Hullo! I go by Dreams (35; they/them). Down below you'll find some of my stories that I plan on cross-posting to tumblr from AO3. My inbox is open for questions, feedback, snippet requests, gushing about fandom faves, and so on :3
You can also find me over on BlueSky!
What I write: Long form, one shots, slow burn, romance, smut, headcanons, tragedy, angst, horror.
A novelization of Dragon Age Inquisition by me and my best friend NotYetWritten. We've been working on it for ~10 years now and still going strong.
Thenera and Lalen Lavellan are sent to observe the gathering at the Conclave only to find themselves embroiled in a desperate fight to save the world.
One becomes the messianic figure in a wholly alien faith and struggles to find her place as a symbol to an organization that has long sought the extermination of her people. The other finds herself adrift in an insane world as the only anchor she has ever known slowly crumbles under the weight of responsibility.
A series of vignettes surrounding Aleksandra "Rook" Ingellvar and her two lovers, Lucanis Dellamorte and Professor Emmrich Volkarin.
Includes short stories/snippets from both routes of Emmrich's romance path and thus includes HEAVY SPOILERS.
~Le Corbeau, le Professeur, et la Petite Mort* [Complete] | Emmrich Volkarin/Rook/Lucanis Dellamorte | AO3
After a snarky comment from the Lighthouse’s resident Antivan Crow, Lucanis Dellamorte, Professor Emmrich Volkarin and Rook invite him back to their chambers for a private lesson.
WRITTEN PRE-RELEASE.
~Kisses Touched by Fire* [Complete] | F!Trevelyan/Cullen | AO3
-Teasing, tantalizing, but never to torment. He spells love on her skin with kisses touched by fire, trust the cool balm that soothes her guilt.-
Inquisitor Trevelyan seeks a place where she can let go. Her Commander gladly offers refuge.
What happens when fate brings together two broken souls? One a vampire spawn, abruptly freed from centuries of torment by pure happenstance. The other a scion of a noble House of Menzoberranzan, sold into slavery by her own family.
As their fates intertwine, the two embark on a quest going beyond the realm of simple survival. Amidst the chaos, they find an unexpected connection that manages to surpass their initial suspicions of one another.
Yet, the seductive allure of greater power threatens to shatter the fragile bond they've forged.
>>ARCANE
//wip series
~Beyond a Reasonable Doubt* [WIP] | Silco/F!OC - Lawyer AU | AO3
Orianna Reveck was supposed to debut her latest tech—not end up on trial for murder. With the media circling and the Piltovan justice system stacked against her, her last hope is Silco Thorne: a jaded Zaunite lawyer with scars, secrets, and no patience for spoiled heiresses.
What starts as a high-stakes defense case turns into something far more dangerous—corporate sabotage, buried trauma, and a slow, encroaching attraction neither of them can afford. In a city where justice is for sale, falling in love might be the riskiest move of all.
At Toba aquarium in Japan, after closing time, some clever little otter pups help their grandpa tidy up their toys. As a reward, he gives them ice cubes
The pages of this book—memory?—describe regret in a myriad of forms.
But none so poignant as that of...
"What if there had been a better choice?”
The message slipped between grasping fingers. Her thoughts were thick and heavy, hard to focus. She needed crispness and clarity.
Reaching up, Thenera clutched the jagged fangs of the wolf’s jaw necklace that hung between her breasts.
Sharp. Like a knife’s edge. Or a pair of pointed ears.
Solas’s eyes followed the movement, then his lips parted and all the color seemed to drain from his face. “How did you…?”
A prick of pain and she had them! The words from a Future-That-Never-Was. Leaning forward, Thenera released the amulet, took his face in her hands, and pressed her forehead to his.
The words rang, clear and true, from numbed lips:
“Felassan was right.”
Pairings: F!Lavellan/Solas | F!Lavellan/Cullen | Others to be added
Rating: Explicit (18+)
Word Count: 100K+ (WIP)
Author Note: An attempt at novelizing Dragon Age Inquisition alongside my longest and dearest friend NotYetWritten.
Amazing cover and tarot art was made by @ayamikasai <3
And the beautiful page break design is courtesy of @glasvera!
You can also find me over on BlueSky!
( Read on AO3 )
Next Chapter. / Masterlist. / Previous Chapter.
CHAPTER 59: ALL-CONSUMING, AND NEVER SATISFIED
Each was a high priest to one of the Old Gods. Each came to the ritual shrouded in secrecy, hiding their true name even from each other. They were competitors, you see. The Old Gods told them they would break into the Golden City and usurp the Maker’s throne…but only one of them could sit on the throne. Each assumed a title related to their role in casting the ritual. Some texts claim they had a leader: the High Priest of Dumat, called “Corypheus.”
—Excerpt from Questioning the Chant by Magister Vibius Agorian.
Corypheus.
The monster that had held Thenera aloft like a rag doll was what those in the blighted future had called the Elder One. A crazed, ancient darkspawn Magister who would birth the world of ruin that haunted Thenera’s nightmares – herald of a nesting ground of pain, despair, and red lyrium.
Agony flared where Corypheus’ iron grip closed around the Anchor, as though he meant to tear it from her very flesh. Blighted fire licked her palm, horrendously familiar in its torment, but the mark held fast.
