conversation.

“So, Mr Muñoz, was this up to scratch for showing you what I do for fun around here?” You raise yourself to sit on the stone and swing your legs back over.

He hops down and dusts off his jeans, “Id say you need to find yourself some friends and get yourself to some parties.”

You laugh and can’t help your heart from bubbling as his hand finds yours again.

“I should probably get home, I have a big day tomorrow,” You comment, walking slowly back down the steps from the bridge with him.

“What’s happening tomorrow?”

“Let’s not talk about that,” You shake your head with a half-laugh.

“Then I should get you home as soon as possible,” With that, he dips down in front of you and hoists you onto his back until he has a firm grip on your thighs, “Your carriage has arrived.”

He somehow manages to carry you the whole way home, complaining whenever you made him laugh as you found yourself in hysterics - blaming it solely on the fatigue and that scotch in your empty stomach.

“Well, I’ve had a very good night, Ander,” You smile as he sets you back down, “You’ve slightly restored my faith in the other half of society.”

“Slightly?” He cocks a brow.

“There’s always room for improvement,” You smirk, leaning in to kiss his cheek, “Goodnight Ander.”

He stops you there until you’re close enough that your nose knocks against his. And he musters every piece of courage he had left in him to kiss you for the first time - soft and very much aware that you could easily pull away. When you don’t, his courage dials way back up and he cups your face in his hands with ease, like they were always meant to be there. It’s longing and you regret not starting this earlier in the evening.

“Goodnight, Ander,” You repeat as you pull away, slightly more breathless now.

“Can I get your number at least?” He asks as you go to walk towards your apartment block.

“Something tells me I’ll see you very soon anyway,” You confirm, heading inside before any other part of you could convince you otherwise.

- - - - - -

You’re shown around school by one of the admin staff who explains to you what to expect from your new student role at Las Encinas. You’d already noticed a few people that you’d served at the bar multiple times and tried to avoid too many peoples prying eyes on the new kid as you reach your new class.

“Class, we have a new student joining us today,” The teacher stands up as you go to walk in, “I’m sure you’ll all be very welcoming to (Y/n).”

There’s only one student that you’re focused on as the name is spoken. Sat in the back on the far side of the class is none other than Ander. That’s where you’d known the name from - his Mum was the fucking principal! He glances in your direction and quickly turns away, unable to stop the smile from crawling onto his face as he shifts a little in his chair.

“There’s a seat beside Ander if that’s okay,” The teacher mentions, gesturing over to the boy you were meant to not know yet.

You nod and take the adjacent seat to him, setting your book onto the table.

“So, last night was fun,” He smirks, handing you a pen, “Maybe now would be a good time for me to get that number.”

You roll your eyes, “When I said soon, I didn’t think I’d be seeing you the next morning.”

Nevertheless, you scribble down your number onto some paper and hand it back to him.

“Definitely seems like we’ll be seeing more of each other now, (y/n).”

And it suddenly becomes impossible to complain about his slightly cocky demeanour.

“I guess we will, Mr Muñoz.”

#ander #ander elite #ander imagine #ander drabble #ander blurb #ander writing #ander fanfiction #ander request #elite imagine #elite request #elite fanfiction #elite drabble #elite blurb #ander x reader #ander x you #ander x y/n #elite series #elite netflix #elite writing

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lexigraph · 3 years

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oh my god I found a draft of a Hawke/Varric thing I was working on (YES I have a pattern!! Maybe developers should stop making characters mine have extreme sexual tension and compatibility with ok.)

I don’t know if it will ever get any further than this, but the notes made me laugh and sad. Dumping it all after the cut. Please note that YES I literally stopped writing mid-sentence six years ago and never continued. Why??

It all started when we returned from the Deep Roads.

Actually, that’s not exactly true. It started about half a year before then, or else the last time I’d seen Bianca. Nevermind that. This isn’t the story I never tell, it’s just one that I don’t.

In any case, after the Deep Roads is as good a time as any to start. If you want the real beginning, it’s in the book. The Champion of Kirkwall. Sure, there may be some missing lines, a few redacted conversations, but the foundation is there. Go ahead and read the first act, I’ll wait. If you haven’t read it by now, though… let’s just say you’re in the minority. After all, it is my best selling story.

After the Deep Roads, Hawke and I had a lot of reasons to spend time together. After all, there was business to conduct: treasure that needed the right buyers at the right price, hirelings to question about their involvement with the whole “abandonment thing”, letters to write to various and sundry members of the Guild, maps to update with an ancient thaig, for Andraste’s sake.

There was also a lot of drinking to be done, or maybe it was just that a lot of drinking was done. It took the edge off of things… washed down any manner of dark thoughts. Or so we’d claim. The company helped, regardless. Hawke and her little band of misfits, myself included… we ruled the Hanged Man in those days.

After a while, well… things got a little more complicated and reasons turned to excuses.

---

Hawke drops herself into a chair at Varric’s long table with a considerable thunk of metal on wood; something ridiculous and heavy made of iron that she’s taken to wearing as ornamentation impacting less than delicately with his fine dwarven chairs. Varric sets the quill he’s been using in its holder, leaves the paper to dry. It’s just a bit about their encounter with the darkspawn. For his records; nothing serious, but he finds himself writing it as prose out of habit. It can wait.

He studies Hawke for a second. The rings under her eyes are especially bad today, the purple tinge of long nights visible even under the gold powder smeared across her eyelids and the smudged black of whatever substance she darkens her eyelashes with. She almost always looks like she slept in yesterday’s eye makeup, but lately each day has been progressively worse, and today is no exception. He swallows and tries to keep his tone light.

“No word?” Varric knows the answer, will probably know word is coming before Hawke does, but asks anyway. It isn’t entirely impossible that a messenger from the Wardens would slip past the notice of his carefully placed network of spies. Highly improbable, but not impossible.

She shakes her head and sighs, leaning forward to place both elbows against the edge of the table and duck her head as if to study the exquisitely carved wood. Not that the elbows bothered him; this table had, after all, seen a lot worse in it’s day, and Varric wasn’t exactly Mr. Manners. Hawke wasn’t normally an elbows on the table kind of gal, was all. Leaning back until she practically slid off the chair, sure. But hunched was bad. She’d been hunched a lot lately.

“Nothing at all. It’s been weeks, Varric. I just--”

“--want to know that your brother is alive. ‘The little snotrag’.” He finishes for her, managing (pretty badly) to keep back a chuckle. Hawke narrows her eyes but smiles, albeit a wan one.

“I’m sorry. I know you’re sick of hearing it.”

“Of course not.” He leans back in his chair, tipping so far that it’s balancing on two legs. “Though you could stand to get a little more creative with the insults. Carver was a little shit.” Shit. Hawke’s face falls again, fast, on ‘was’. Varric leans forward again so all four legs of his chair hit the ground, then pushes back and stands.

“Come on. I’ve got something for us to do.” That, at least, elicits a stronger smile. He’ll have to think of something good, and fast.

He mulls this over as Hawke waits for him to pull on his jacket and gloves, to strap Bianca on. He feels her eyes on him, and slows down just a little bit, making a show of adjusting the way his gloves lay and fiddling with his earrings. Varric is retying the sash around his middle (again) when he spies Hawke’s mouth pressing into a thin line. Time to stop dragging his heels.

“Alright, Hawke, let’s go.”

“If you’re sure you’re presentable, Tethras,” she rolls her eyes as she stands, but the smile has returned.

“Well excuse me. Some of us have a reputation to uphold. Actually, Hawke--” he gestures towards the door to his miniature suite, beckoning her through “--that’s going to include you very soon. You know how they are in High Town, after all.” His tone is light as a feather, threatening a chuckle.

Hawke shrugs her way out of the room, and he follows, then turns to pull the door shut. Not that locking it means a hell of a lot -- everyone basically already knows not to bother Varric’s things. It still makes him feel better.

“It might. If my share is what you said, I should be able to get the mansion.” A small throaty laugh escapes her. Varric fumbles with the key a moment, then shakes his head:

“And then some. Don’t worry, it’s not too difficult to line up buyers for ancient dwarven chamberpots.”

She laughs again as he turns around to find she’s still facing him. “I may just keep one. I’ll think of Bartrand every time I sh--” The expletive is drowned by the laughter that bursts out from deep in Varric’s body. Maker, it feels good to laugh like that.

“Alright, alright, I get the picture, you don’t have to get gross. Let’s go already.” He gestures again, toward the stairs. Hawke’s mouth twitches in a mischievous smile, but she turns on her heel and That’s where I stopped?? And then, a rare thing, an OUTLINE:

--- Months before learning Carver survived ---

Scene one: Two weeks after returning from the Deep Roads. Hawke and Varric go to the Black Emporium (pretend it is first time) to try and sell off some of the rarer goods. Run into Anders on the way, drag him along (hint at annoyance, very light).

Something something plot hook idek. Bandits? Someone sniffing about the manor trying to buy it first? Figger it out.

Small amount of time skip, nighttime scene, everyone loves fucking Wicked Grace at the Hanged Man scenes lets do this. Flirting, but table-wide. Some stupid observation from Varric about attention from Hawke being great or whatever blah blah blah. Maybe like a shoulder touch ho ho ho gettin’ racy. But point is Hawke is manic, flirtatious and drowning her anxiety, pretending to be happy about a good sale, whatever.

Hawke like blind drunk, Isabela already took someone to her room, everyone else has wandered off, SUPER PLANTONIC FLUFFY tucking her into his bed and setting up to a sleepness night writing just make sure it hurts a little how much Varric is taking care of her.

Morning afterwards maybe a fight OH NO about Carver?? oh no, Marie feeling stupid and hungover and sad and Varric sticking his foot in his mouth for once trying to be reassuring. You tits.

Break for action about whatever DUMB PLOT is happening, gives a chance for building tension because they’re being weird ha ha TIME TO BE WEIRD. Other people. Resist using Isabela to deliver tired lines about how they should shut up and kiss. Resist it. But whatever whole point is tension. Do not break the tension. Laughter must be strained.

Who loves shirty Hawke? Everyone. Anyway moving things along lets have enough time pass now for Carver to be Survive! Hooray? And so real celebration, everyone knows good news is an even better excuse to drink than avoiding problems.

Speaking of avoiding problems maybe like now is when Marie is still being shirty and Varric is like also shirty and so they have a “private” conversation at the bar (Varric, getting his own drinks? Must be serious) and now, now we’ll put cracks in that tension eggshell, there’s a baby bird inside ok it needs to breathe.

Varric is a grownup and Hawke is pretending. Let’s make more touching happen and confusion.

???

#dragon age #varric tethras #Marie Hawke #female Hawke #Varric x Hawke #ls posts

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carelessgraces · 3 years

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okay so the point i was going for yesterday:

this series thrives on its difficult choices and origins was hands-down the best developed to handle questions of grey morality and impossible options. it didn’t always play out perfectly with the mechanics of it being a video game, so you know you’ve gotta be okay at the end of it, but: choosing whether or not to leave a possessed connor behind in an absolutely ravaged redcliffe, for the two-plus weeks it would take to get to the circle and come back with mages? it’s “save a child” versus “save an entire town.” bhelen is genuinely terrifying in that he has all the makings of a complete tyrant — actually literally officially executing his political opponents, repeatedly, and shutting down the only avenue for effective discussion and disagreement — but he’s also exactly what orzammar needs in terms of both social and economic progress. the brecilian forest was a little easier for me — “kill the dalish” isn’t a good option, ever, and when it comes down to kill zathrian and lift the curse vs. kill the werewolves, the former is clearly the choice you’re meant to make? to limit damage in the future, and continued damage now. the mage tower is the hardest, i think, to call effectively morally grey, because there really isn’t anything to suggest that the tower HAS to be annulled? because there’s no indication that if it’s not, the people outside the tower are in serious danger. and by the time you’ve finished everything, you know who is and isn’t possessed, you’ve literally seen it, so annulling the tower at that stage is just kinda evil.

choosing anora or alistair is another really difficult one because anora proves time and again that she’s either not as competent as she says she is, or she has no moral backbone of which to speak ( because it all comes down to the tevinter presence in the alienage: if she isn’t aware that an agreement to sell elves into slavery has been signed by her father, who does not have an official title besides the one he’s given himself and certainly not one that would be recognized by most foreign powers, that means that she’s not paying a lick of attention to the sudden influx of money in the treasury, to pay for a civil war of her father’s making, or to the actual literal slave trade happening literally under her nose. if she knows and does nothing about it — which seems a lot more likely given that she a.) erects a statue in loghain’s honor after the blight if she rules alone, enslaved elves be damned and b.) has violent clashes with the alienage due to food shortages only if she rules alone, all of which indicate a measure of indifference at best toward the most vulnerable people in ferelden, but i’ll yell about that on my da multi rather than here — she’s willing to bide her time and allow elves, including elven children, to be shipped off to tevinter and enslaved, or she only cares when she can use it politically. but anora is also better trained than alistair, anora has more experience than alistair, and what the country needs is some measure of stability. however, ethically, she really has no place in power over anyone. choosing alistair is potentially disastrous because despite the fact that he’s a really, really, really good man, he has no political training, no experience, and will likely be manipulated by eamon, who we really should be able to let die.

