“You aren’t too uncomfortable, right?” Firiel radiated upside-down concern as she leaned over him.
He tugged at the silk ropes around his wrists–he wasn’t getting out anytime soon (okay, ever), but his hands weren’t likely to fall off, either. And the rest of him could still move, so. “As comfortable as I can be in present circumstances,” he said, trying for a lopsided smile.
The corners of her lips quirked up, and she bent down to kiss the tip of his nose. “I guess that’s the best we can hope for. Don’t worry, I’ll come back for you once it’s over.” She kissed him again, this time on the lips, and said, “I love you.”
“Love you, too,” he mumbled, but she was already gone.
“You aren’t too uncomfortable, right?” Firiel radiated upside-down concern as she leaned over him.
He tugged at the silk ropes around his wrists--he wasn’t getting out anytime soon (okay, ever), but his hands weren’t likely to fall off, either. And the rest of him could still move, so. “As comfortable as I can be in present circumstances,” he said, trying for a lopsided smile.
The corners of her lips quirked up, and she bent down to kiss the tip of his nose. “I guess that’s the best we can hope for. Don’t worry, I’ll come back for you once it’s over.” She kissed him again, this time on the lips, and said, “I love you.”
“Love you, too,” he mumbled, but she was already gone.
And Alistair waited.
And waited.
And waited.
He didn’t entirely know how he’d gotten himself into this situation, but to be fair, that was frighteningly regular for him. It was just that he knew, from the rather embarrassing discussions they’d had about trying things, that Firiel wasn’t keen on the tying-up sorts, that she was too Dalish to find any kind of restraint like that erotic, but maybe that really only applied to her and why was his throat dry?
And why was he getting cold?
Well, because he was outside, obviously, tied to a tree hammock, but he was also naked, and how, how had he not noticed that earlier? Carefully, he wiggled his toes, just to confirm that he hadn’t even been sensible enough to wear his favorite socks, and that was how he realized he was tied at the ankles, too, with the same thick silk ropes binding his arms above him, his legs locked out at an angle just wide enough to stretch his thighs.
He turned his head and realized he’d seen this rope, or a thinner version of it, before, in ruins underground, in the Deep Roads, in the deepest shadows of the Brecilian Forest...
It was spider silk.
And he was bound, flat on his back, in a web of it.
The branches above him rustled.
Wetting his lips, Alistair stilled his racing thoughts and forced himself to make a list of the ways he could escape.
The spider’s weight would cause the web to bulge; surely he could use that to twist out of the way and buy himself some time, if not flip the whole thing on its side and fling the spider off; or, if a claw got too close to his hands he could snap it off, and free himself; and then he’d hide, but not too far away, just somewhere a little more defensible, because Firiel said she’d come back for him (hopefully with some pants), so he had to remain...
Why had he agreed to this in the first place? It had to have been for a good reason, but he couldn’t think--
The rustling intensified, because of course, it would, and he scanned the treetop for movement so he’d at least be warned.
Warning, as it turned out, didn’t do him the least bit of good. He gazed upwards as the bough above him transformed into a living, wriggling thing, spiders swarming onto its surface. Not even big spiders, either--the biggest were no larger than his fist, and they were far outnumbered by the hundreds (thousands?) the size of a copper or smaller. But they moved with one mind, or at least that’s what it felt like, utterly silent as they massed above him.
It’d almost be better if they made noise, Alistair thought desperately, some sort of chittering sound, and maybe they were, and he just couldn’t hear it, because his heart was pounding in ears, his breath coming out in pants as, one by one, the spiders began to crawl down the ropes holding his web...
He couldn’t look. It was too much. He had to do something--anything!--but the ropes were too tight, and this was important, and he’d agreed to it, anyway; it was his decision...
With all the will he could muster, Alistair got his breathing under control, and held it, waiting, until the first tickle of spider legs skittered over his palms, the soles of his feet--
(He tried not to giggle. It wasn’t his fault his feet were so sensitive.)
--and pain lanced through his middle finger as one of the spiders sank its jaws in.
He yelped, but more out of shock than anything, because it didn’t last long, oh, no, because next came the liquid fire that spread from the wound down, wrapping half his hand in a snug heat, but it hardly burned him. At first he thought whatever he’d been hit with dulled his nerves, and that’s why it didn’t hurt, but the more he mulled it over, the more alive they felt, all warm and tingly, like sticking his hand in the bath, if baths could tingle.
(Firiel had to have bought something like that, in that little shop she and Zevran had visited, if she couldn’t already make it herself. Maker, he hated that he wanted to try it.)
It shouldn’t have felt so pleasant.
And the sensation was growing, climbing down his arms and up his legs, as more spiders began to bite, and with each one he could feel the next spider’s progress more keenly. One of the bigger ones made its way up his calf and bit deep, penetrating his muscle, and he tried not to groan.
