Lucanis, running up to a ledge: This way, there’s a shortcut
My Rook: Whatever you say, Beautiful [throws herself over the ledge and dies]
he meant. he could use Spite’s thing to make us a bridge. but wow i didn’t question it even for a second huh
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KIROKAZE
"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"
we're not kids anymore.

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@bythexdreadwolf
Lucanis, running up to a ledge: This way, there’s a shortcut
My Rook: Whatever you say, Beautiful [throws herself over the ledge and dies]
he meant. he could use Spite’s thing to make us a bridge. but wow i didn’t question it even for a second huh
someone help him he has one brain cell and it’s fighting for dominance
"i sure hope no elven deity breaks free from their prison in the fade and starts wreaking havoc on thedas"
the nefarious ghilan'nain:
mOrRiGaN aGeD bAcKwArD
sHe LoOkS tOo YoUnG
18 year old origins Cullen was out there looking like a whole ass middle aged man please be so fr
okay but
my rook immediately getting killed cause they decided to pspsps solas in his dread wolf form
My favorite part about playing DA2 is Meredith Stannard looking me DEADASS in the eyes and going “I’ll overlook your use of magic FOR NOW” like MAAM. I have been running around this filthy ass town waving my stave in front of your templars with reckless abandon, committing all sorts of apostasy and OSHA violations while making 0 effort to hide the fact I’m a mage for the last SEVEN YEARS like???????
SOLAS YOU EGG YOU DESTROYED THE WRONG BIANCA
I’ve known about Davrin’s baby griffon for five whole minutes and if anything happened to it I would kill everyone in Thedas and then myself
“the new trailer looks too goofy!! dragon age is a sErIoUs FrAnChIsE!!!”
ah yes
dragon age
the very serious franchise
the super duper serious somber franchise where I can wield a ham hock as a weapon and a wheel of cheese as a shield
that franchise
if I romance Emmerich is Manfred going to be in the room BioWare
i s2g, solas. get a job. stay away from her.
me, a mage, eyeballing the guy with the epithet ‘mage killer’ as my first romance: I can fix him
Day 05: Rain
ALISTAIR THEIRIN&&BRAVIA AEDUCAN. Word Count: 1486.
The Ostagar camp was strange, to say the least. Strange for several reasons Bravia would’ve been thrilled to elaborate on, if asked, and had to her traveling companion, at length. She had already grown somewhat accustom to the big oddities of the Surface - the sky, the plants, the furry little animals, and the way Duncan seemed to have little regard for daily beard maintenance. But it had only been a few weeks and certain things still astounded her. The fact that everyone was taller than her, for instance. Taller, despite some likely weighing less than she did. The elves, in particular, she probably could’ve picked up and thrown quite a distance despite them being several heads taller than her, and some of the mages were the same height, but couldn’t dream of lifting the massive battle hammer Duncan had given her.
30 DAY PROMPT CHALLENGE
day 04: kiss.
CULLEN RUTHERFORD//FT. A’S ELENA AMELL//WORD COUNT: 885.//CW: ADDICTION MENTION, PAST TRAUMA MENTION.
He can’t breathe. Two fingers work their way beneath the collar of the uniform he’s been coerced into donning for the evening, trying to loosen its vice-like grip around his throat. His Adam’s apple bobs as he nervously tries to swallow. The fit veers just to the left of too tight, the jacket tailored perfectly to his body.
He doesn’t like it. It lacks the comforting, protective weight of his armor and leaves him feeling vulnerable. Too vulnerable; he hasn’t spent this much time out of heavy plate since before he took his vows, and it feels like a ball of anxiety has settled itself in his chest. He scowls at the reflection in the looking glass of the quarters he’s been given at Gaspard’s manse. He’s the commander of the Inquisition’s armies, for the Maker’s sake. Given what they’ve come here to do, he should be armed and armored to the teeth, not trussed up like some Orlesian lapdog in velveteen and silk. The ball of anxiety tightens a little as all of the what-ifs play about in his head. The sigh that escapes him is more of a growl than anything, and he runs a hand through his hair, mussing up the meticulously styled curls. The effect of the tousled tresses is startling, softening some of the severity of his features. He decides he doesn’t like that either. Andraste help him, he’s so far out of his element that the anxiety is beginning to bubble into full-blown panic, and he’s not even set foot in Halamshiral yet.
He’s never been overly-fond of Orlais. Or the Grand Game, for that matter. It’s like playing chess with vipers, and Josephine has secured them an invitation into the very heart of their nest and he doesn’t even have his bloody sword. To say he’s running blind is an understatement of the century. How can he be expected to protect the Inquisition, to protect her, if he’s been stripped of tooth and nail? Vulnerability has never set well with him and he’s already failed her, failed himself, once before, to disastrous consequences. It leaves him feeling sick to his stomach, and again the old temptation is there — one drink, just one drink to slake the thirst, to make him strong. The same song that haunts him night after night. He ought to be taking it. I could protect her if I took it. He swallows it down and slams a fist against the wall. He cannot do this.