It rejected him.
For all the monster’s power, for all his supposed superiority, he could not take it from her. In the face of his failure, Thenera screamed. It was a sound full of every shred of fear and fury she could muster. A rebellion of everything this monster was and threatened to bring upon them.
And then the mountain gave way.
The world coalesced into a dizzying blur of monstrous screams from blighted templars, a dragon’s distant road, the rumbling when the earth shuddered as the avalanche swallowed Haven whole. Fractured memories bled into a haze of poison and fevered delirium until all that remained was the familiar pull of unconsciousness.
In oblivion there was silence.
Yet, within that darkness, fragments of reality broke through. Snatches of awareness, thin as cracked glass, spilled into her fragile peace. Snow filled her mouth, froze the breath in her lungs, pressed against her eyes until the world was nothing but blinding white and biting cold.
She couldn’t move.
Couldn’t breathe.
And then the white gave way to the red.
In the time before the Future-That-Would-Not-Be, her dreams had been shadows at worst. They were brief flashes of memory and the looming threat of a growing blizzard.
But now?
Now Thenera was beset by scarlet dreams that tasted of iron and rot. By a fear so thick it clogged her throat and choked the air from desperate lungs that expanded in the vain hope of relief. By a heart that wouldn’t stop pounding like a caged rabbit slamming against the bone bars of its cage.
By eyes.
Eyes full of disdain, disappointment, anger, hatred.
Blessed Creators, so many eyes!
Those malevolent orbs blinked out one by one, but then there were the sounds.
Endless voices layered atop one another and clamoring to be heard. A cacophony screaming for an absolution that would never come. They echoed the refrain that had stalked her ever since she was a child:
You’ll bring misfortune upon us all!
A sharp slap cracked across Thenera’s cheek.
The chill of slick stone bled through cloth. Her body tried to compensate, shivers racing up and down her battered frame.
Another smack. Harder this time.
“Wake up, girl!”
Thenera’s eyes fluttered open, the world swimming in blurred shapes and shadows. Poison heat burned in her veins, skull pulsing with every heartbeat.
The world came into focus slowly, bit by bit. A mineshaft stretched around them in jagged lines of stone. The narrow walls, slick with condensation and veins of quartz, glimmered faintly in the torchless dark. Sounds of water dripping in a steady rhythm echoed somewhere deeper within. An overwhelming smell of mildew mixed with metal and dust turned her stomach.
“Get up, you lazy, ungrateful cretin!”
Fingers dug into her shoulder, shaking her until her teeth rattled. Then, from the shadows, loomed a horrendously familiar face – Deshanna Istimaethoriel Lavellan, expression carved in stark lines of fury.
“Up, damn you!”
Thenera lurched upright with a whimpering groan, every muscle screaming in protest. Above her, Deshanna’s expression shifted, fury giving way to a mask of disdain, and her lips curled in barely concealed contempt.
A rough yank pulled her to her feet. Another insistent tug got her moving. The air grew colder as the mine’s mouth gaped before them. Its frame was lit in pale moonslight, and the storm beyond snarled like a monster lying in wait.
The Anchor flared.
Green light seared across Thenera’s palm, spiking up her arm in jade-streaked veins. It wasn’t the steady pulse she’d long since grown accustomed to. This was raw and violent. A grievous wound reopened that felt as though it were splitting her palm in twain.
Sparks fell from her hand, hissing into the snow.
Why?!
“No,” she whispered hoarsely. Tears spilled hotly down frost-stung cheeks. “No, no, please! I never asked for this! I didn’t mean to, please don’t – “
Arms wrapped around her, and a hand smoothed down her hair. The touch was gentle, loving even. Thenera buried her face in the crook of the old woman’s neck, arms wrapped tight around her waist, and sobbed brokenly.
“Hush now, girl,” Deshanna crooned. “It’s alright. We’ll do what’s needful for the good of the clan.” But there was…something in the woman’s tone. “You will fulfill your duty, won’t you?”
A whisper of a horrid memory lay just out of reach.
What had she forgotten?
“Y-Yes, of course.” Thenera’s teeth chattered, and she shivered violently. “I’ve a-always done my duty to the clan.”
“Good girl.” The words were a kiss of breath against Thenera’s ear. Then something in the old woman’s voice abruptly changed – warmth gave way to frigid ceremony. It was a distance born of formality. “Then you’ll stand Mythal’s Vigil. To repent for your and your father's misdeeds.”
Thenera stiffened. “What?”
“It’s the price you pay for consorting with demons. May the All-Mother turn her gaze upon you, da’len, and judge you worthy of returning to us.” Another languid stroke through her hair. “Or else let the Dread Wolf claim what she will not.”
“No!” Animalistic panic ripped through Thenera. She thrashed, clawing at the arms holding her. “Please don’t! I won’t – whatever I’ve done, I promise I’ll never – !”
“Be still!” Deshanna snarled, voice hard and merciless. “Would you bring even more shame upon us than you already have?”
Thenera twisted hard, teeth bared, nails ripping and tearing at whatever she could reach. Bloody furrows opened in the Keeper’s forearms. But still Deshanna’s iron grip remained.