and the anora / alistair choice is probably the one most similar to the templar / mage choice in inquisition. on the one hand you have a force that will fit in neatly with the structure in place, that will most likely get the most done the quickest, and that will provide some measure of consistency for the people and in gaining allies across the board. this force has proven itself cruel, either through the active choice of cruelty or indifference to the point of cruelty, and offers the most effective results but only if you’re willing to really, really do the ethically fucked up thing. on the other hand, you have a group of refugees fleeing centuries of violent oppression, whose organization is better suited for a university than for a war, who genuinely terrify most civilians, and who would need to be heavily trained. they are, hands down, the ethically correct choice — protecting the oppressed rather than siding with their oppressors, bringing about real change and progress — but logistically and politically speaking it’s kind of a crapshoot. and i think, i think, that if this had been built up in much the way that anora vs alistair was built up — one is a good moral choice, one is a good political choice, you can’t have both at the start but you can hope they’re influenced in the right way — it would have been a lot more effective? and on the fan side: i have a lot more trouble getting people invested in a pro-templar inquisitor than a pro-mage inquisitor, which is fair because i agree that allying with the mages is the right thing to do, and i don’t blame anyone at all for their discomfort with a pro-templar inquisitor. but i think that it’s because this got pitched to us as a moral dilemma when it wasn’t one, and the way that this was made into a “moral dilemma” was by rewriting a lot of 2.

because pushing “anders was a terrorist” is... lazy at best? and i’m sorry for being pedantic but this is a major pet peeve: anders does not engage in a campaign of terror. he engages first in peaceful protest, then in physical defense of people, and the explosion at the chantry is both a last resort and is actively timed to avoid collateral damage. terrorism, by definition, requires the terrorist to engage in that kind of act with the explicit intent of terrorizing civilians to force a state or institution to grant the terrorist’s demands. anders set off the explosion at a time when there were few people in the chantry — not during a service of any kind, not when people were paying attention to the chantry, but when their attention was elsewhere. he made a point of limiting casualties, and the act was done exclusively to prevent a slaughter, after nearly a decade of trying literally everything else. ( on the flip side, in inquisition we literally have sebastian inform the inquisition that he intends to invade kirkwall — not because he thinks hawke and anders can be found there, but because he wants to terrorize the civilians until hawke and anders surrender. so we do have an example of how this can be used in warfare, in-game, with the same players, and they’re two vastly different approaches. ) so to make the “anders was a terrorist” line make more sense they insisted on massive numbers of casualties from the explosion, they undermined hawke’s support of anders by default, and they made the explosion at kirkwall out to be the spark for the mage rebellion, when we know from the books that this wasn’t the case at all. so it’s a lot of retconning to try and make the mage-templar choice in 2 a morally difficult one, when we know it isn’t, and when the game doesn’t allow it to be. because love or hate anders, senselessly slaughtering a tower full of mages after a decade-plus of rampant abuses, which are horrifying and canonically confirmed by templars every chance the game has, it really doesn’t stand up to any sort of scrutiny. the only real moral dilemma in “the last straw” is whether or not to execute anders ( tho i’ve never been able to do it, it is set up to be a difficult choice, and it’s much more effective ).

anyway i’m not sure how to sum this up tidily but the gist of it is that i think the mage-templar choice in inquisition is best understood as a parallel for the anora-alistair choice in origins, rather than the mage-templar choice in 2?

#(my da yelling tag really should be separate)#i. fuck the divine. ( ani yells about dragon age )#(there we go)

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talesfromthefade · 4 years

Text

Anders x Fenris (Post Legacy DLC, Wings!AU ), for @dadrunkwriting and @contreparry

Anders doesn’t quite know how to go about bringing it up. It seems, however, like the sort of thing they should probably talk about. Even if it isn’t, well, the healer has always been far too curious for his own good. And he did at least manage to make himself wait until they’d left Corypheus’ corpse and the Warden prison behind them and were sheltered in the relative safety and privacy of their tent for the night. He should probably wait until they’ve returned to Kirkwall, Fenris is always the most himself, the most open, whenever it’s just the two of them holed up in his mansion in Hightown, but the thought of waiting even two more days for answers sounds absolutely maddening.

“Out with it, Mage. Think any louder you will wake Hawke and Varric,” Fenris says, interrupting his meditation. There’s a playfulness, though, teasing in his tone as the elf scolds him that makes Anders smile. It’s been ages now since the elf used the term for him with any sort of bile. It sounds, almost fond…

He’d thought it fascination, at first. That the elf’s interest was only in his wings. Allowing Fenris to groom them had been- well, wonderful if he’s being truthful, but also a kind of a test. Permitted with the expectation it probably wouldn’t happen twice. Except it had. As had a number of other unexpected kindnesses. Fenris seeks him out now. He speaks to him, listens to him, remembers little things, saves herbs where he can for him to use in his clinic… And the way he looks at him, even before their run-in with this crazed old Tevinter Magister, but, rather, over these last few months since they started spending more time together outside of the rest of the group. It isn’t just his imagination. It can’t be… And, surprising as the thought was initially, Anders finds that he likes it. Perhaps even a little too much.

Justice is quite sure this is a distraction. It is, thoughts of Fenris occupy Anders’s thoughts at least as often as anything else. And this thing, whatever this is between them, Anders doesn’t want to ruin it, the thought of doing so is how he’s managed to hold back asking Fenris about it this long. But he and Karl had never spoken aloud about what they shared, never given it a name, and that had hardly spared him any pain when it was gone. Still, for all that Anders is curious, even a little desperate, to get some answers, he doesn’t have the first idea how to begin this conversation, how to go about determining what Fenris might be feeling or want from him without leaving his own heart completely exposed, between his fingers for him to crush.

“Anders,” Fenris prompts again.

“Are we friends,” Anders manages, hedging his bets at the last minute.

“Yes,” Fenris replies without a moment’s hesitation.

This isn’t that big of a revelation with all the time they’ve been spending together lately but given in the early days Fenris would have loathed admitting even knowing him, Anders can’t help the soft intake of breath at the elf’s unflinching confirmation. He’d hoped, somehow, this smaller question might embolden him to ask the more pressing question that burns at the tip of his tongue and presses in from the corners of his mind. It doesn’t. The precipice Anders finds himself standing on the edge of is every bit as terrifying as it was a few minutes ago.

“Why do you ask?”

Anders bites his lip. Maker, it was never this hard with Karl. He’d pretty much just given him eyes from across the library for a week or two and when the older boy didn’t knock his lights out or cast a fireball at him, he’d sauntered over and snogged the daylights out of him. That had pretty much been that. But things were different in the Circle, with Karl. Fenris is different. So much of his life has been inflicted on him without his consent or choice. Anders has worked damn hard to earn the elf’s trust. The last thing he wants is to become just another mage who’s tried to use and impose his will on him.

“What does ‘Amatus’ mean?”

It’s not the question he’d meant to ask. Not yet, anyway, although it has certainly been bouncing around in the back of his mind ever since he started replaying the events just before Justice overtook him in the dank and murky depths at the base of the prison tower. It’s out there now, though, so Anders decides his other question can wait a moment longer. Perhaps the answer to this one will provide a little more clarity and a helping of courage. But Fenris looks… conflicted. Even, although the elf would probably never admit it, just a little bit nervous.

“I did not realize you heard me,” Fenris admits softly, shaking his head.

“But you are going to tell me what it means, right,” Anders asks, trying desperately for casual or teasing and kicking himself for the nervous quiver that he can’t quite banish from his voice.

“It-” Fenris hesitates for a moment. “It means you have become- important to me.” Anders swallows the sudden lump that’s formed in his throat. That can’t be the literal translation, of course, which Anders still hopes to learn at some point, but this feels… big. “Anders, I-”

A few years ago, before he and Justice merged, Anders would have pounced on the first opportunity of pursuing this. But the healer likes to think he’s done some growing since then, though, become a little less selfish than the impatient young man he used to be. Which is not to say that it isn’t incredibly tempting. This is after all, what he’s been trying to work up to talking to Fenris about. But it’s likewise, simply not possible to ignore the all too fresh reminders of the permanence of his commitment to the Wardens their latest adventure with Hawke. This won’t last forever. It can’t.

“You should find someone else, love. You don’t want all the ugliness I’m going to bring into your life.”

“Love?”

It takes Fenris repeating the term of endearment for Anders to realize he’s just voiced his thoughts aloud and completely shown his hand. Because Fenris said he was important, and that’s amazing, but that doesn’t mean he’s ready for this.

“Fuck.”

There’s abrupt rustling as his companion rushes to free himself from his bedroll and suddenly Anders is knocked backward as he finds himself with a lapful of the elf and Fenris’s lips crash into his own.

“Beloved,” Fenris pants breathlessly when he finally pulls back to allow them both to draw breath. He waits a moment for Anders’ confused honey eyes to open again and meet his. “Amatus, means beloved,” he clarifies, a strong, callused hand reaching up with to cup his cheek with the same tenderness and care Fenris shows tending to his wings.

“Fenris-” Anders begins, fighting every impulse that screams at him, begs him to hold his tongue or perhaps put it to better use with his companion. Fenris shakes his head.

“Later,” Fenris interrupts, punctuating the word with another kiss. “I thought I lost you today, to voices I couldn’t hear or fight. To whatever that monster we fought was.”

“But-” It’ll happen again. One day. And Anders doesn’t have the first idea how much time they have. Fenris can’t possibly want that. He shouldn’t have to deal with that. He deserves- so much more than that.

“You are not the only one with ugliness in your life,” Fenris offers softly, interrupting his inner monologue with a rueful smile that melts his heart, “and it does nothing to diminish the beautiful things about you. Ask me, Mage. Anders,” he corrects with a smile. “Ask me what you wanted to before.”

“Would you ever consider becoming something more than friends?” It feels almost silly to ask now the elf’s had his tongue down his throat, but Anders feels his chest tighten, holding his breath for the answer all the same. He melts into the warm hand that slides to the back of his neck and tangles in his hair as Fenris lets his forehead drop to rest against his.

“Yes,” Fenris whispers and Anders can’t possibly tear his eyes from the large, beautifully bright, and oh so deep green ones that bore into his, into his very soul, but he can feel his smile. “Amatus.” Later, Anders agrees, chasing Fenris’s mouth with his. They’ll figure the rest out later.

#dadrunkwriting #contreparry #fenders #fenris #anders #dragon age 2 #da2 #dragon age #wings!au #trans!fenris

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skycendre-blog · 5 years

Text

I often hear from DA fans that they love Anders, but “they feel too conflicted” over the Chantry exploding

And they can’t condone the act, even when they recognize that Anders “had a good reason”. Arguments are generally “I agree with the purpose but not with the action”, “blowing up a palace is too extreme”, “by doing that, Anders turned into Meredith”, “he’s as bad as the Templars”.

It could be argued that there is no in-game validation for hundreds of people dying. That only a bunch of Chantry-folk exploded with the building - we’re talking about 20 to 30 casualties here - and that the bomb was limited to the building and collateral damage wasn’t excessive.

It could also be argued that Anders had no choice. He tried for six years to peacefully petition for mage rights, he wrote his manifesto, he smuggled fugitives out of the Gallows and sheltered them in the clinic. He healed the poor and the sick in Darktown. After six years, the whole province was under Templar dictatorship, and Meredith had already requested Annulment directly to Orlais. It’s not like Anders could have done anything else.

But let’s get real, and admit that it's understandable that the "grand" gesture of blowing up a building leaves people “conflicted”, prompting them to shook their heads in disbelief, and blame Anders of being “the real bad guy”. Why? But because that’s exactly how the game is trying to sell it.

There's some narrative there. Just look at how that building explodes. Two big columns of light converging, ominous music. The camera zooming on the terrified people inside, helpless as the world around them becomes a burning blast of white/red destructive magic.

It’s horrifying to watch, especially because it takes after a very dark chapter of real world history, and the first-run players witness it wide eyed, shocked as they couldn’t fathom such a sheer amount of destruction falling onto the city they learned to love through three Acts of Dragon Age 2. But let’s also consider the fact that for those three Acts, what the player does is pretty much kill people. There are a few missions where the foes are only monsters - such as those on Sundermount and the Bone Pit - but for the most part, Hawke and their merry band of misfits spend their time together slaughtering men and women, old and young, named or unnamed.

Some could say that these people “attacked first”, but that’s surely not always the case: in a lot of instances it’s people minding their own business, and Hawke barging in to put an end to it, for a reason or another. In some others, the player decides that a person/group of people can’t simply walk away, therefore they kill them or prompt a companion to do it.

During the first time skip, the player can also decide to have Hawke work as a mercenary, and they do so for an entire year. A mercenary by definition - as also seen with the first mission - kills people for money.

Moreover, there are a lot of routes the player can take that allow pretty bad stuff to happen.