There’s a soft knock on the door, and he knows it’s her. She had said earlier that she would come fetch him when it was time for them to depart for the Winter Palace, but he’s not ready. He’ll never be ready, not when he feels as naked and useless and abjectly miserable as he does right now. It’s enough to send a familiar throbbing ache through his head.
“Enter,” he calls to her, his voice somewhat strangled.
The door clicks shut behind her, followed by the rustle of innumerable layers of fabric.
“It’s nearly time,” she tells him.
All he can manage is a nod. She’s a vision. Truly, Josephine has outdone herself, and for a moment, he can’t breathe for an entirely different reason than the collar currently cutting off his circulation and his own anxiety. She’s all red lace and red lips, more tempting than any desire demon could ever deign to be. The realization of that thought slams him back to reality, the pain in his temple flaring into life. This feels too much like Kinloch, too much like the eery calm before the world was torn asunder and all hell broke loose. But he cannot afford to go back there now; as much as he doubts that he can keep himself from drowning all evening, he must try. He will not fail her again.
“Elena.” Her name is barely more than a sigh on his lips, and he’s struck then with the desire to kiss her. Because this feels too much like a trap, too much like Kinloch, too much like this may be the last time he will see her whole and well.
How much will the Maker ask him to lose before he sees fit that he’s been punished enough?
He reaches out for her and pulls her in for a rough, desperate kiss, his mouth hot and hungry against her own. He cannot bring himself to say good-bye, to acquiesce to leaving this wretched place and setting foot in one far worse, in a place he cannot protect her. He trails white-hot kisses down her cool skin as far south as her dress will let him, his fingers itching to rip the damned thing apart at the seams, to hang the Empress and hang Orlais, and just have the peace they’ve been so desperately chasing all these years. But she’s confided in him what fate awaits them if they fail tonight, and he has to drag his mouth away from the pulse-point on her neck, his breath on her skin eliciting little goosebumps where it ghosts over her earlobe.
“We should leave,” he tells her.
He’d rather launch a one-man assault on the Black City than to let her go.
DAY 04: Kiss
LIAWYN LAVELLAN//CULLEN RUTHERFORD. Word Count: 2196.
There was something calming about the meditative silence that hung over Skyhold’s gardens in the early hours of evening. Most of the pilgrims were attending the daily evening services at the Chantry. Proper members of the Inquisition had stumbled off in search of food or company. Liawyn’s companions and her advisors rarely looked for her there and, if she was careful, she could blend into the shadows and effectively find solitude for at least an hour or two. As the sun set in the sky, the shadows of the battlements stretched over the trees and grass and flowers, fading away nature’s colors until it was impossible to tell that they were even there.
Until it was impossible to tell that they were already fading away to begin with.
Liawyn pulled her knees into her chest, huddling further into a dark corner with a good view as she watched the doors to the Chantry. What must it be like, knowing the teachings of your religion instead of aimlessly chasing wisdom that had long since been lost? Was it easier? Would it be enough to ease her ever curious mind? Could the Maker bring color back into her world?
Or was she doomed watch what had once been brilliant fade until there was nothing left.
Feel free to ask us about our OCs or come scream in our askbox about your own!!! We love love love talking DA!
DAY 03: QUILL
FARANNI LAVELLAN//LIAWYN LAVELLAN. FARANNI LAVELLAN//SOLAS. Word Count: 1734.
Small growls of frustration filled the library as she stared desperately at a blank piece of parchment, trying and failing to magic words out of thin air in the same fashion the library regulars around her seemed to be doing with ease. Writing had never been her strong suit. When she’d been with her clan, she’d only been taught the basics of literacy because Liawyn had been desperate for someone to practice with, and in the time since she’d learned a little more thanks to tutoring from Dorian and Solas and Finn. Still, she was more articulate with a bow and arrow than she was with quill and ink, and being bad at something served enough to frustrate her, especially today.
It had been more than half a year since Liawyn had been killed in the explosion at the Conclave. Faranni had initially planned to celebrate, so to speak, by riddling a defenseless straw dummy with as many arrows as she could find. Then, if she didn’t feel better, maybe she would craft or buy more and send those flying as well. Anything to take her mind off the sting of loss that still burned just beneath her skin. Anything to make it go away. Would it ever go away? How many Red Templars would she have to kill before she could sleep without being plagued by nightmares?
Would the cycle of revenge ever satisfy itself?