They toppled into the snow at the mine’s mouth, limbs tangling and the storm’s shriek rising above her own. She writhed like a trapped animal. Adrenaline gave her a surge of strength as she bucked to dislodge the old woman. Hands shoved at broad shoulders, tangled in silver hair and yanked violently.
Nothing worked.
With a snarl of fury, Deshanna wrenched a strip of leather from her belt. In a practiced motion, the old woman bound their wrists together and jerked it tight until the edge bit deep into Thenera’s skin. She screamed and fought, though every attempt to free herself only tightened the bonds further.
The world tilted on its axis. The wind howled, the bond upon her wrist burned, and her screams scattered into the storm.
The pages of this book—memory?—describe regret in a myriad of forms.
But none so poignant as that of...
"What if there had been a better choice?”
The message slipped between grasping fingers. Her thoughts were thick and heavy, hard to focus. She needed crispness and clarity.
Reaching up, Thenera clutched the jagged fangs of the wolf’s jaw necklace that hung between her breasts.
Sharp. Like a knife’s edge. Or a pair of pointed ears.
Solas’s eyes followed the movement, then his lips parted and all the color seemed to drain from his face. “How did you…?”
A prick of pain and she had them! The words from a Future-That-Never-Was. Leaning forward, Thenera released the amulet, took his face in her hands, and pressed her forehead to his.
The words rang, clear and true, from numbed lips:
“Felassan was right.”
Pairings: F!Lavellan/Solas | F!Lavellan/Cullen | Others to be added
Rating: Explicit (18+)
Word Count: 100K+ (WIP)
Author Note: An attempt at novelizing Dragon Age Inquisition alongside my longest and dearest friend NotYetWritten.
Amazing cover and tarot art was made by @ayamikasai <3
And the beautiful page break design is courtesy of @glasvera!
You can also find me over on BlueSky!
( Read on AO3 )
Next Chapter. / Masterlist. / Previous Chapter.
CHAPTER 58: AN UNQUENCHABLE FLAME
I want this made clear to every man and woman in our army: do not challenge the red templars’ leader, General Samson, on your own.
You may have heard stories of how Samson used to be a templar in Kirkwall until he was thrown out of the Order, that he became a vagrant begging for coin to buy lyrium. That man no longer exists. The fiend who attacked us at Haven had the strength of a dozen men. Samson has the training of a templar and all the power of red lyrium at his command. For those who did not see it firsthand, he is as dangerous as any demon. Perhaps worse. Treat him as such.
I will hold personally accountable any officers who do not communicate this order to their soldiers.
—A letter from Commander Cullen Rutherford, issued to commanding officers and read to all Inquisition soldiers.
Commander Cullen’s eyes scanned the front line unit. Just over a hundred soldiers stood firm, shoulders pressed tightly together. They’d trained rigorously to ensure even the newest of recruits could hold formation. It had seemed enough back then, but facing wave after wave of monstrous templars…
May Andraste’s wisdom guide me in the battle to come.
“Remember your training!” Rylen roared above the chaos. “Shields up!”
There were few things more satisfying than the sound of a perfectly executed shield wall – the snap of the metal and swords ringing free of their sheathes. Even amid the end of the world, Cullen felt a surge of pride at what they’d accomplished in just a few short months.
But swords and shields alone wouldn’t be enough.
Behind him, a cluster of rebel mages stood, faces tense with exhaustion from closing the Breach and staffs clutched in white-knuckled fingers.
“Mages! You – “ Cullen hesitated, the old fear climbing up the back of his throat. But before it could strangle him, he mastered himself. “You have sanction to engage them!”
This was not Kinloch Hold.
Nor was it Kirkwall.
These men and women were looking to the Commander of the Inquisition, not the ghost of Cullen Rutherford’s failures. Andraste preserve him, but he would do everything to ensure this wouldn’t be yet another massacre. And if they were going to die, it would be on their feet and fighting to the last.
Unsheathing his sword, Commander Cullen held it high, firelight catching on the steel for every soldier and mage alike to see. Hundreds of weary faces turned towards him, and he raised his voice, loud and clear:
“For the Inquisition! For the Herald! For all of us!”
The clash of steel, screams, and the roar of what had once been Haven twisted together into the familiar rhythm of war. Cullen took to the battlefield himself, shouting commands and diving into the thick of combat alongside his soldiers.
They could not fail because if the chantry fell, all would be lost. Fear and exhaustion bled away into razor-sharp focus. His world narrowed to holding the line – holding this line at all costs.
A battle of attrition.
Time lost all meaning as the Inquisition's army went to work. Mud, blood, and tainted lyrium churned the earth in front of the main gate into a slippery mess.
Their wall of steel and stubborn resolve met every charge from the red templars. When there was a breach from lost footing, another shifted to seal the gap. Each unit moved as one, Cullen's whistled commands slicing through the cacophony to guide them.
Two short bursts followed by one long had the front line peeling back like a tide. Shifting in tandem, shields interlocked as the next wave surged forward to take the first row's place. Novice and veteran alike had become a single organism — no glory or grandstanding. Just bodies pressed together and wills dedicated to one purpose:
Survival.
But how much longer could they last?
No time. Cullen grit his teeth and stepped forward. Need to focus.