Some examples: If Hawke sides with the Templars, they get to butcher a group of mages and their families, as they were about to flee Kirkwall. If the player allows Ser Karras’ group to get to the Starkhaven apostates in Act 1, some mages get murdered and Karras rapes Alain. The player can also have Feynriel turn into an Abomination if so they wish, which prompts Arianni to kill herself, and leads to a ton of awful things happening in Kirkwall. Not to mention that if you say the wrong thing to the Dalish hunters after Marethari’s death, you end up wiping out the Sabrae clan in its entirety. And that you can literally sell a person into slavery - not a random person, one of your companions.

Hawke definitely kills a lot of people during the game. Innocents or not, involved or not, for one reason or another, petty or serious, for money and glory or for a good cause. Varric makes a rough count at some point in Act 2, and by then it's already around 250 deaths, speaking only of those Varric witnessed firsthand.

All of this gets a free morality pass from the game.

Sure, sometimes other NPCs judge you for your actions, but there’s no single occasion where the game presents Hawke’s choices as unforgivable, ominous or inhuman. There’s no single occasion where the game shows a cutscene of “helpless innocents” dying at Hawke’s hand, which stays forever burned into the player’s mind.

Then Anders blows up the Chantry.

He blows up the symbol of centuries’ worth of abuse and oppression, which has the whole Kirkwall province under Templar dictatorship, which never once in game has done anything remotely useful for the poor and the sick of Darktown. Which spawned and empowered people like Petrice, which allowed Templars like Ser Alrik to rise in the ranks, which orchestrated the murder of the Viscount’s heir and provoked the Qunari enough to have them almost destroy Kirkwall.

Anders blows up the Chantry, Elthina dies alongside a bunch of chantry-folk, and the game gives you THAT scene. That terrible, horrifying scene which screams “WRONG”, yelling that it doesn’t matter what mages have suffered and are still suffering, it doesn’t matter that they’re all about to die because Meredith already called Annulment, nothing matters anymore: this is just unacceptable.

Forget about everything else Anders did in those six years. Forget about the clinic, the manifesto, the friendship or love he shares with Hawke. Anders is unforgivable now, the game itself is telling you he’s a monster. That he went too far. “He put a bomb into a building full of innocent people”. In a world such as Thedas, “innocent people” dying for a reason or another is a daily occurrence. Mages dying on a whim of their Templar captors is a daily occurrence. Mages ripped away from their families as children, locked up, abused, raped, beaten, lobotomized.

And they’re innocent too. All the victims of Chantry brutality are innocent to some degree, but all of this too is completely wiped out by that short cutscene.

The Chantry explodes, Elthina and her subordinates die, and people blame Anders for rebelling instead of blaming the Chantry for everything else. Even if Anders tried peacefully for six years. Even if he was one single man against that colossal institution of oppression and abuse of every race and culture, which brainwashed almost an entire continent into mindlessly following their “divine law”. The game yells that “killing innocent people” is wrong.

I yell that no Chantry-folk in Kirkwall was innocent.

Even if I put the bloody, murderous history of the Chantry aside, if one allows law enforcements to rape and kill, one is not innocent. Elthina and her cronies were the most complicit of them all.

It’s 2019. Stop blaming the victims of abuse, and stop buying into BioWare’s narrative of “innocent people dying”, purposely intended to villainize and shame the one person who dared to stand up against systemic oppression, giving a voice to all the mages whose cries were snuffed out.

It is lore-established that countless innocent people died because of the Chantry - in the seventeen Rights of Annulment pulled in Thedosian history, in the Exalted Marches, in the systemic erasure of Dalish and Chasind culture. That innocent people die every day of starvation in the alienages and in the city slums, and in the Circles when Templars decide to kill or lobotomize them.

Innocent people don’t live in a luxurious palace in the most opulent part of the city, so coated in gold that it could buy the whole Free Marches.

Innocent people don’t have an army of brainwashed zealots to enforce their laws, kept on a leash by drug addiction.

Innocent people don’t preach and empower centuries of abuse perpetrated upon others, whose only fault is being born different.

Anders&Justice did the only right thing possible, and their actions should be a fandom-wide appreciated symbol of pride and freedom.

#mage rights #Anders #Justice #mage freedom #the chantry sucks #Stop blaming the victims of abuse #Innocent people rhetoric doesn't work in a medieval-based world #The Chantry IS NOT INNOCENT #Anders did nothing wrong #Mage Pride

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bettydice · 5 years

Note

For the tarot prompt: the fool (Hawke and Fenris?).

the fool: innocence, playfulness, recklessness; “Let’s go on an adventure!”

_____________________

“I just want to repeat that I consider this to be a very foolish endeavour, Hawke.”

“And I shall, once again, assure you that there’s nothing to worry about, my darling.”

She’s not even looking at him while she says that, too occupied with trying to lace up her dress on her own. Fenris has observed Hawke in plenty of precarious situations and has seen her display an often frightening amount of focus and finesse while fighting with her daggers or disarming traps. A focus and finesse she refuses to use for literally anything else. Well. Except for in bed, he supposes. And lacing up dresses, apparently. He couldn’t have known that last one, since this is the first time he has ever seen her wearing one.

He crosses the room to help her with the laces, as his own change of clothes was dealt with disappointingly quick. Rough, brown trousers. A rough, slightly less brown shirt. Hawke sends a relieved smile his way and happily lets him take over, occupying her hands instead with the important task of reaching behind her to try and muss up Fenris’ hair. He can’t focus on the lacing across her back as well as avoiding her searching hands, so he lets her ruffle.

“There, done. Now I know why you never wear these, it’s a miracle your impatience let itself be tied up like this even once.”

As soon as he’s finished speaking, he knows what her next words are going to be and his lips are twitching with fond exasperation as she opens her mouth.

“I thought you knew how much I liked being tied up, in fact, I remember a time, oh, a mere fortnight ago where—”

Fenris quickly moves to her front, so he can take her face between his hands and kiss her. She’s warm and pliant beneath him, eagerly opening up as his tongue brushes her lower lip. Here, in this moment, they are unhurried and he cherishes the knowledge, deepening the kiss until they’re both breathing heavily.

“Mmm… I take it you like the dress?”

Hawke does a terrible approximation of a curtsy, hiking the skirt up to her knees in the process.

“It is… Well, it’s certainly… It reminds me of… You know that vegetable seller in Lowtown… I think he uses a similar cloth to store some of his produce.”

“Now listen ‘ere, ye daft twonker, Ah’m not wearin’ a bloody potato sack!”

Hearing her speak the way he’s only heard while she was considerably inebriated and at the point where she started draping herself over other’s shoulders and laps, it takes him by surprise. He’s charmed and laughing at her but… Memories of a crowded Hanged Man begin to stir in his heart: the smell of cheap ale and cheaper whisky, the sound of Merrill’s sparkling laughter and Isabela’s purring, Varric smiling and observing them from behind his cards, Aveline drunk and asleep against Donnic’s chest, Anders rushing in late and…

It seems that she can sense the direction his thoughts have taken and her smile falters.

“We shall see them again.” Today it’s his turn to say this and as always, he doesn’t add ‘Those that are still alive.’ It is why they are here, after all. Trying to survive, so they can, too. Hawke acknowledges it with a brisk nod and then puts her smile back on her face. He tries to do the same.

“Are you ready to see Lothering, my beautiful lover?”

“No one has ever looked beautiful in these clothes, I’m sure.” Fenris looks down and snorts. “Are these some of those torn trousers you kept finding and keeping in Kirkwall, for some unknowable reason?”

“Of course not!” She pats his cheek and presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “I got these clothes from the Lost and Found bin here in the inn.”

Fenris feels itchy.

“Still… are you sure we should be walking around the hometown of the Champion?”

Hawke smiles, despite the fact that they’ve talked this over several times already. Well, at first, they’d argued about it. And he’d eventually agreed, sensing how much she wanted to return, see everything again. See it with him at her side, so she’s not alone for it.

“Yes, I am sure.” She cards her fingers through his hair as she begins rattling off the familiar reasoning and he leans into her touch. “I’m basically best friends with Alistair who is a Grey Warden and married or something to THE Warden who is also a dwarven princess, Maker, what a woman, do you remember her, I love her! Anyway, they’re like best friends with Queen Anora, so we’ll always know about Templar movements and Bethy is safe with the Wardens, as long as she doesn’t bloody join them, fuck, it’s exactly the thing she’d do, if I come back there to find her sniffing around for Darkspawn, I swear by Andraste’s tits that I’ll make her vomit until whatever Grey Warden magic has turned her has been barfed right back up. Though I have to make sure Poppy isn’t around then, that bloody dog just can’t help but to lick up even the most disgusting things, do you remember that time Ave—”

“Hawke.”

She bites her lip and gives him a sheepish smile.

“It’ll be fine.”

“Exactly! That’s what I’ve been telling you!”

He rolls his eyes and then takes her hand, interlocking their fingers.

“Shall we go then? How did you put it? Just ‘two simple peasants strolling through, enjoying the countryside’.”

“Aye, mester, tha giddit in ‘un, well dun!”

“Are you going to keep talking like that the entire time.”

Of course she is and once again he smiles, before he hears her reply. He presses a kiss against the back of her hand and then lets her drag him out of the door, towards her past and their future.

#snippetsrus #fenris/hawke #f!hawris #fenris #dragon age 2 #apologies for the 'country slang'#this took way too much thinking about my post-game headcanon than the word count justifiey #oh well #betty drabbles #thx for the prompt!

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tauristar · 6 years

Text

Okay, as far as I can tell, everyone’s been here. Everyone knows this whole debate of Cullen vs. Alistair. However, I wanted to investigate it myself, and bring to light what makes them so different.

(And yes, their appearances count as a difference. Inquisition Alistair’s design was not the Alistair I know. I Do Not Like It. Bioware why.)

So, what makes them similar? They were both sent to the Chantry and were both to become Templars. Beyond that, there’s... Not much else. I think I could find more similarities in Anders and Alistair, or Sebastian and Cullen. Though since that’s completely irrelevant, let’s go back to that one similarity and expand on it to show just how little of a similarity it is.

Alistair’s case:

He never wanted to go to the Chantry. He was sent to the Chantry by Arl Eamon at age 10 because he had nowhere else to go.

Furthermore, he despised being sent away to the Chantry so much that in a fit of anger, he threw his mother’s amulet at a wall and shattered it.

He didn’t take his Templar training as seriously as he could of.

He’s not even that particularly religious, regardless of being taught by the Chantry. (This is noted in a conversation between him and Zevran.)

Does he actually become a Templar? No.

He doesn’t regret leaving the Chantry, or the Templar Order in that matter.

Cullen’s case:

He asked the Templars at the local Chantry every day if he could become a Templar, and they convinced Cullen’s parents to let him train at age 13.

He wanted to be a model student, no matter what. So, he took his training incredibly seriously, in hopes that he would become the best Templar Thedas had seen.

He is a religious man.

Cullen actually completed his Templar training, Alistair did not.

The only reason he left the Templar Order was because after Kirkwall, he didn’t want to be associated with them, and the Inquisition was doing more good than the Templars were at the time.

That’s just on their basis of which they got their Templar training. The only similarity they have, and there are a handful of differences to counter it. Now, to further prove how different they are, let’s move on to: their different views on mage rights and the treatment of mages.

Cullen, admittedly, has been through hell. He’s been tortured for days on end because of Uldred and the other blood mages in the Fereldan Circle, and he watched as countless other Templars succumbed to a fate he tried so hard to resist. Then, hoping that things couldn’t get much worse, he was sent to the Kirkwall Chantry and Circle in hopes of helping establish a sense of peace and control there. Lo and behold, blood mages were coming up all over the place, treatment of mages reach terrible heights, and then the Knight-Commander he was meant to trust goes crazy from red lyrium. Yikes.

But! Does that trauma excuse his anger with mages? To go as far as to state that “mages aren’t like you and me”?

Absolutely not. And that man can’t go back on his word, either: yes, you can romance him in Inquisition as a mage, but even then he seems nervous about it. He still clings to the Templar way of life even when he’s trying so desperately to let it all go. I mean, if he really wanted nothing to do with that life, wouldn’t he have just stayed right out of the choice between Mages and Templars when it came to sealing the Breach the first time? He instead defends the Templars when questioned about their abilities -- “I was a Templar. I know what they’re capable of.” He still wears the title like a badge of honor.

This could be put down as bad writing; it’s incredibly inconsistent, especially if we’re supposed to believe Cullen wants nothing to do with that life.

However, considering it is canon, it goes to show his character. He clings to the Templar life as it’s the only thing he knows, and he distrusts the mages so much that he counters their (theoretically sound) method of helping seal the Breach with the Templar (speculative) method. And have you heard him speak within a five mile radius during Origins and 2?

As a mage Warden, he says some harsh things upon your return.

“You are a mage and I, a templar. It is my duty to oppose you and all that you are.”

Warden: “Is it so surprising that I’ve returned? This was my home.” Cullen: “As it was mine. And look what they’ve done to it. They deserve to die. Uldred most of all.”

Warden: “You need to stay strong.” Cullen: “And to think I once thought that we were too hard on you.” Warden: “We’re not all evil, Cullen.” Cullen: “Only mages have that much power at their fingertips. Only mages are so susceptible to the infernal whisperings of the demons.”