He should be fighting back, he knew, or at least trying, or if that failed, he should be trying to escape; but he wasn’t, even though he knew that all this was wrong. Why wasn’t he? His bonds felt looser, or at least he thought he might be able to shift them a little, if he could just get himself to move his muscles.
They didn’t want to obey him.
In fact, when he tried, he didn’t think they wanted to do anything at all, at least not where he’d been bitten, because he couldn’t so much as wiggle a pinky finger. He couldn’t--
Maker, it all moved too easily, and there were spiders crawling onto his shoulders and two of them bit him right in the pits of his elbows.
Alistair craned his neck back and watched as one of his hands slid within Firiel’s expert binding, warm and soft and utterly boneless.
It wasn’t that his muscles didn’t want to obey him. There just weren’t any of them left, much less anything for them to attach to.
Alistair opened his mouth to scream--
--and a furry-legged spider crawled inside and bit him square on the tongue.
He gasped, gagged, and possibly even gargled as it dissolved, forced to swallow as his tongue poured hot and sticky down his throat and settled somewhere in his stomach like treacle.
And the leg spiders had reached his thighs.
Not much use in anything but surrender at this point, he realized, much as the thought went against everything he wanted, everything he stood for, but what else could he do? Even if he managed to fall from the web, the spiders would come with him, and they wouldn’t stop biting, again and again and again, and as far as ways to go, this one at least was relatively painless...
He wondered idly whether they’d get to his heart first, or his loins.
By now his fingers and toes felt so alive (and so dead within) that he didn’t have to look to see what was happening as the first of the swarm sank their jaws into his flesh once more. It was a strange sensation, feeling yourself get sucked out through your toes, all the blood and gristle and bone that used to be you surging down, through your legs, rushing past electrified skin, till at last it left you, never to return.
Maybe, Alistair thought, as the last spider plunged into his navel, when Firiel came back for him, she’d take him with her and keep him in the cloak room, take him out from time to time and lay him flat on the bed, touch his cheek with her hand and care for him as if there were still a man inside...
Alistair bolts upright in bed with the gasp of the drowning. His tongue brushes the edge of his teeth, but it doesn’t register, and he breathes for a solid minute before he realizes it’s supposed to be gone. With a start, he raises his arms and checks, patting himself down to his toes, but yes--all bones are, in fact, present and accounted for, plus--
Oh, for the love of Andraste’s pet dog.
He sucks an icy breath through his teeth. It doesn’t mean anything.
It doesn’t mean anything, and it doesn’t have to mean anything, and even if it did mean anything at all it wouldn’t matter because it’s an entirely natural reaction, one he’s had for years, long before he ever had a woman, and it has absolutely nothing to do with his dreams.
But even if it did, it wouldn’t mean anything.
Wincing, he swings his feet over the side of the bed, and is grateful for the cold stone floor that greets them. He looks back, and finds Firiel sound asleep, utterly oblivious to him. Which is exactly what he wants.
Weisshaupt is chilly at night, it seems, just like the rest of the Anderfels, and it’s a welcome balm to the sweat on his brow. But of course, remembering where he is brings on a host of other worries, about tomorrow, and questions, and Firiel herself...
They’re welcome, he decides, as he dunks his head in the washbasin. If he focuses on them, it’ll be that much easier to pretend that this never happened.
He’s gotten very good at that.
Author’s Note: the title for this piece is taken from one of the possible readings of the opening lines of Hamlet’s first monologue:
Oh, that this too, too sullied[/solid] flesh would melt,
Thaw, and resolve itself into a dew...
Fellow Sebastian Vael fans: let us take a moment to remember that Sebastian is canonically a foodie.
If you take him along for Mark of the Assassin, he has a unique companion quest that centers around collecting recipes for him because he’s leaning to cook that ends with finding an amulet for him called “Gift of the Epicurean.”
Obviously him enjoying fine food makes sense considering his past, and clearly he hasn’t stopped indulging himself in that way. I also appreciate that he expresses a desire to learn to cook because whether he’s planning to stay with the chantry or rule Starkhaven, he is in a position where he doesn’t have to cook for himself since he’ll always be surrounded by people who can do it for him but he wants to know how to anyway.
a letter from little lord cousland to his sister in the circle
SORCHA, [this letter begins with her name in unevenly sized letters of varying pen pressure, the S is backwards, and the R looks more like an A. clearly a novice’s work. the following is written in the much neater, well practiced hand of Teyrn Cousland.]
Evrion wishes to compose his very own letters to you, separate from mine or Mother’s. I write on his behalf, seeing as he only knows names for the moment, but these are his words. He says:
Sorcha, I’m learning letters! Yours are pretty and easy. Ss are the best. I wish I had an S. S looks like a snake. Have you ever seen a snake? Father says he does not like snakes. I rather like snakes. They don’t even need legs.