It was his turn at the front, and higher thought fell to the wayside. Here there would be only heat, the taste of metal, choking ash, and red. Maker have mercy, so much red.
Pools of blood. Glittering lyrium crystals. Roiling flames.
Focus, damn you!
Thrust.
Aim towards the upper left quadrant. Angle the blade up to slip between the fourth and fifth ribs to reach the heart.
Pivot.
Find the next target. Shift weight and find balance after freeing his blade.
Block.
No magic meant no angle needed to avoid splashback. Just a raise of the arm and brace for impact.
Reassess.
Close gaps and bolster morale. Adjust his orders according to the battlefield's current needs.
Repeat.
A cadence of death followed Cullen’s every step, shadowed each movement and whistle of command. Words of encouragement, prayers for the fallen, and broken strings of the Chant echoed through the streets as a beacon of hope to the terrified residents of Haven.
Yet even a well-oiled machine inevitably breaks down. Fatigue settled into Cullen's bones, muscles burning with exertion. The time between rotations was just long enough to catch his breath but little else. The line was faltering, once crisp movements turning sluggish.
These weren’t born and bred soldiers. It was honestly a miracle they had lasted this long.
“Cullen!”
Cassandra’s voice rang through the din, her silhouette cutting through ash and snow as she took the steps two at a time. Not far behind came the Iron Bull, his Chargers, and Warden Blackwall.
Thank the Maker. Cullen stumbled as a last wave of adrenaline flooded his system. “Rylen, to me!”
With a practiced motion, the two of them disengaged, and their soldier’s shields shifted seamlessly to close ranks behind them. His second in command fell into step next to him, both men retreating to meet the newcomers and catch their breath.
“The Herald and her retinue have returned from closing the Breach.” Cassandra wasted no time giving a report. “We also received word that two Dalish were seen entering the chantry.”
For a blessed moment, Cullen felt relief. Lalen was safe and Thenera lived. The Herald lived. And with her, there may still be some semblance of hope. But the respite was fleeting. Safety within stone walls meant little if Haven burned down with the Inquisition still trapped inside.
Cassandra grimaced. “I didn’t see any banners. Do we know – “
“No," Cullen said sharply, wiping down his blade. “But from what we saw at Therinfal Redoubt, I have little doubt this is the remnants of the Templar Order. My concern is who leads them.”
“This isn’t even the bulk of their forces," Rylen muttered, eyes scanning the horizon. “Maker only knows how many are still out there.”
A great cry of alarm went up behind them.
Then came the blood-curdling screams.
Turning, it took Cullen a moment to even process what he was seeing. Armored combatants weighing at least fourteen stone, tossed up in the air like children’s toys; thick steel rent like wet paper. Disemboweled soldiers splayed across crimson snow and shrieked for their mothers, for the Maker, for Andraste’s mercy. And from that charnel house stepped a ghost from Kirkwall’s past.
It can’t be.
But it was.
Raleigh Samson tore through scores of bodies as if they were nothing. Stranger still was the fact that, unlike the other monstrosities roaming the streets of Haven, the man looked like just another man save for the warped armor he wore.
Embedded deep in the armor’s chest plate and vambraces were thick shards of red lyrium. They pulsed grotesquely in time with the man’s miraculously steady heartbeat, casting twisted reflections across gore-slicked armor. Despite the carnage, he wasn’t even out of breath. And the sword he carried…
Oh sweet Maker.
It was the very same blighted blade that had driven Knight-Commander Meredith insane.
He tightened the grip on his own sword. They stood no chance against this monster. Every instinct screamed at him to retreat, to flee, but there was nowhere left to run. At this point, all Cullen could do was make Samson work for it.
As he readied himself for a suicidal charge, the earth itself seemed to tremble. This was followed by a gust of wind and the stench of sulfur.
A shadow darkened the sky.
“Commander!” The urgency in Rylen's voice — shock mixed with abject terror. "Dragon!”
Then came a roar that sent even the most seasoned of warriors scrambling for cover. Cullen barely had time to shout a warning before the massive beast unleashed torrents of fire, tearing indiscriminately through red templars and Inquisition soldiers alike.
“Fall back!” he roared, stumbling back. “To the chantry! Now!”
The gathered mass of humanity crammed into too small a building had a unique scent that Cullen knew all too well. Stale sweat, smoke, the acidic tang of vomit, and the rancidness of fear that bordered on barely contained hysteria.
Leaving Rylen to put some kind of order to the chaos, he and Cassandra found the makeshift war council crammed inside Josephine’s office. The room stank of smoke, sweat, and wet leather. All of their faces were tense and drawn, but none more so than the Herald herself.
If one hadn't known better, the woman standing before him could have been mistaken for a battle-hardened warrior. This shivering slight of a Dalish stood tall — bloodied, breathless, yet burning with purpose. Despite the poison still coursing through her veins, she remained on her feet, coherent only from will alone.
Cullen had no right to judge; he was scarcely better. Three days in the saddle had left grit in his teeth, frostbite nipping at his fingers, and a deep ache burrowed into every muscle. His armor reeked and his vision swam with sleepless exhaustion.
But looking at her…
Thenera looked worse than he felt.
Up close, the truth of her condition was plain as day: skin gone pale beneath soot and blood, her frame trembling with the effort to remain upright. Lalen’s arm around her waist was the only thing keeping her anchored. Yet her eyes – those bright, burning eyes – caught and held his.