“You can’t save them. You don’t know what they’ve become. They’ve been surrounded by blood mages whose wicked fingers snake into your mind and corrupt your thoughts.” (At this point, if you have Alistair with you, he comments: “His hatred of mages is so intense... The memories of his friends’ deaths is still fresh in his mind.”)

If you tell him that you refuse to risk killing innocents, he says: “I am just willing to see the painful truth, which you are content to ignore.” He also ends the conversation with: “Maker turn His gaze on you. I hope your compassion hasn’t doomed us all.”

... Yikes, buddy. I know your friends have been murdered by blood mages, specifically Uldred, but Yikes.

Oh, he also accuses First Enchanter Irving of being a blood mage. Since, of course, if one was corrupted in the line of Enchanter titles then he must definitely be, since he’s the First Enchanter, right? It’s a narrow thought process, but it’s an understandable one since he just went through a traumatic experience. The thing is he had no evidence in the matter, so his accusation is empty and uncalled for. I have to admit, I hated how Cullen pulled off that stunt.

But if you’re wondering about Dragon Age 2 quotes, there’s plenty in the limited interactions you can have with him:

“Mages cannot be our friends. They must always be watched.”

Hawke: “I got friends who are mages. Are you saying that they need to ‘always be watched’, as well?” Cullen: “I was at the Circle Tower in Ferelden during the Blight. I saw firsthand how templars’ trust and leniency can be rewarded. I still have nightmares of Uldred’s depravities.”

Hawke: “Not all mages are like that.” Carver: “Brother/Sister, not now.” Cullen: “True, not every mage gives into temptation, but none are ever free from it. At any time, any mage can become a monster, from the lowest apprentice to the most seasoned enchanters. Mages cannot be treated like people. They are not like you and me.”

“They are weapons. They have the power to light a city on fire in a fit of pique.”

Hawke: “There’s fault on both sides. We must find a way to live in peace.” Cullen: “Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps mages need better education as to why the Chantry functions as it does.” (Me @ this I... Don’t think that’s what Hawke meant.....)

Overall, he really... Can’t take back what he’s said in the past here. He’s clearly uninterested in the mages and their needs and / or wants after the incident at Ferelden, and doesn’t seem to want to be interested. There’s a level of genuine understanding here, because it can easily be seen as a traumatic experience he can’t move past, but it still doesn’t excuse him for his words / actions.

I would also like to add this quote: “I’ve seen the suffering magic can inflict. I’ve treated mages with distrust because of it, at times without cause. That was unworthy of me. I will try not to do so here.”

Okay, so Cullen at least acknowledges his treatment of mages as horrible and says he will try not to do that again. Try. The key with words is that if you use the wrong word, it creates an implication that you’re not aiming for; Cullen’s choice to use the word “try” in that last sentence proves that although he acknowledges what he has done in the past, he’s only going to try and change it. And, does he really try? Does he really?

He literally continues with: “Not that I want mages moving through our base completely unchecked. We need safeguards in place to protect people, including mages, from possession at the least.”

So, he acknowledges that he had distrusted mages in the past because of his awareness that magic can cause suffering -- especially since he endured torture for days on end thanks to magic. But then, instead of taking a crucial baby step to truly redevelop a better relationship with mages, he wants to place so-called “safeguards” to watch mages to try and stop possession. He can say this to the face of a mage Inquisitor -- can you imagine if the elf Inquisitor or the qunari Inquisitor could respond to Cullen’s suggestion? It’s as though he still refuses to trust them, even a little bit, to move freely through a base without scrutiny.

Overall, his original statement seems void. His choice of words devalue the meaning behind his half-promise; if anything, he should have avoided using the word try if he was being genuine about his attempt.

As for Alistair?

His view is very different. In Origins, he can talk with a mage Warden and express sympathy / empathy for them, when he asks if they ever lost someone close to them:

“That must have felt a lot like when I got sent to the Chantry. You mages don’t even get a say in the matter, after all.”

He genuinely sympathizes with the mages because he has an understanding on what it feels like to be sent away without a choice. The only reason he didn’t was because where else could he have gone? But Alistair recognizes and perfectly understands the situation in which mages face in the Circles. In a way, this really shows his character in one line: he cares. He treats the mages as if they’re like any other person in Thedas, which they are! But that’s not how Cullen sees it, as demonstrated in his quoting.

In Dragon Age 2, as King of Ferelden in Act III, you can go and meet him with Hawke and then walk into him and Meredith having a heated debate. There are two versions of this:

Alistair: Let me guess: that's your final answer? Meredith: Three mages have fled to Ferelden, and you have intervened to protect them as if it is your right to do so. What other answer did you expect, your Majesty?

Alistair: Let me guess: that's your final answer? Meredith: You declare your Circle of Magi free, as if its your right to do so, and thus stir up every mage outside of your kingdom. What other answer did you expect, your Majesty?

He actually protects mages fleeing into Ferelden, and probably being completely aware of what Meredith has been doing to the Kirkwall Circle mages. (Surely a king can gather information on that. Plus, it’s not like it was that big a secret.) Or, if your Warden was a mage and asks for the Magi boon, then the second option plays. He’s genuinely trying to give more freedom to the Circle of Magi, giving them the chance to live as any other human would.

This is one of the most obvious differences between Alistair and Cullen. And it doesn’t end there, either: if Hawke questions him on what happened between himself and Meredith, this is the answer given.

Hawke: You were having an argument about mages? Alistair: Yes, well, apparently I don't feel the same way about mages as the Chantry does. So we're in disagreement. That means they get nasty. They're like that.

Furthermore:

Hawke: Sounds like the Circle is better off in Ferelden. Alistair: You'd think so, wouldn't you? Sadly, I don't control the Circle. I can only deal with mages outside the Circle... of which there aren't many.

And after Alistair says to Hawke to protect Kirkwall, this can be initiated with the Diplomatic option:

Hawke: Protect Kirkwall from what, exactly? Alistair: You ask me, the biggest threat to this city just walked out the door. But maybe that's the ex-templar in me talking.

He’s commenting that Meredith is the biggest threat to the city. Knight-Commander Meredith, who Cullen trusted until the last minute, when she started wielding her sword infused with red lyrium and lost her sanity. Maybe we can’t fault Cullen for that, but Alistair has genuine concern about mages fleeing into Ferelden, mages having actual freedom, and recognizing that Meredith is one of three threats to the city falling apart (the other two being Orsino and Anders, respectively, but that’s incredibly complicated).

These are the two main differences between Alistair and Cullen, and though one can love either one of these characters, the other, or even both of them, it’s very important to know that they’re not both “Chantry boys”. That, and their views are very different particularly when it comes to mages.

(If anyone has anything else to add to this analysis of character, feel free to extend on it! The goal here is to remain neutral to both characters, and instead focus on the writing choices of Bioware and how this expands on the character’s faults, flaws and views that make them different. This may paint Cullen or Alistair in a negative light at times [which is inevitable in Cullen’s case due to his views on mages], but ultimately this is to challenge the character development of both characters and pick out their differences.)

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lady-divine-writes · 6 years

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Klaine one-shot “Life Under Fire” (Rated PG13)

After years of trying to make his way on Broadway, Blaine found his calling in a place his husband Kurt would have never expected - as a firefighter. Living in Southern California, fire season can be treacherous. There's always one call that makes him consider throwing in the towel.

Tonight's call is one of those. (3381 words)

This is the first of three prompts I wrote for @darriness. I will get the other two up soon. Thank you for your patience :)

Written for Prompt 1: Hurt/comfort fic where Blaine is a fireman and goes on a call that ends badly, with a little inspiration from the show 'This Is Us'.

Read on AO3.

Kurt knows when his husband comes home, knows when his SUV reaches the end of the driveway long before he pulls it into the garage. After forty-eight hours away, Kurt’s whole body becomes hyper aware of him - from his key sliding into the lock, to his footsteps on the wood floor, to the exhaustion-laced intake of his breathing, and, sometimes, the smell of wood smoke in the air. Even if Blaine takes the time to shower at the station before he heads home, smoke has a way of clinging to his hair and his skin, seeping into his clothes like an overused cologne …

… especially when Blaine has been immersed in it.

The Ander-Hummel family had been fortunate. They hadn’t had to contend with that smell for the first part of the year. Winter had lasted longer than normal, spring had been mild. Even the beginning of summer had been kind. A few flare-ups – one electrical fire contained to a well-insulated garage; one grease fire that began hot but burned down on its own; one car overheating on the highway, stopped in the second lane on a day with no wind so it didn’t spread to the outlying brush. But that lucky streak ended with a vengeance when morning temperatures soared into triple digits, and drought-ravaged landscapes started catching fire at the drop of a hat.

Or a cigarette.

Kurt checks his cell phone for missed calls or messages. A second later, he checks again. Nothing. Not a word. Not an ‘I’m alright’. Not an ‘I love you’. And definitely not a ‘Be home soon’, which Kurt has been waiting for for hours. It’s been a long night for Kurt. A longer night for Blaine, he knows, but with Blaine in the thick of work, at least he has something to occupy his thoughts.

Kurt has nothing but his thoughts, and that makes shifts like this one a nightmare.

Kurt didn’t pace or fuss while their daughter Tracy was awake. He kept his calm façade intact for her sake. But she’s a smart girl. At only six, she knows what’s up, hence the constant sneaking off to her parent’s room to check the emergency scanner under the guise of using the bathroom.

If she genuinely had to pee as much as she claimed she did that night, Kurt should take her to see a doctor.

So apparently his adorable daughter had created a façade, too; one that hid her fear as skillfully as Kurt’s hid his. This way, Kurt presumed, he wouldn’t have to worry about her while he was busy worrying about Blaine. Kurt was proud of Tracy for it, but it made him sad, too. A girl Tracy’s age shouldn’t have to worry about making life easy for her father. He should be cradling her in his arms and reassuring her that everything is going to be alright.

And he intended to, once he knew everything would be alright.

The second he put Tracy to bed, his vigil began.

Kurt thought he’d eventually become used to this. He’d be the cool spouse, the strong spouse, who had so much faith in his husband’s abilities that several days alone would become old hat for him. In fact, he’d enjoy it. He’d clean, he’d organize, he’d get so much stuff done!

But that’s not the way this works.

Not in Southern California, where they have one thing that other states Kurt has lived in don’t.

Wildfire season.

As far as Kurt could tell from what he heard over the scanner, there were no really worrisome fires burning that night. Blaine had only recently returned from fighting a big fire in L.A. But before Kurt could settle into the idea of Blaine home and safe, he was called out again. Not as far as L.A., but somewhere remote. Somewhere Kurt won’t get many updates. Somewhere Blaine’s phone service cuts out even on a good day.

When 3 a.m. rolled around, Kurt was sure he wouldn’t see his husband until the afternoon, but he’s here. He’s finally home, which means he’s alive.

And the last thing he needs to see is Kurt pacing like a mother hen.

As relieved as Kurt feels, the living room becomes heavier when Blaine limps into it, and though he looks like whatever happened to his leg hurts like hell, he walks right past the first chair in the room and into his husband’s arms, resting his weight on him, giving Kurt his burden to bear for a little while.

“It’s alright,” are the first words past Kurt’s lips, but they mean so much more. They mean I love you, and I’m so happy to see you, and thank God you’re home! Do you know how worried I was? But Kurt’s prayers have been answered. His husband is home. Now’s the time for Blaine to recover from whatever happened tonight.

Kurt doesn’t push. He takes his cue from Blaine. He rubs his husband’s back until Blaine’s grip on his body loosens and his chest stops shuddering.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Blaine’s breathing hitches, a kneejerk response on his lips, but he doesn’t give it. A few false starts later, he says, “No … Yes … I …”

“Come on. Why don’t we sit? You must be exhausted.” Kurt tries to step out of Blaine’s embrace, but Blaine refuses to let go, so Kurt walks them over to the sofa and sits them both down. “Deep breaths. Just … take your time. Whenever you’re ready to talk, I’m ready to listen.”

Blaine nods. He adjusts his position on the cushion, maneuvering Kurt so he stays close beside him. Blaine is unbearably handsome in this low light, and Kurt missed him so. All he wants to do is kiss the pain away, kiss him so he forgets everything. But just when Kurt decides to do just that, Blaine speaks.

“We …” He stops. His voice sounds ragged, like he’s been crying. He takes a breath in through his nose and clears his throat, but it doesn’t help. “We were called to a house fire. Just … just a stupid house fire, burning for a while with no reported complications. It was located up past Julian, so it took us a while to get there - traffic and whatnot. We probably could have let it burn itself out. There were no other structures around. It was practically rubble when we got there.”

“Was it empty?” Kurt asks, hoping against hope that something else is making Blaine’s throat tense up and his shoulders shake. Maybe he hit a dog on the way home. That coupled with a long two days away from home might make him emotional.

Blaine shakes his head.

Kurt sighs.

No such luck.

“There was a family – mom, dad, two sons and a daughter. Triplets. Can you imagine? The dad woke up to the smell of smoke.” Blaine looks at his husband, his cheeks damps, a poignancy in his eyes Kurt doesn’t understand. “He went from room to room, rescued his kids and his wife.”