[there’s a drawing of a snake wriggling along the paragraph break, just in case Sorcha has never seen one. Evrion was careful to include its forked tongue.]
What is your favorite animal? My favorite is horses. Horses have very fast legs. I love to ride them. Soon I won’t need help, on the horses or the letters. Father says it is okay to need help, but I don’t want to ask Fergus to reach things for me anymore. Sometimes he holds things up so I still can’t reach! Mother says he might be tall like Grandfather when he grows up. I hope not because then I won’t reach anything!!
[illustrated here is what seems to be a mabari-shaped cloud] Missy says hello!!
Father says it’s almost bedtime. He reads me and Garlan stories. Garlan loves the selkie story. I like it too. I like the horse story too. Which story is your favorite?
Write me back soon please! I love you. Goodnight.
Love,
EVRION [his own name is as haphazard as Sorcha’s at the top; E looks like it was a struggle. the back of the letter is covered in EVRIONs and SORCHAs of varying sizes and quality.]
I’ve been tagged by far too many (@bohemiantea-scorpiocoffee and @dalish-ish both come to mind, but I know there were more), but it took me a while to write something safe to spoil that I really liked.
Also, where did horizontal line formatting go?
“Binary choices are a refuge of the small-minded, my dear, and hardly exist outside of philosophical exercises in textbooks.  A person claiming to have no better choice lacks either the will or the imagination to conceive of it, and their opinions may be safely dismissed in the future.”
Both of Aerlinn’s eyebrows climbed as high as they would go.  “Really?”
“Would you rather it be otherwise?”
“Well, no, but no one’s ever just told me like that.”
“They haven’t?”  Vivienne scraped the last of supper from her bowl and neatly ate it.  “That is a pity.”
Tagging @withthebreezesblown, @laurelsofhighever, and @lavalampelfchild
I am honestly hyped for at least one of the stories in the collection ("Tevinter Nights") that'll be published next year: "The Horror of Hormak." Hormak is one of the big ancient dwarven thaigs that fell after Orzammar closed its gates.
Check this out from the wikia ("dwarven history" entry):
Maria Caliban: Anora is great. You betray her and she betrays you right back. Players are just used to NPCs that take anything lying down.
The Angry One: She does it either way, the fact that she does it if you’re a sneak too is mere coincidence, she’s a rat through and through.
Sheryl Chee (BioWare): No, she doesn’t. She betrays you if you rat her out to Cauthrien, if you don’t bother talking to her at Arl Eamon’s estate, and if you say you’re going to kill her dad. All good reasons to betray you, in my opinion.
The Angry One:I’m not sure how not talking to her is reasonable justification outside the realm of paranoid wearers of tin-foil hats..
Mary Kirby (BioWare): She tells you quite clearly that she wants to stay Queen. She knows that Eamon wants to put Alistair on the throne instead. If you don’t come talk to her about the Landsmeet, of course she assumes you’re sticking with Eamon’s plan to put The Boy Who Would Rather Be Thinking About Cheese on the throne. Tinfoil hat is optional.
Sheryl Chee: She’s like “Hi, Grey Warden. Please come talk to me, we need to discuss my dad’s complete ass-hattery.” She needs to know she can trust you. If she doesn’t know she can trust you with Ferelden, she’s not going to be on your side.
The Angry One: Which in the end means she’ll do anything to grasp onto her power, including messing with me. I suppose that maybe justifiable to her.. but I still get to hate her for it =P
Sheryl Chee: Anora wants what’s best for Ferelden, which is honestly, Anora. Anora was raised to be a queen, she understands her people, she understands politics. She is not power-hungry. She is afraid that Alistair will run Ferelden into the ground, which honestly, he might. He’s a nice guy, sure, but is that kingly material? I don’t think so. Mary is right. Alistair is the Boy Who’d Rather Be Thinking About Cheese. And playing with all those carved statues that you give him as gifts (they’re like action figures to him). Really? Alistair? King?
a character shaking their head in disbelief or disgust with hand on their forehead, looking down
that kiss animation used since origins and in every mass effect game where they very slowly go in, hesitate, bop their heads around, and really go in for the kissÂ
when a character, usually female, talks and puts their two hands in front of them like a robot and shakes them to illustrate their point
a character leans back on one leg with their arms loose
the exit-stage-right an NPC does after a conversation ends
angry limp wrist pointing
neck/collar bone scratchÂ
a slow crossing of the arms in times of suspicion
that punch animationÂ
drinking alcohol and violently shaking head
a character gives a half smile with an eyebrow raised
pointing behind with thumb, body turns very slightly
Don’t forget the group entering a large and impressive place and one of the characters slowly turns in a circle to take in the few while still walking with the party
amandla
discoholicmusic
dailybridgerton