Fierce.
Unyielding.
Alive.
Maker, how is she still standing?
“Report, Commander,” Thenera rasped. “I need to know what we’re facing.”
Cullen hesitated, but only for a moment.
“Samson Raleigh leads them. A former templar from Kirkwall who served alongside me.” His hand tightened on the hilt at his side, knuckles pale against worn leather. “As such, he is familiar with my tactics and ways to counter them. Under normal battlefield conditions, we would be evenly matched. But now, a dragon is tearing through Haven.”
Cullen drew in a sharp breath as the monster roared above them as if to accent the point.
“I’m afraid there are no tactics to make this survivable, Herald.” His gaze swept the room, voice hardening. “We’re dying, but we can decide how. Many don’t get that choice.”
The words hung in the cramped chamber like a cloying mist that choked the air out of one’s lungs. No one spoke. Cassandra’s jaw tightened, Josephine’s hands twisted in her skirts, and even Leliana seemed to wither. For a moment, the only sound was the muted roar of the battle outside.
Then came a soft, dissonant voice.
“Yes, that. Chancellor Roderick can help.” The strange boy from Therinfal Redoubt stood in the doorway, escorting the swiftly fading man. “He wants to say it before he dies.”
“There…there is a path.” Roderick rallied himself, standing straighter. “You wouldn’t know it unless you’d made the summer pilgrimage as I have.”
Roderick’s face twisted in a rictus of pain. Cole caught him before he collapsed entirely, murmuring something only the Chancellor could hear.
“The people can escape,” he continued wearily, but there was a fanatical light in his eyes. “She must have shown me! Andraste must have shown me so I could…tell you.”
Roderick’s conviction humbled Cullen. For all the man’s pompousness and self-righteousness, the Chancellor had put himself in harm's way for his people and could very well be the reason some survived this catastrophe.
Leliana’s eyes narrowed as suspicion warred with calculation. Cassandra’s mouth opened as if to argue, but no words would come. Josephine pressed a hand to her lips, eyes brimming with tears. Thenera and Lalen stared at the dying man in equal parts confusion and dread.
Then they all turned to Cullen.
His jaw tightened. At this point, the village was lost. But one question still gnawed at him: what is it that Samson and his master truly want? Haven itself has no tactical significance, but –
“The Elder One doesn’t care about the village,” Cole said dreamily. As if…reading his thoughts. Which only added to his growing suspicion that the boy was some manner of spirit. “He only wants the Herald.”
The boy-spirit’s words hung in the air like a death sentence.
Cullen’s gaze flicked to Lalen. Her jaw was tight, arm still firm around Thenera’s waist. There was no need for words. The understanding was already there – two soldiers measuring the same impossible odds. He’d seen this before: the look of someone ready to die beside a friend, no matter how futile the last stand.
He wanted to tell her to get Thenera out, to run, to live – but Lalen’s steady, unflinching stare told him she already knew the truth.
There would be no running.
“If that monster is here for me,” Thenera snarled, “then it can come and take me.”
In Kinloch Hold, Cullen had watched his brothers and sisters set themselves ablaze while screaming the Chant. He'd seen his superiors fall to temptation, those so-called leaders crumbling within hours, and opening their arms wide for a host of demons. In Kirkwall, Knight-Commander Meredith Stannard herself had been driven mad by an idol.
And a half-dead Dalish put them all to shame.
“I need something, Commander.” Thenera leaned heavily against Lalen, but even on the verge of collapse, the Herald’s eyes glittered dangerously. "Something that gives you enough time to evacuate the civilians."
He drew in a long breath, mind racing. They obviously couldn’t outlast Samson, nor could they slay that damned dragon. But the mountain…they could turn the mountain against both of them. Cullen’s hand shifted to the map spread across Josephine’s desk, finger stabbing the ridge above Haven.
“The trebuchets,” he said. “We fire them into the mountainside, causing an avalanche. It will bury Haven and everything in it.”
Cullen glanced up in the ensuing silence. Thenera had turned to Lalen. No words passed between them, but none were apparently needed. Lalen’s hand tightened against the Herald’s waist, steadying her as though she could anchor Thenera against what was to come. In Lalen’s eyes lay the same grim acceptance reflected in Thenera’s – two people who understood exactly what this plan would demand of them.
After a moment, Thenera returned her attention to him, expression carved from stone.
“And when the mountain falls…” Cullen’s throat tightened.
She said nothing, simply stared at him unblinking.
They both knew the truth.
“Perhaps you’ll surprise it,” he murmured, almost to himself. It was a fragile sliver of hope he didn’t truly believe. “Find a way…”
“I’m sure I’ll think of something. Or your fiery prophet has some kind of trick up her sleeve.” Thenera’s lips curved, but it wasn’t a smile so much as it was sad resignation. “We’ll see you on the other side, Commander.”
This decision sat heavy in his chest. Cullen had given orders before, sent men and women to their deaths in the line of duty. But this was different. These two Dalish weren’t soldiers under his command, yet he was consigning them to the same fate.
Worse still, this was the Herald of Andraste.
Maker forgive him, it felt like a betrayal.