“Sounds like someone I know,” Kurt says, hoping for a smile. He gets one, but it doesn’t last long.

“They were out of the house, Kurt. They were safe. All that was left for them to do was sit back and watch their house burn, right? But no. He goes back for the cat! The damn cat! I mean, it’s a cat! I love animals as much as the next guy, but you’re out of the house and alive! Leave it behind!” An indignant meow scolds Blaine from over his right shoulder. He turns his head and sees the thoughtful green eyes of their tortoise shell kitty glaring at him in the dark. “No offense, Brian,” Blaine says, pausing to reach out and offer their pet a scratch between the ears. Brian accepts, tilting his chin up and purring loudly. Content with Blaine’s apology, Brian leaps off the couch and leaves him to finish his story. “The cat belonged to his daughter, so I get him going in after it … but I don’t get it. The life of a parent outweighs the life of a pet any day. But he came through the front door with that cat in his arms right as we pulled up, and I’ll tell you … I went a little teary eyed. He looked like a superhero. And it wasn’t for show. He was a genuine guy. Compassionate. Humble. He reminded me of Finn, the way you used to describe him back in high school, remember? Like Superman?”

“Yeah. I remember,” Kurt says, his heart sinking with the feeling that he knows where this story is headed, and why it hit Blaine so hard.

Kurt’s stepbrother Finn meant the world to both of them.

He died a year after graduating high school.

“He was healthy, Kurt. He was strong. We sat around with him for a bit, joking while EMTs took his vitals. He was tired but in good spirits. He looked fine. He mentioned something about being between jobs, and we tossed around the idea of him joining the department. Captain even invited him out for a beer. They took him back to the hospital as a precaution, because of the amount of smoke he’d inhaled. That’s all. It wasn’t until we got back to the station that we heard.”

Kurt puts a hand over Blaine’s. Blaine looks as steadfast and strong as he always does, but Kurt feels him trembling straight down to his shoes. “Heard what?”

Blaine takes a breath, then another, gulping hard to keep from sobbing. “He’s … he’s dead, Kurt. The ER doctor said he had something wrong with his heart, something he was most likely born with. According to his wife, he never knew. But after inhaling all that smoke, he went into cardiac arrest. It happened the second they rolled him into the hospital. And … they lost him. There was literally nothing they could do. Had they known about it earlier, if he’d had it treated, maybe he would have had a chance.” Blaine looks at Kurt, disbelief deepening the lines in his face, lines that hadn’t been there three short years ago. “Kurt - it took the blink of an eye. He went in and out of that fire what? Five times, and not a scratch. Not even a burn worth mentioning. The man was barely in his thirties. He had a wife and three children, and now … they have to live the rest of their lives without him.”

Kurt leans in, rests his head on his husband’s shoulder. Before he says anything, he offers a small prayer of thanks to anyone who might be listening that his husband came out of this okay. That he’s here sitting beside him, telling him this story, instead of Kurt getting that phone call he dreads will someday come. “I’m so sorry, Blaine.”

Blaine sniffles. “Don’t feel bad for me. Feel bad for those kids who have to grow up without a dad.”

“But I do feel bad for you. This obviously affected you.”

“Same crap, different day, you know?”

“I know. And I know that what I’m about to say is going to sound horrible, but you can’t save everyone, no matter how much you want to. That man - he made the decision to go back into that house. Even without knowing about his heart, he understood the risks of running into a burning house.”

“But maybe … maybe if we’d gotten there a few minutes earlier ...”

“I’m not a doctor …” Kurt hugs Blaine harder, trying his best to hold him together “… but I don’t think that you guys showing up late made a difference. It was the smoke he’d been breathing that triggered the cardiac arrest. It was in the air while he rescued his family. Unless you could somehow psychically know that house was going to light on fire, and could get there before it happened, there’s no way you guys arriving sooner would have done any good.”

“But he was fine, Kurt,” Blaine insists softly. “Everyone was fine. This … this was a victory. And then, out of nowhere, it was pulled out from under our feet.”

“I know. I know what that feels like,” Kurt whispers, the memory of his own pulled rug fresh in his mind after decades. After his father survived his first heart attack, then his second, then his first cancer scare, then his second, Kurt thought he had his ducks accounted for, lined in neat little rows where he could keep an eye on them, anticipate their every move, make sure they stayed safe. But there was one duck he hadn’t accounted for. No one had. While Kurt was worrying about his father, out of nowhere, his stepbrother – one of the strongest, healthiest men he knew – died. It came out of the blue, without any warning.

Kurt has been haunted by what ifs ever since.

“I … I just don’t know how much longer I can do this, Kurt. I don’t know how much longer I can give my all and still fail, especially when the price might be someone’s life.”

“What do you want to do?” Kurt asks, excitement tying his stomach in knots. Blaine mentions retiring from time to time. He usually sleeps on it, then brushes it away, but it’s been coming up more frequently. Kurt hopes that’s a good sign. “Do you want to try something else? Go back to music? Teaching? You know that whatever you want to do, I’ll support you 100%.”

Blaine folds his hands in his lap and stares at his laced fingers, the thought of quitting so weighted, it bows his shoulders. “I can’t … I can’t quit. You know the department’s strapped for firefighters as it is.”

“The department may be strapped now, but there will always be recruits. You’re my priority. What do you want to do?”

Blaine continues staring at his hands, confusion and frustration embedded in every inch of his body. “I want my life to mean something.”

“Oh, honey. It does mean something. You mean everything to me and Tracy.”

“I want it to mean something to me. I gave up acting and music because I thought … I thought there was something better. That there was something more important I was meant to do. But what if I was wrong? What if I’m putting us through all of this stress and heartache for nothing?”

“Well, if you were wrong, better to figure it out now, right? While you’re young and healthy. While Tracy’s little enough that uprooting her whole life and moving her to, say, New York, won’t have too much of an effect on her.”

“Yeah,” Blaine agrees, albeit halfheartedly. “Yeah, you’re right. That’s … that’s something I should consider. It really is.”

“And … will you consider it?”

Blaine looks at Kurt, his eyes shimmering with hope, and smiles. “Yes. It is. I promise, it is. To tell you the truth, I consider it all the time – you, me, and Tracy, going back to our old neighborhood, maybe even our old loft, putting her in one off those niche elementary schools in The Village while we go back to writing musicals only you and I were ever meant to star in. Hmm.” Blaine chuckles, relaxing with the memory. “Wouldn’t that be a life?”

“Yeah.” Kurt kisses Blaine on the forehead as his eyelids grow heavy, sorrow finally taking its toll. “That would be a life.” Kurt would love that. He would love it if Blaine woke up in the morning and decided to retire from the fire department. If he went back to writing music and playing at coffee shops until the world realized what an amazingly talented man he was.

But that’s not the man Blaine is anymore.

Kurt remembers the day Blaine decided to become a firefighter. That day, and the whole week leading up to it, was a perfect storm Kurt never foresaw.

Kurt and Blaine thought they had their plans cemented back in high school – back in the days when they knew everything.

A shoebox apartment.

NYADA.

And Broadway.

That’s what they wanted, down to the letter.

And they tried. They gave it everything they had. They auditioned for every role in every new musical or play. They got some background parts, mainly non-speaking roles, but, in the end, they were drowning. They had to sell Kurt’s designer clothes and some of Blaine’s guitars to pay their rent, and they ate whatever the church down the block handed out once a week. Then, one day, Blaine walked through a commercial shoot, and he was discovered. Hired on the spot to star in the pilot for a brand new TV show filming in Los Angeles.

Since their lease was up anyway, they packed their things and moved. It stung Kurt to think that they had no future in New York, a future he’d been dreaming of most of his life, but he held on to the hope that they’d make their way back.

Living in L.A. worked out for a while. They got everything they wanted, only not in the ways they’d wanted it. Kurt didn’t have the same luck finding work in the entertainment industry, but he continued designing, continued sewing, rebuilding his iconic wardrobe with his own creations. He gained a sizable following online and began taking commissions. He became something of a social media influencer. Every day, companies offered him tens of thousands to post their products on his Instagram feed.

The day Kurt’s old boss Isabelle offered him a center spread in Vogue highlighting up-and-coming independent designers, Kurt knew he’d succeeded.

Blaine had become a success, too, but Kurt noticed him start to drift. Blaine said that he was happy, but he didn’t seem happy. There were days Kurt swore Blaine had been happier in their New York loft, struggling between school and work to pay their electric bill, than he was as the lead on a breakout sit-com.

After they adopted Tracy, Kurt thought things would get better. And they did. Blaine loves Tracy. He’s an incredible father. But during the times he spent alone, things started falling apart.

He didn’t know how to love his life when he was alone.

They almost lost their house, and probably could have lost their lives, when a scented candle caught one of their kitchen curtains on fire. Blaine and Kurt got Tracy out of the house mere seconds before the fire trucks pulled up. The three of them stood out front and watched the blaze Blaine thought would devour everything they owned snuffed out within minutes. In those moments of uncertainty, and then triumph, something in Blaine clicked.

A sense of purpose.

He remained mum about it for weeks, mulling it over, thinking about the ramifications of leaving his television career behind to become a firefighter. By the time he told Kurt, one thing was certain.

Blaine had found his calling.

The network renegotiated his contract numerous times before reluctantly agreeing to write him out of his show. Roughly four months and six-hundred hours of training later, Blaine was a full-fledged firefighter. And he was good at it, straight from go. Blaine earned less than he did as an actor, but they had more than they did as fresh faced high school graduates living in the city.

At least then, even when the pipes froze over and they had next to nothing to eat, Kurt slept better at night.

Better than he’ll sleep tonight.

Blaine, on the other hand, will sleep like the dead. He’ll use the next few days to re-evaluate his life. He’ll fix some stuff around the house that doesn’t necessarily need fixing. He’ll help Kurt in the garden and make cookies with Tracy. He may even write a song or two.

He’ll be happy. Or he’ll look it from the outside.

But knowing Blaine, he’ll slough this off the way he has a thousand times before, and the next time his cell phone rings, he’ll go back to work.

And Kurt will go back to pacing the floor, waiting for his husband to come home.

#klaine fanfiction #klaine fic #2018 klaine fic exchange #frankie writes

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poweredbycoffeeandwine · 5 years

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12 Days of Christmas (1/12)

Here we are! The beginning of the 12 Days of Christmas. This fic is for my perfect sunflower @lechatrouge673. Thank you for being a constant source of support, in writing and in life. You are amazing and I am so glad we are friends! You wanted Mercedes and Anders walking in the snow. Ask and you shall receive, love.

***

Cold Outside - Mercedes Hawke x Anders - Holiday Prompt - Dragon Age Canon Verse - All the pining - 1628 words

***

The Hanged Man during Santinalia was boisterous, exciting, distracting. Mercedes still wasn’t used to being out in the open among people and on purpose. After a lifetime of hiding from strangers and Templars, being an openly apostate mage in the middle of Kirkwall could only be described as idiotic. If only her father could see her now.

In attempts to save up money for the deep roads, she has done odd jobs all over the city. She made quite a bit of coin finding and fetching things, serving as an inconspicuous bodyguard-nobody ever suspected the slight, female mage.

Even more recently, she’d volunteered time in the clinic with Anders. Helping people unable to help themselves earned her favor with the undesirables of the city. She knew they would never turn her in, but she still worried. It was hard to break habits instilled in her from such a young age. To trust nobody, stay out of sight, fight only when necessary, don’t advertise magic.

Sitting with her friends, taking in the decor for the holiday, listening to the off key singing she tried to relax. She was glad that for once Carver had some of his old spark back. He was too young to be dealing with the mess they were in. He should be working in the Lothering guard, and trying to woo farmer’s daughters or tavern maids during his off time.

She wanted to have fun, let loose, instead she checked corners, suspicious shadows, noticed and observed people she felt were paying too close attention to her group, she anticipated trouble. Mercedes knew she was a buzz kill, hated that her friends spent more time trying to include her in the merriment than have a good time themselves.

Maybe she wouldn’t mind so much if it was Anders attempting to engage her in conversation, in anything really. An entire evening of pretending not to watch each other, quick glances, shy blushes, and endless distance between them. He was kind, supportive, but so certain he could never be good enough for her. He might be right, but damn if she wasn’t ready to throw caution to the wind and give them a chance.

She caught him looking again, piercing eyes making her warm from the inside. Hawke considered taking matters into her own hands and speaking to him when a patron, a woman she recognized from the clinic, approached. She recalled the lady’s soft, dark hair, soft voice and sweet smile. She would be grateful, uncomplicated, perfect for Anders. He gave himself too much credit for the collapse of any hypothetical coupling. She had just as much baggage as he did, and less experience creating meaningful relationships. It was probably a good thing he was so weary about the formation of even a tentative friendship, too much tension, instant sparks, and apparently not the kind he was willing to deal with.

Maker, she felt foolish. The spirit of the season must have scrambled her normally sensible thought process. She excused herself from the table, collecting her belongings, and pausing to let Carver know she was heading home. Fenris politely offered to see her home, but Hawke declined reassuring him even Kirkwall’s thugs took a day off for Santinalia. Wrapping her cloak tightly around her body and pulling her hood up, she stepped out into the night.

***

He noticed the moment she left. Felt the void her presence left behind in a way that shouldn’t have been possible. He seemed to always know where she was when they were in the same room, and the shock of her missing always struck him to the core. Mercedes Hawke didn’t know him, but offered aide without question in what could have been a much worse situation when he finally tracked down Karl. She was loyal and fierce when she needed to be, kind and gentle when she helped in his clinic, and stunning. Maker was she breathtaking. And he was a fool.

He politely removed himself from the conversation from the Lowtown woman offering more than thanks for his healing ministrations and hurried to catch up with Hawke. He knew a general direction, he’d never actually been to Gamlen’s home. He knew she hated when anyone referred to the house as hers. He often wondered if it was because she was embarrassed of it, or if she really just hated her Uncle that much, maybe someday they would be close enough he could ask.

Kirkwall almost looked clean, white snow covered the streets in a heavy blanket. Humble homes lit with cheer for the holiday made the night glow a soft gold. Anders had been on the run most of his life, except for the time in Amaranthine with Amell and the friends he made in the Wardens, he hadn’t spent much time noticing Santinalia. He never had the time to worry about celebrating when he was trying to survive away from the Circle. Nothing had changed, not really, but he found himself beginning to hope for something new.

Hawke’s form was ahead of him, hood pulled up over her long, dark hair, but he knew it was her. Head high, light tread, she swayed-not exaggerated like Bela-her movements were fluid and captivating.

“Mercedes,” he called out before he could stop himself, “wait!”

She paused and he was able to see the profile of her face. Her warm breath frosting in the night air blending with the light, casting a hazy fog. She looked ethereal in the festive light surrounding her, a clear sign he was a sap falling in love. “I do believe that is the first time I’ve ever heard you use my given name.” Her face flushed prettily, but it might just be the cold. “A true Santinalia miracle, one of my friends knows my name.”

He fell into step with her, delicate flakes of glittering snow glinting in the light landing on her deep crimson robes. “Of course I know it,” he scoffed. “I just figured it would be safer to use in this moment. Two mages walking the dark streets alone, not the best time to bring attention to the city’s most prominent apostate.”

She grinned, elbowing him in the side in mock offense, “Don’t worry. I’m more than capable of keeping you safe.” She allowed a small tendril of lightning chase a streak of fire around her forearm dangerous gleam in her eyes. “We would make a pretty good team in a pinch.”

He followed the display of nature magic wind up her arm marveling at her abilities. “You said it yourself, ‘a team.’ Even you need someone to watch your back, keep you alive.”

“Volunteering to watch my back?” She chuckled, giving him a sideways glance, “You’d better be careful, I might take you up on that offer. It’s been a little too long in that department.”

“I can’t even imagine how,” he muttered looking down at his boots scuffing in the snow.

“What can I say,” she shrugged, “being a small, angry apostate doesn’t lend itself well to companionship.” The comment cut, he knew it was directed at him for the many times he refused her attentions. She paused at the base of the steps leading to Gamlen’s home, piercing him with a hard stare from her chocolate colored eyes, shifting slightly as if trying to make a decision. She began in a low-smoky voice, “I have something for you, but I’m not sure about it anymore.” Now almost a whisper she continued, “It might be presuming too much.”

Anders was stunned. She had a gift for him. Something that made her nervous from the looks of it. He felt hyper aware of everything going on around him, the numbing cold, light snow swirling around her, warm glow on her cheeks, eyes cast down in a sweet, shy way he’d never seen from her. “It’s been a very long time since I’ve had someone to get me gifts, much less for Santinalia.”

“We can’t have that,” she smiled warmly, decision made, “come on inside. Pretty sure Uncle Gamlen is gone so you won’t have to deal with that mess.”

“And your mother?”

“Why, serrah, are you worried to be alone with little ol’ me?”

“Maybe I’m worried for your reputation. I’m a dashing mage, and if I’ve read Varric’s novels correctly, you are supposed to swoon and fawn over me under a mistletoe you’ve strategically hidden.”

“Maker,” she gasped, “I knew I forgot something! I guess you can’t have your present. I am unprepared.”

“Quiet you. Let’s go inside before I freeze. It’s cold out here and I’m not as good maintaining fire spells as you. I will catch my death since your healing spells leave a lot to be desired.”

“Making it personal are we?” she arched her brow. “It’s a long walk to Darktown, sir healer. I would hate to see you tossed out and miserable in the cold.”

“I think we both know you wouldn’t do that,” he replied softly, searching her face for some sign that he was being too familiar. For her to be reasonable since he could not.

“No,” her face serious, “I wouldn’t.”

“You’re too nice.”

She laughed, “Not nice enough. You better believe I’m going to tell Varric you read his books.”

“I take it back, you’re the worst.”

“I know,” she smirked. “Come inside before I change my mind. No mistletoe traps, I promise.” she motioned her head in the direction of the door.

He debated continuing the banter, letting her know that a Santinalia kiss wouldn’t be the worst thing that could happen, but that might be pushing his luck. He followed her into the house, thankful that she was allowing him to be with her when she could be with literally anyone else.

#2018 holiday writing prompts #falalalala fics 2018 #female hawke #anders #female hawke x anders #fhanders #mercedes hawke #mercedes hawke x anders #mercedes x anders #dragon age fic #dragon age #steph does holiday prompts #steph did a thing #my writing #lechatrouge673

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vhyral · 7 years

Text

Blooded Hands, Bleeding Hearts

How do I do this?

Pairings: Anna Hawke x Fenris, Reyna Hawke x Orsino, Garrett Hawke x Anders, Vatriel Mahariel x Zevran Arainai

Worldstate: Vatriel Mahariel is the Hero of Ferelden and Warden Commander, Garrett, Reyna and Anna Hawke are the three older siblings of Carver and Bethany Hawke with Reyna being the Champion of Kirkwall

Setting: Garrett and Anna Hawke have accompanied the Inquisitor to the siege of Adamant Fortress. This ficlet follows the party’s last moments in the Fade and the aftermath of the battle. Fenris and Anders arrive in Skyhold, seeking their respective Hawkes.

Words: 4775

Her hands are slick with red, her daggers slowly sliding out of her tightly clenched grip. The ghouls- no, the demons- whatever the corpses with the milky eyes and the black teeth are, they melt into nothing once slashed open and leave scars on her as farewell gifts. The Fade-air is thick and liquid when she breathes between strikes, clinging on the rogue’s clothes and dumping her hair.

It is not made to be breathed by creatures of flesh and blood, Anna Hawke thinks. It feels like she’s choking on honey.

“We cannot delay!” Cassandra’s voice echoes, after the last of the demons has been reduced to dust. “It knows we’re here.”

The Inquisitor scrambles closer, the little elf’s features drawn as she speaks with the warrior, casting worried stares towards the kneeling Warden ahead. She whispers and motions and the Seeker grunts. Two minutes, she issues and joins Blackwall at his rounds, circling their perimeter, their boots sloshing through the muddy, ankle-deep waters. Meanwhile, the bald mage walks to the Inquisitor and leans closer to her as if to share a thought. The wild boy with the hat- Cole- trips right behind him, tagging at his robes. Solas’ eyes have been sparkling with awe non-stop, even when they meet with the Fade horrors. Anna frowns and turns to her brother.

Garrett is at her side like always, his armor glinting under the dim green fade-light. He has been there since they fell into this pit of magic and uncertainty, guarding her back, and for a second, between the smoke and the smell of his thunderbolts scorching the stones near her feet, it feels the faintest like Kirkwall, like the life they had built with blood and sweat before being forced to flee again.

“I never thought I’d miss the smell of Darktown’s sewers yet here we are.” She gives him a tired smile and Garrett shines her one of his own, crooked and soul warming.

"Don't let Varric hear you say that." he laughs.

“I’m literally right over here, Hawke.” The dwarf rolls his eyes at them from where he had perched himself during the fight, on top a nearby rock. A fade-rock. It would not surprise Anna if it sprouted legs and began crawling around with the dwarf riding it like a mighty stead carrying him into battle.

"We will be fine.” Garrett promises, scratching at the remnants of a demon’s claws on the dark metal around his neck. “But we have to move. Soon.”

Further down the narrow path, the Warden Commander is on her knees, her elven lover’s arms around her, holding her close, holding her stable. Her own hands squeeze over her lower abdomen, paperwhite and trembling as she heaves.

"Visiting." Fenris says to the guard that stopped them underneath the Inquisition flags, right before they crossed the huge wooden doors. Behind him, a man is yelling to another guard, trying to gain access to the castle for his goat while a gilded wagon attempts to drive through the doors only to be stopped by flailing Inquisition soldiers.

Morning had already passed when he and Anders had caught the first glimpse of Skyhold from across the rocky mountain landscape, the snow on its tallest towers thick and glistening to the evening sun. The Grand Gates of the stronghold were still wide open when they reached them, letting the colorful, loud crowd of soldiers, merchants and refugees come and go under the watchful eyes of the guards.

"We were invited by Varric Tethras. Here."

The letter comes out neatly folded if not a bit worn out from use- a pretty stellar condition after having travelled half of Thedas in the chest pocket of his cloak. The other man's eyes flutter quickly over the few written lines, straight to the signature at the bottom of the page. There isn't much for him to skip and after weeks of reading it by the campfire, Fenris knows each word by heart.

Broody, it reads, I tried to convey your words to our dearest Hawke. I truly did, once. I'm sorry but for all my charms, Stabby seems to be having none of it- the answer is still no. The hiss I received must have been the shortest conversation I've have had since the Seeker ceased attempting to communicate with me with grunts. The Inquisitor says any friends of mine are welcome in Skyhold- Chipper's a good kid but unless you want your head shaved by an angry redhaired, I'd advise you against accepting any kind of invitations for this part of Thedas.

Then a scratched up line, like someone had snatched the parchment up and managed to scribble a few words before the letter was retrieved. Fenris, the big cursive letters almost screamed with her voice, you over worrying fool! We’ve talked about this. Extensively. I am a grown ass woman and I PROMISE I will roast you with red peppers if I see one lock of fucking white hair around-

These words he read every night before going to sleep. She had not written to him after reaching Skyhold. Too dangerous, too easy to get stolen and Anna never had enough patience to slap down a code instead of her bare thoughts. There was a huge smudge of inked fingertips after her scribbles and above Varric’s signature and the guard’s eyebrow raises noticeably when he reaches the part.

“Master Tethras is usually in the Main Hall this time of the day.” Fenris accepts the letter back with a nod and folds it carefully, slipping it back over his heart.

“He’s not here.”

The elf is stomping around in circles in front of the table one of the kitchen servants guided them to when they asked for Master Tethras. It is small and round, made of well polished pine wood and placed strategically in front of one of the Hall’s many fireplaces. Varric isn’t there but his papers are- stashed parchments, books, ink bottles and more pens than one single dwarf could possibly use neatly organized in one corner.

Anders, strangely, has claimed for himself the seat closer to the fireplace. He is now deftly swirling a pen between his fingers, making its short, black feather jolt and shed a little. His hood has been thrown back- leaving it on would attract more eyes than taking it off, he scoffed when Fenris grimaced. True, with the poor excuse of a beard he has grown around his chin, comically resembling Garrett’s- Fenris had tried not to snort the first time he had seen it-, his golden hair cut short and greying, the mage looks roughly ten years older and is hardly resembling the man that once set Kirkwall- and perhaps the whole of Thedas- on fire.

“You’re… feigning calmness.” Fenris side eyes him. Anders had been restless during their ride through Ferelden, pushing his horse forward to lengths he usually wouldn’t try to reach, spending nights awake and staring at the fire flakes as they rose towards the night sky. Now, he sits idly back on the chair, seemingly relaxed. Yet, after a second, more careful glance, it is obvious that he’s doing a shitty job at concealing it- the mage’s shoulders are visibly stiff and his features drawn, lips pressed together as he keeps his eyes squarely on the pen.

“It’s called keeping a low profile.” he murmurs, stealing a glance around the main hall. People had stared for a bit when they had first entered but visitors are nothing new for Skyhold and after an hour, they now are as good as another piece of decoration. “They’re in an emergency meeting and since you didn’t want to give your name and we can’t quite give mine, we weren’t even announced. No one's going to come running out of there to meet us any time soon.”

Fenris lets out a groan. They are so close, this waiting is killing him. The rumours have been bad but the uncertainty they carried is the worst of it all and the elf can feel himself almost vibrating where he stands, his hands flexing from and into fists at his sides.

The Champion of Kirkwall has fallen. Hawke is dead.

Both Anders and him had walked the long way to the Inquisition’s stronghold with one thought tormenting them every passing hour.

Which Hawke?