Would that make him Maferath in the retelling of this tale?
Roderick stirred again, drawing Thenera’s attention. Cullen caught only fragments as the dying man leaned close. A fevered whisper as Thenera bowed her head to hear and Lalen’s grip tightened protectively.
Whatever was said passed too quietly for him to hear, but when Thenera straightened again, there was a grim certainty in her expression that hadn’t been there before.
“My soldiers will load the trebuchets.” Cullen straightened and forced steel into his voice to hide the growing despair. “You just need to keep the Elder One’s attention until we’re above the treeline. If we are to have a chance – if you are to have a chance – let that thing hear you.”
The room burst into action around him – Leliana vanishing to rouse her agents, Josephine gathering important documents, and Cassandra barking orders at the nearest soldier. Cullen lingered, gaze fixed on the Herald and her silent companion.
Thenera stood in the center of it all, swaying with exhaustion and auburn hair plastered to her face in a sheen of sweat and blood. Lalen held her close, free hand signing something quickly that made her smile weakly. Would this be just another snapshot of memory before disaster?
Only time would tell.
This plan was madness, and they all knew it. But it was the only madness left to them.
“Blessed Andraste, have mercy upon your Herald.” With that, Cullen turned and focused on the evacuation effort.
And I will try to ensure your chosen’s sacrifice is not in vain.
The sound was deafening – a great roar as the mountain split and seemed to collapse in on itself. The snow shifted, cascading down in a straight line to Haven's glowing remains. Then the flames snuffed out, and Haven was gone.
Both Dalish from clan Lavellan were gone.
Erased.
Buried beneath the snow.
The Herald said they would see each other on the other side. And for a moment, Maker help him, he had let himself believe it. But he hadn’t thought to ask, “On other side of what?”
Apparently she had meant the Veil itself.
He told Cassandra he wanted to stay behind to personally ensure the civilian's safety. In truth, it was an excuse to linger and cast furtive glances to where the smoldering husk of Haven had been. He stayed longer than he should have, breath burning in his lungs, waiting for another miracle.
Perhaps not as dramatic as stepping out of the Fade. He would content himself with something as simple as a shape emerging out of the worsening storm.
So Cullen waited.
And waited.
But to no avail.
No rift opened to reveal two Dalish. No hazy silhouettes appeared on the snowdrifts, nor was there even a flicker of magic. All was silent save for the howling of the wind.
An hour passed. Then two. Finally, begrudgingly, he turned and followed the trail Chancellor Roderick had shown them, jaw clenched and shoulders squared.
Because there was still work to be done.
People left to save.
And two more names to add to the list of the lost.
The pages of this book—memory?—describe regret in a myriad of forms.
But none so poignant as that of...
"What if there had been a better choice?”
The message slipped between grasping fingers. Her thoughts were thick and heavy, hard to focus. She needed crispness and clarity.
Reaching up, Thenera clutched the jagged fangs of the wolf’s jaw necklace that hung between her breasts.
Sharp. Like a knife’s edge. Or a pair of pointed ears.
Solas’s eyes followed the movement, then his lips parted and all the color seemed to drain from his face. “How did you…?”
A prick of pain and she had them! The words from a Future-That-Never-Was. Leaning forward, Thenera released the amulet, took his face in her hands, and pressed her forehead to his.
The words rang, clear and true, from numbed lips:
“Felassan was right.”
Pairings: F!Lavellan/Solas | F!Lavellan/Cullen | Others to be added
Rating: Explicit (18+)
Word Count: 100K+ (WIP)
Author Note: An attempt at novelizing Dragon Age Inquisition alongside my longest and dearest friend NotYetWritten.
Amazing cover and tarot art was made by @ayamikasai <3
And the beautiful page break design is courtesy of @glasvera!
You can also find me over on BlueSky!
( Read on AO3 )
Next Chapter. / Masterlist. / Previous Chapter.
CHAPTER 57: IN YOUR HEART SHALL BURN
From the Fade I crafted you,
And to the Fade you shall return
Each night in dreams
That you may always remember Me.
—Excerpt from the Canticle of Threnodies, 5:7.
Bedlam awaited Thenera upon her return from the Temple of Sacred Ashes. Even from a distance, they could hear the screams and battle cries mixed with the sounds of steel against steel. But to see the abominations covered with those damned glowing red crystals roving the streets of Haven, brutally striking down any unfortunates that cross their paths…
Many funeral candles would be carved if they survived this.
Falon’Din ma ghilana vhenas.
But there was still the problem of finding the one responsible for all this pain and suffering:
The Elder One.
From the stories Gisharel and Deshanna had told over the years, Thenera knew there were two factions of gods among the People: the Evanuris who protected and looked after their children and the Forgotten Ones that plotted against them, hidden away in the shadows of the Abyss where even the Creators feared to tread.
Those creatures were everything the Evanuris were not. Where the Creators embodied all that was good and righteous, the Forgotten Ones were monsters of disease, terror, spite and malevolence. Even blessed Andruil, in her pursuit of them, became corrupted by the Void. In the end, Mythal had interceded on her daughter’s behalf and cleansed her of the Void’s taint, but only after great sacrifice.
If even one of the People’s gods could barely overcome such a thing, how in the Void was Thenera supposed to?