The ‘Champion of Kirkwall’ had been left as an open term on purpose, for safety, and they had all agreed to it. It was once the title Reyna Hawke carried, her legacy from almost being impaled on the Arishok’s spear during what now was one of the most widely known duels in Thedas. Yet even in the very city of Kirkwall, the title had been changing hands from one day to the other- after all, there were three Hawkes with exceptional abilities and where Reyna would clean a street in Hightown from thieves, Anna would locate someone’s lost kid the next day and both deeds would be deemed as done by the Champion. When they fled, rumor mingled with gossip and the Tale of the Champion, expertly written as to not give out much about the Champion’s family, had obscured the fact that there were more Hawkes running around Thedas than anyone could ever handle.

But Reyna never set foot in Skyhold, both of them are sure about that. The last letter that had arrived with her sand colored hawk barely a month ago spoke of Antiva and a small, sunny room rented near the Port. It spoke of the sudden decline of Orsino’s health and her reluctant- yeah, right, Anna had laughed- decision to aid the elder mage until he overcame his illness. Thus, only two Hawkes had ever arrived at Skyhold, no matter how strongly Fenris had opposed to the idea when Anna had come to him to talk. And now, someone is supposedly dead and he can feel his chest hurt every time he catches himself wishing that it isn’t her.

He scans the grand hall around him. Dust is dancing in the sunlight pouring in from the huge glass windows, swirling over the lit torches lining its walls. An elf in scout armor is walking their way and he takes a step to the side, placing himself in her path.

“Serah.” he calls. She blinks his way, one of her ears twitching over short, red hair. He gives her a second for the usual quick scan of his face. Her eyes widen the slightest to his tattoos and Fenris asks.

“Where to the Ambassador’s room?”

“What are you planning to do?” Anders is on his feet and following him closely as Fenris walks with long, sure strides across the Hall.

“I’m going to announce myself.”

“It’s impossible to outrun that!”

There’s blood running down Cassandra’s forehead as she yells, her eyes stuck up and glinting dangerously under the green Fade fires. The smell of sulfur is on the air, burning their noses, the hissing of raw Fade energy hissing at the edges of their hair, remains of the recent battle against the Nightmare.

“Go!” comes a hoarse order from behind their backs, “I’ll keep it busy.”

“Have you gone insane?!” Anna has never heard Zevran’s voice ring as thickly and ominously as right now. He grabs the Warden Commander’s arm when she swirls around, his fingers closing in what looks like a death grip. “We’re going.” he growls at her.

“Since when are you making my decisions for me, Zevran?” she hisses back, trying to shake his hand off but the muscles on the Crow’s arm flex and he tags her closer instead, her boots splashing through the murky waters. She glares daggers at him and he shakes his head.

“Since you, my dear Warden, seem to have lost your good judgement.”

“This is NOT the time for this!” Cassandra howls at the same time as a bellow crashes into their ears- the demon is recovering and it will soon be coming for them.

“Knives and fire and steel that cuts, too real, too solid, permanent, burning! Gut them, burn them, chain them up and drink them dry!” Cole wails and then doubles down and holds his head, grunting in pain. The Inquisitor rubs a comforting hand down his back.

“I can give you at least five.” Mahariel insists. “Run and you’ll make it. I have fought uglier things that this in the past.”

“Andraste’s flaming underpants, Vatriel-”

Thunder booms behind them and Anna jumps.

“If you could hurry it up a bit, thank you very much.” Garrett huffs from their rear guard. He raises his arms above his head and lets lightning rain down upon the few demons that have found the courage to slither through the scorched battleground from before and come after them. “I mean it’s not like we have a giant spider coming for our sorry asses here or anything. I can handle this, sure.”

Anna turns around, teeth tearing at her lips as she adjusts the grip on her carved knives. Her muscles still feel sore from their recent fights as she steps towards the demons, melting into the shadows. All she wants is warm food and cold beer and to put her feet up in front of a fireplace without something being out for her neck.

“Go back. To being. Fucking mist.” she hisses as she plunges a dagger deep enough into a ghoul’s eye, it sinks to the hilt. An arrow zooms by her ear as Varric falls into work alongside them.

“I can put up a shield.” she hears the Inquisitor’s voice. “It can hold for a while until you all get out of here and I’m a fast runner-”

“Not open for discussion.” the Seeker cuts her and Lavellan groans.

“Cassandra-”

“A barrier could indeed be held for longer than usual here in the Fade.” Solas offers. “But to risk sacrificing you would be ill adviced if not mindless.”

“This is the Wardens’ fault, all of it.” The Commander’s voice sounds adamant. “No, Zevran. This is MY responsibility.

“It is not even just YOU that would have to stay back anymore!” the Antivan snaps. Anna throws her dagger to a nearby crawling spiderling. It hits it square between its open jaws and it evaporates with a screech. “Good riddance, you freaky nug.” Garrett laughs. “Good one, kid.”

“Sir? Sir, please! You cannot go in there!”

Josephine finds herself at a loss when the strangers first storm right through her doors. She has no meeting arranged for the next three hours and the Council is not yet done. She had briefly returned to her desk to fetch a couple of official documents when the door had swung open, smooth on well oiled hinges. It hits the wall behind it with a bang, making her jump and sending several of the parchments she had been carrying to the floor.

“This area is off limits!” she states now, sharpening her tone and stepping forward to quickly slip her body in between the unknown pair of men that rushes inside and the inner door that leads to the War Room. A flutter of her eyes and the scout that had arrived seconds earlier to deliver a report quietly excuses himself back to the Hall. Hopefully the guards will be here soon enough. “You can’t just barge in here like this, gentlemen, please. We can talk this out.”

“Apologies, Serah,” the elf at the front stops a few steps away from her and speaks, looking her square in the eyes, “but we have come to see the Hawke siblings.”

His pupils are big, expressive and brightly green, mesmerizing as he firmly holds her gaze, and Josephine gives him a quick appraisal now that he is finally standing still instead of marching towards her.

“I’m afraid the Council is private-” she begins.

And then she sees them, where they’re poking from his scarf, around his neck and up his chin, the white tattoos with the faint blue iridescence that curl against dark skin. The ambassador knows better than to let her surprise show- she lets the initial rush of adrenaline of having this very elf right in front of her, here in Skyhold, pass. The man behind him shifts on his feet and Josephine eyes him carefully. He is wearing a hood that partially hid his face but she can make out the tiniest hint of blonde. She inhales sharply- if that is who she thinks he is, Cassandra won’t be happy at all.

Then comes dread- they are here for a reason. They are here for Hawke.

“Serah Fenris. Serah.” she motions towards the chairs of her office. “If you have a minute.”

“Go!”

Varric’s face is a mess of pain, loss and bitter understanding. “Garrett.” he croaks.

“The woman is with child, Varric.” The tall man rolls his staff in his hands before looking up, clear blue eyes meeting with the deep green of the Warden Commander. “And who’s better suited to fight in the Fade than a mage?”

“My brother,” he says loudly for her to hear, “he’s a Warden. If you meet Carver Hawke, let him know that his brother was very proud of him. Tell him his brother loved him, dearly, deeply, always.”

“That should embarrass him out of his grief pretty quickly.” he chuckles.

“No! Garrett!” Anna lunges herself at him, a hand grasping his wrist, the other one closing into a fist around the fabric of his garments. “This is bullshit!” she roars. “You’re not staying here! I’m not leaving you in this hell!”

She glares at him and Garrett gives her a small, weary smile- his free hand finds its way to her cheek and cups it softly- he smells of blood and sweat and ash but so does she and it’s a familiar smell.

“There’s no other way.” His voice is soft. “We will never outrun the Nightmare.”

She can feel a lump forming in her throat, the familiar pressure behind her eyes. She grits her teeth instead and shakes her head violently, scanning the area around them. They can hide, they can split up and try to confuse it, she can knife the demon in its blasted, cursed eyes-

His hand, still warm on her cheek, tags gently, guiding her eyes back on his face, keeping them there. Garrett’s cheeks and forehead are smeared with black and his lower lip sports a blood red cut- his breathing is hitched but he’s smiling softly at her and the rogue feels her chest constrict.

“There’s no other way, Anna.” he breathes. His forehead comes to meet with hers and her hands let go of everything to come cup his temples, her fingers hooking into his hair. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry it came to this. You’ll have to explain to Reyna, Bethany… to Anders-”

“I’m staying.” Her voice is ragged, her lips dry. “If you’re staying, I’ll be with you to the end.”

“Anna…”

“No, no!” she hisses. “You get to throw your life away but I can’t do the same for you? I’m staying, Garrett. You are my- I’m not going, I’m not losing you.”

Varric’s voice is hoarse behind her. “Kid…”

“Varric.” Her heart is fluttering like a caged bird now- her body trembles in the thought of what’s to come and then steels, warms up and tightens as she turns to face the dwarf. She didn’t come seeking death but leaving Garrett behind feels like a death in its own and she won’t have it. In a corner of her mind, somewhere, a small voice whispers- maybe with the two of us, we can win, we can make it, the two of us, together.

“You have to write to him.” she tells the dwarf. “Fenris. Tell him I’m sorry. Tell him I love him, now and forever.”

Varric’s face twists into a mass of pain to her words, his knuckles turning white where he holds Bianca. “Kid,” he shakes his head, “not like this.”

Something explodes in the distant and the ground underneath their feet shakes, the rumbling that echoes through the air growing louder instead of dying down. Anna unsheathes her knives as Blackwall lets out a war cry.

“We don’t have any more time!” he yells. “We have to leave. NOW!”

“And so, we’re out of time.” Garrett huffs.

“Wha-”

She turns- and then her limbs suddenly feel heavy, getting glued into place with every muscle that she tries to move.

“Garrett!’ she croaks bewildered. “Garrett, what-”

His hand is pointing towards her, lit with arcane energy and deep lines form on his forehead as she stares at him. Light pillars flicker around her and that’s when she realises the spell being cast on her.

“Spirit Cage?” she shouts. “Spirit Cage, on ME? Garrett! Let me go! Let me go right now!”

“Varric!” her brother yells instead. “Blackwall! Get her out of here, NOW!”

“No! NO!” The men’s hands are on her shoulders then, around her waist, pulling her, dragging her with them and Anna struggles against the invisible ropes that keep her arms from pushing them away, her legs from kicking. She’s being carried away and for every second passing, Garrett’s getting further away as he flexes his arms and firmly grabs his staff.

“Garrett!” she screams. People are yelling around her as they run. Blackwall is grunting under her weight and Zevran’s voice is encouraging his wife forwards from somewhere at the head of the line but all Anna can see is the tall man they’re leaving behind, the glinting of the ice blue gem of his staff, like a beacon in a sea of green.

“GARRETT, NO! NOT LIKE THIS! GARRETT!” Her throat feels like being teared up from the inside out. “GARRETT!”

At the distance, her brother looks back one last time and his voice carries over the ominous rumble when he yells.

“I love you.”

The words reach her just as the monstrous demon breaks through the hill hiding them from its view all this time. It comes with its million legs thrashing and an explosion of flying rocks and fire and Garrett turns to face it, small in the distance and with his armor shining with swirling mana.

She doesn’t feel remorse when the spell loosens and she beats against Blackwall’s helmet with all the strength she can find in her, when she kicks Varric in the shoulder while trying to break free. She doesn’t see the rift’s edges when they jump through it and crash against hard stone, knees and elbows bleeding as they scrape against the floor.

She only keeps on screaming as she’s held back from jumping back in, someone’s arms around her own, Varric’s hands against her chest as the Inquisitor stands and waits for a heartbeat and then for some more and when no one comes through, she finally raises her hand and blinding green flashes.

She screams harder than ever when he can’t hear her anymore.

“… Kid?”

Anna jumps, knocking down one of the flags the Inquisition advisors use to pinpoint missions on their map.

“Shit.” she mutters and reaches down. The damned thing has rolled further down the war table and she gets on her knees to get it. “Fuck.” she repeats. “Sorry.”

She straightens back up and catches the Inquisitor stealing a glance at her. Lavellan’s eyes are clouded but she averts them fast when Anna stares back and turns to where Leliana and Cullen are bickering.

“You ok?”

Varric usually doesn’t participate in Council meetings- a case has come up deeply connected to Kirkwall though and his presence has been requested. He has not taken the task with joy but he has come nonetheless. Anna knows he is here mostly for her. He has been trying to be in her immediate perimeter ever since they returned from Adamant Fortress.

She wishes he didn’t.

“Are you?” she rumbles.

Pain flashes across the dwarf’s face and the rogue feels the sting of her words coming right back at her.

“Damn it, Varric.” she sighs. “Sorry. I… don’t- this… it’s difficult.”

“I know.” He scratches his chin, absentmindedly staring at the advisors and the Inquisitor trying to find some middle ground over a mission. “Believe me, Kid, I know.”

“Did you write? To everyone.”

He shakes his head.

“The words won’t come.”

How do you write about something that doesn’t feel real? Several days have passed and still, whenever she manages to make herself faint, late at night, she wakes up the next morning with a few blissful seconds where everything feel like just another dream. Where Garrett bangs on her door with plates full of pancakes. Where Dog and her are a warm mess on her bed, the mabari drooling on her hair. And then, Garrett never comes and Dog is old and a world away from her, with the other half of her heart, and she has to truly wake up and keep on going, living, in a world with muted colors.

She has to write to Fenris, to let him know that she is alive, that she is ok. She knows but her fingers refuse to ink the words and the parchment is waiting half empty on her desk.