Mythal ma ghilana. Thenera could only hope that wherever she was, the All-Mother would hear a lone Dalish’s plea. And if this is my time, may Falon’Din guide me across the Veil with joy and without pain.
Then she could face her father’s spirit and tell him she did the best she could.
Thenera’s companions closed in tight around her. The Iron Bull took his place at the forefront, heavy axe swinging and cleaving through red lyrium and templar armor with ease. Varric and Sera worked on either side to flank the abominations. His bolts snapped through helmet slits as her arrows found purchase in the gaps between plated armor and crystalized flesh.
“Remind me,” Varric shouted over the din. “Why do we always show up after everything’s gone to shit?” Another hail of bolts tore through another cluster of abominations. “Tiny, to your left!”
“On it!” The Iron Bull’s axe smashed the offending templar into, then through, a burning hut.
And throughout the chaos, Creators be praised, Solas and Dorian never once left her side. There was a strange unspoken understanding between the two men. Whenever one’s magic stuttered or wavered, the other bolstered it with their own. When Solas focused on helping the others, Dorian pivoted to protect Thenera, and vice versa.
They work together so seamlessly. Is that what it’s like when you’re raised around others who don’t fear their gifts?
Dorian was back at her side, an arm wrapped around her waist. Thenera leaned heavily against him. Her knees kept threatening to buckle despite the antidote in her system, and she was weaker than a newborn halla.
“Still breathing?” Dorian asked cheerfully.
“Barely,” Thenera rasped.
“Good enough.” He interposed himself between her and a charging templar, summoning a translucent shield with a wave of his staff.
An arrow erupted through the stunned monster’s crystal-encrusted eye socket.
Sera’s cackling laughter rose above the sounds of battle. “That’s the Inquisition's motto, innit?”
“Creators, I hope not.” Thenera stumbled over a severed arm and let out a cry of alarm.
When she lurched away, Dorian lost his grip on her with a muttered curse. Another templar bore down on them, and he shifted to deal with it. But Solas steadied her, with one hand on the small of her back and the other holding his staff high to keep up the barrier Dorian had to release.
“I have you, da’len.” His eyes scanned constantly, but never once towards her.
“Thank you, hahren,” she replied.
Thenera hoped they would have time to bridge the sudden gulf that was between them. The amulet was heavy around her neck. A reminder of what fate awaited if they failed.
What weight does it hold for you, I wonder?
A hail of arrows thudded into burning structures – Adan’s apothecary, the charred husk that was once the Singing Maiden – as another fireball lit up the distant rooftops of the barracks. In the gaps between the buildings, monstrous silhouettes moved like bejeweled ghosts between black smoke.
Damn it all, there are too many of them. Awareness narrowed to one foot in front of the other and painful gasps. Numbed fingers gripped the wolf’s jaw amulet tightly. It had become a lifeline, something to ground her when she felt herself slipping. Its weight was a constant reminder of Redcliffe – a reminder of what was truly at stake if she failed. Focus!
Every joint ached. Cold sweat trickled down her hairline, and salt stung her eyes. Her muscles throbbed and spasmed. Her stomach was full of fire and bile, and the world was at once too hot and too cold.
What if they were too late?
What if the events currently in motion were the point of no return and that dreadful future was already destined to come to pass?
Nausea twisted Thenera’s stomach. So she buried that possibility deep – deep under layers of terror, despair, and a frosted tundra. It was all she could do to keep moving forward as they fought their way through the front gates.
Bodies littered the ground. Burned husks, twisted things with their throats slashed, or beaten until they were unrecognizable. But a few stood out as they passed by recognized only by their clothing – Flissa, the kind barmaid that had taken a liking to Lalen; Lysette, one of Cullen’s templars who lay nestled within a copse of red lyrium infested corpses; and the quartermaster, Threnn.
It’s too much.
Another roaming group of abominations blocked their path. More shouting, flashes of flame and the strange metallic scent of blood mixed with tainted lyrium. There was a murmur of something that sounded vaguely apologetic from Dorian before she found herself alone.
The world blurred into a dizzying spiral of sound and frantic movement as despair sunk its claws deep into her mind. This battle was unwinnable. Why even bother? They were already dead.
They were merely postponing the inevitable.
Bereft of the shemlen’s support, Thenera’s legs finally gave way beneath her. The glassy eyes of Threnn gazed up at her, unseeing. With vision swimming from exhaustion and barely contained tears, something between a laugh and a sob escaped her.
I’m really going to die here, aren’t I?
But then a pair of calloused hands gathered her up, one around her shoulders and the other under her knees. Glancing up, she met a pair of exhausted, but blessedly familiar, emerald eyes.
Relief washed over Thenera. Oh, thank the Creators!
Lalen held her close, crooning softly in the back of her throat. Burying her face in her clanmate’s neck, Thenera allowed herself to shatter to pieces with a muffled cry. Tears soaked into Lalen’s tunic, and trembling hands gripped the fabric like it was the only thing keeping her anchored.
As the world was crashing down around them, Thenera closed her eyes. For just a solitary moment, she wrapped herself in the memory of a summer from years past.