“What is taking Josephine so long?” Leliana wonders from the other side of the table. “It has been ten minutes already.”

“I should go check.” the Inquisitor turns. “Maybe she needs some help.”

There it is, a window out of this room, away from talks for future expeditions- all she wants at the moment and so Anna sets the little flag back on the table. “Let me. I could use some fresh air.”

“Ask her to bring all recent correspondence with Duke Dumont, yes?”

“No, not you, Varric.” Cullen calls when the dwarf motions to follow her to the door. “We just got to the requests from Kirkwall, we need your assistance.”

Varric shrugs, gives her a strained look and drags himself back to the war table, looking not pleased at all. Anna on the other hand rather prefers this turn of events- he is so stricken with grief and she can’t deal with this right now. She needs space.

“Later, Varric.” she waves, letting the doors close behind her.

She is glad no one has fixed the hole in the wall between the war room and Josephine’s office. She gives herself a second to stand before it, letting the setting sunlight blind her eyes and the breeze caress her face. It almost feels like a touch across her cheek.

“Josephine?” she calls, pushing down the handle to the dark door leading to the ambassador’s office. “Leliana is looking for you- oh, visitors. Excuse me-”

One of the men standing over Josephine’s desk is covered from head to toes, a dark cloak around thin shoulders and his head hidden underneath a hood. He is hunched over the various papers and talking to the ambassador with a low voice- tension is radiating from where his hands have clutched the rim of her desk, bony fingers white from his tight grip.

It feels fishy and she discreetly moves one hand to the dagger at her waist. The man standing next to him, clothed in similar travelling clothes and with white hair caught into a tight ponytail, turns sharply the moment her voice rings across the room.

Anna takes it all in at once, in a moment- the green of his wide eyes, the arch of his nose. The red ribbon keeping his hair in place. The glint of sharp teeth when he opens his mouth.

“Fenris?” she manages before going airborne, strong arms closing around her waist and burning hot lips crashing onto her own and he breathes his next word right into their kiss.

“Anna!” he growls. “Anna, Anna, Anna!”

Her own hands find his back instinctively, nails digging in and holding on to him desperately- the kiss is long and fiery, an explosion of colors and rapid hearbeats and for a glorious moment, she forgets everything that isn’t him. It leaves her heaving for air when he finally puts some space between their faces, both of them breathing hard into each other’s arms.

“You’re here.” Fenris whispers feverently, one hand reaching up to smooth her hair, guiding her head to rest against his neck. “You’re here, you’re safe.”

The rogue nods, her throat blocked for a moment. She can smell the road on him, the dust and the horse hair and underneath all that, his aroma that reminds her of nights under the sheets and warm arms around her back. Her eyes burn and she pushes against his chest a bit- she wants to see his eyes again, his face, him.

“How?” she croaks once words finally seem to return as an option of response. “What are you doing here?”

Fenris’ expression clouds to her question and his eyebrows lower menacingly over his eyes, a hint of anger finding its way to his now tightly pursed lips, to the sharp line of his jaw. His hand finds the side of her neck and squeezes firmly.

“What was I doing away from here is the right question. We heard the rumours, Anna. I thought you were dead!”

“I’m not dead.” she shakes her head. “I’m not…”

We?

“Anna?”

She freezes. It is the voice she dreaded to hear. Not here, not yet. She is not ready for this.

She looks behind Fenris, where the cloaked stranger has let his hood fall back over his shoulders. Golden hair shine under the last sun rays and she spots the red scarf around his neck.

“Where is Garrett?” asks Anders.

@forthelifeofoneburglar, @notyourinquisitormate, it’s been a while so here it is again. I’m almost done with the second part so I thought I should remind you you should reread it before the next assault of angst.

#look I wrote a thing #hawke #garrett #garrett hawke #anna #anna hawke #reyna #reyna hawke #anders #fenris #dragon age #dragon age inquisition #da #da:i #put a read more cause it's huge #tell me what you think #long post

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thrashermaxey · 5 years

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Ramblings: Bishop Injured, Hinostroza Hattie, Opportunity in Ottawa (March 15)

For many head-to-head leagues, this week is the start of the fantasy playoffs. Alternatively, it could be the final week before the playoffs start. If you’re wondering why the fantasy playoffs start so early for some, here’s an explanation. The regular season ends on a Saturday, so many leagues have defaulted to using a two-week championship round. This extended scoring period might mean less fantasy hockey for teams already on the sidelines, but the benefit is that it reduces the probability and impact of unexpected chance occurrences crushing a deserving team’s championship hopes.

Because I am currently in a playoff round in two of my leagues, my thinking has shifted toward surviving at least one more week. Since you’ve got me for the next three days, I’ll try to sprinkle in as many thoughts as I can for those of you in the same boat. With a lighter schedule of games on Friday night, I’ll list some possible waiver-wire options over the weekend that could help you with that final push to win your week. So be sure to check back tomorrow at the same time, in case you weren’t already planning to.

Erik Brannstrom made his Senators’ debut on Thursday, playing 17 minutes while taking on second-unit power-play duties. With Thomas Chabot now week-to-week with a toe injury, Christian Wolanin assumed first-unit power-play duties, scoring an even-strength goal in 19 minutes of icetime. Wolanin, who has four goals and four assists in 20 games, is a deep-league option for Chabot owners who need the immediate stopgap. The newly acquired Brannstrom, though, is far and away the preferred keeper to own between the two. You can check out Brannstrom’s Dobber Prospects profile here.

Recent NCAA signing Max Veronneau also made his Senators’ debut on Thursday. With opportunity wide open in Ottawa, Veronneau was immediately placed on a line with Brady Tkachuk and given second-unit power-play duties. He was held without a point in 14 minutes of icetime, but he managed to fire five shots on goal.

The Sens might appear to be dead in the water at the moment, but don’t tell that to Anders Nilsson. The Sens’ goalie stopped all 35 shots he faced in earning a 2-0 shutout. Entering the game with just one quality start in his last eight games, Nilsson was not likely added in many formats. This shutout probably won’t change things, especially with him sharing starts with Craig Anderson.

Speaking of shutouts, Penguins’ backup Casey DeSmith stopped all 26 shots he faced in earning a 5-0 win over the Sabres. As the Pens are in the unfamiliar territory of trying to secure a playoff spot late in the season, Matt Murray has started each of the last nine games for the Penguins. If the Pens were planning on starting DeSmith soon, it seemed a bit odd that they wouldn’t wait until the weekend, when the Pens play back-to-back games. But that could also mean that DeSmith earns one more start this week to give Murray a bit more of a rest, now that the Pens have put more distance between themselves and the teams below the Eastern Conference playoff bar.

Ben Bishop has been money for fantasy teams this week and last, posting back-to-back-to-back shutouts. He kept the streak of not allowing a goal intact to set a Stars’ team record (230:53), but he unfortunately left Thursday’s game in the second period with a lower-body injury. Bishop is currently listed as day-to-day. Anton Khudobin stopped 14 of 15 shots in relief to secure an important win for the Stars over division rival Minnesota. The Stars play again today (Friday) against Vegas and on Sunday against Vancouver, so Khudobin is a must-add (just 19 percent owned in Yahoo leagues) if you need goaltending help this week.

Shades of former Star Patrik Stefan?

Tyler Seguin with probably the worst empty net miss of all time pic.twitter.com/wl1MX0VQj6

— CJ Fogler (@cjzero) March 15, 2019

Dobber has a playoff draft list. It’s not just a simple list with projected playoff points for each player. It’s fully customizable if you want it to be, or you can go with Dobber’s picks if that’s easier. If you plan on participating in a playoff pool, then download yours today!

Some Canucks’ injury news, from earlier in the day:

We will need to wait at least one week for the debut of Quinn Hughes. As a result of an injury from last weekend’s University of Michigan game, Hughes has a bone bruise and will wear a walking boot for at least a week. The silver lining is that with his NHL debut being delayed, Canucks’ fans won’t have to worry about the team inadvertently sticking him in the lineup for more than ten games, which would make him eligible for the Seattle expansion draft. There should be absolutely no rush on the Canucks’ part to get Hughes into the lineup.

If you were counting on Antoine Roussel for a few points and a lot of penalty minutes, he is done for the year with a knee injury suffered during Wednesday’s game against the Rangers. Roussel was receiving second-line minutes with Bo Horvat and as of Thursday morning was second in the NHL with 118 penalty minutes.

The Roussel news seemed to be overshadowed on Vancouver sports talk radio by the topic of Loui Eriksson’s first healthy scratch as a Canuck. There’s a very short list of players that have less value than Eriksson in a salary cap league. If you can think of any, feel free to list them in the comments below. Mercifully, this could be the beginning of the end for Eriksson in Vancouver, though a buyout this offseason will hardly help the Canucks financially. Eriksson also has a full no-trade on his contract, which has a $6 million cap hit. Ugh.

Brett Connolly scored two goals and added an assist with a plus-3 in the Capitals’ 5-2 win over Philadelphia on Thursday. Connolly is just one goal away from reaching 20 for the first time in his career, while he has already set a career high with 39 points. The 2010 sixth overall pick hasn’t lived up to his draft-day potential and is already on his third NHL team, but he’s still showing signs of having a productive career (though I’m not as sold on him for fantasy purposes as others might be).

With two goals and two assists on Thursday, Nikita Kucherov has now reached 115 points in 71 games. To give you an idea as to how outstanding this season total is, it is already the highest point total since Sidney Crosby scored 120 points in 2006-07. With 11 games left, Kucherov should have no problem surpassing that total, as he is currently on pace for 133 points. Hand him the Hart.

It’s not often that Mark Scheifele goes four games without a point, as he was entering Thursday’s game. Wait a second, he also went five games without a point in February. His cold stretches appear to be a reason for the Jets’ so-so play since the All-Star break. His fantasy owners will be encouraged by his goal and two assists in the Jets’ 4-3 win over Boston. In other words, not even Zdeno Chara launching Scheifele’s stick as high as humanly possible could stop Scheifele.

That stick went flying. pic.twitter.com/qMEsBmqdXc

— NHL GIFs (@NHLGIFs) March 15, 2019

In spite of his recent struggles, Scheifele has now established a career high with 33 goals. In addition, Scheifele is on pace for 91 points, which would also be a career high. Nothing to worry about.

You may remember Dobber dropping this pearl of wisdom nearly two weeks ago:

My goodness, Hinostroza is on firehttps://t.co/aDSDgtBtIZ

— Dobber (@DobberHockey) March 3, 2019

I grabbed Vinnie Hinostroza shortly after that in one league and added him to my lineup, literally forgetting about him until tonight. Hinostroza recorded a hat trick while firing eight shots on goal, leading the Coyotes to yet another win. Sometimes forgetting is a good thing, because I could have just as well removed him after he went four games without a point earlier this month.

Since January 20, Hinostroza has 11 goals and 21 points in 24 games, which easily makes him the highest-scoring Yote during a stretch where the Coyotes have fought their way into a Western Conference playoff spot. So that means he’s been playing with the Coyotes’ big guns (whoever they may be), right? Sure, if their names are Brad Richardson and Michael Grabner. The Coyotes don’t offer much else when it comes to scoring, though.

Darcy Kuemper continues his impressive run with back-to-back wins this week, including a 6-1 win over the Ducks. Perhaps more impressively, Kuemper now also has assists in back-to-back games. I know this because I play in a league where goalies are credited with assists. He’s literally doing it all for the Coyotes right now.

If you’ve been carrying Kyle Turris this long, you’re safe to drop him for any more immediate help. Turris was a healthy scratch on Thursday against Los Angeles. With just seven goals and 22 points in 46 games, Turris has produced less than half a point per game. Surely you can do better for your fantasy team, particularly at the center position. This is not the kind of production that the Predators should expect from their second-line center as they near the playoffs.

It might be a little too late for the Panthers to make the playoffs, so the Panthers are seeing what they have with young goalie Samuel Montembeault. The rookie not only made his third consecutive start on Thursday, but he earned his third consecutive win, this one on the road against a sharp-toothed Sharks’ scoring attack. Montembeault has allowed just five goals over that span.

Unless the Panthers find a way to get out of either Roberto Luongo’s or James Reimer’s contract this offseason, it’s difficult to forecast where Montembeault fits in long-term. But in the here and now, the Panthers play back-to-back games this weekend against Pacific bottom feeders Anaheim and Los Angeles. Montembeault is in a great spot to earn one more win this week.

Finally, some extremely heartbreaking news regarding Evander Kane:

A message from my family and I pic.twitter.com/q8sPXQkWh8

— Evander Kane (@evanderkane_9) March 14, 2019

Kane has not played since February 26, which is a span of seven games including Thursday’s game. There isn’t much else that can be said, except to offer condolences to Kane and his family during this difficult time. This serves as a solemn reminder that there are things more important that fantasy hockey.

For more fantasy hockey information, you can follow me on Twitter @Ian_Gooding.

from All About Sports https://dobberhockey.com/hockey-rambling/ramblings-bishop-injured-hinostroza-hattie-opportunity-in-ottawa-march-15/

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