Warm grass, fading sunlight, the flickering glow of fireflies, a sweet tartness of overripe berries on her tongue that left a pleasant lightheadedness. Limbs intertwined and languid with sated pleasure, fingers interlaced as Thenera told Lalen the stories of the constellations under the moonslight.
She knew no one would remember two Dalish comforting one another. No books would be written about their fear, exhaustion, and illness, nor their desperate struggle to maintain a failing body while hoping their efforts were enough to save the world.
No, if tales were told of this moment, it would be of the failure that was the Herald of Andraste. A woman touched by the Maker’s bride, Closer of the Breach, and the one who fell when the world needed her most. And even this was assuming they survived any of this.
Which was looking less and less likely by the second.
Please, just let me have this moment of joy before the end.
And in that sacred moment, there was safety. Nestled within Lalen’s arms, the events since the Conclave no longer mattered. The fear, the pain, the responsibilities bled away. There was just warmth, the thick scent of horses, and peace amidst a smoldering ruin.
A beautiful dream of summer and simplicity.
Then Cassandra’s voice destroyed it with one word. “Herald?”
The chill of winter returned. The mantle of duty and expectation nested within that single word, that title, settled back on her shoulders with a sense of inevitability. When all she wanted was to close her eyes and drift into oblivion, duty would see her suffer.
“I can stand,” Thenera murmured.
Though Creators knew she did not want to.
Lalen’s fingers tightened before regretfully setting her back on her feet. But her clanmate still helped steady her when she lost balance.
Rallying what little strength remained to her, Thenera turned her head to meet the Seeker’s dark gaze. “What’s our status?”
“We’ve gotten reports that red templars have breached the east side,” she said grimly. Ichor and viscera spattered the Seeker’s blade and shield, blood running down her face from a gash hidden in her hairline. “And another group is swiftly approaching from the west.”
“And Commander Cullen?” Thenera asked wearily. “Has he returned?”
Lalen hummed in affirmation, giving the answer that Cassandra’s subsequent words confirmed.
“Yes.” The Seeker shifted uncomfortably. “But we haven’t received word – “
“Cullen’s funneling the civilians into the Chantry,” came a gruff voice. Appearing behind Cassandra, Warden Blackwall was in a similar state – blade and shield smeared with soot, blood, and ichor. He wiped sweat from his brow with a bloodied forearm. “Madame de Fer cleared a path for you.”
“It should be an easy enough trail to follow, then,” Thenera said with a tired smile.
And sure enough, all they had to do was follow the trail of crimson ice sculptures.
Cassandra, Blackwall, and Iron Bull split off to aid the soldiers at the front lines. So as the rest of their group approached, a familiar figure was weakly ushering the panicking townsfolk towards the chantry.
“Move! Keep going!” Chancellor Roderick shouted. He pressed one hand firmly against his stomach and leaned against the doorway. “The…the chantry is your shelter!”
Bracing herself for the blame he was sure to put upon her, Thenera made her way gingerly up the stairs. Lalen and Solas were on either side of her, helping support her weight.
Yet as they drew closer, she saw the blossoming red stain spreading across his tunic. Roderick lifted his arms to wave a group of stragglers to safety before thinking better of it. That moment was enough to reveal a glimpse of twisted bowels peeking out from the cleric's belly.
Oh, sweet Creators. She forced her eyes away from the grisly sight. "What happened?"
"He tried to stop a templar, and took the blade meant for a child." A pale young man, eyes hidden behind a shock of white blonde hair and a comically large hat, stood at Roderick's side and helped steady him. "He’s going to die."
“Such a charming boy, isn’t he?” The Chancellor grimaced. “He’s refused to leave my side since arriving with the Commander.”
She looked down into Roderick’s eyes and, for once, there was no distrust. No vitriol or snide condescension masked his fear.
There was only a well of sorrow and regret.
“Herald…” His voice was hoarse from shouting as he reached out to weakly grasp Thenera’s arm. “I’ve misjudged you.”
Part of her wanted to hold tightly to resentment, to hate him for what he had put her through. For all the sleepless nights, wondering if templars would come and steal her away before daybreak. The fear of being dragged to the executioner’s block. The suspicious glances and whispered venom.
Yet looking down at Chancellor Roderick now, with his pale pallor, blood seeping between trembling fingers, and those once hateful eyes glazed with pain and fear…
The bitterness melted away and left only pity.
“You were trying to protect your people,” Thenera murmured, placing her free hand atop his. “I can’t say I wouldn’t have reacted the same way if the situation had been reversed.”
“I’ve been so blind…” Roderick’s expression twisted, grief mingling with agony as his grip tightened. “So sure of my convictions, so self-righteous…”
“Blood everywhere, monsters, madness, dying, we’re all dying.” Cole swayed, eyes glazed, and voice taking on a strange cadence. “The Herald stands against it, and heads turn. Desperate and simple. Pure.” Roderick stared at the boy, wide-eyed. “Voices in the Chantry. Years since I’d sung the song and felt it flowing through me, but this is real.” A touch of religious fervor gave weight to the next words: “This is real.”
“Maker forgive me, Herald.” Roderick’s voice cracked, tears welling in his eyes before streaking down his dirt and soot-smeared cheeks. “But I thought you were meant to mock us.”
“The gods are fickle and choose unlikely champions.” She smiled weakly. “One thing my Creators and your Maker have in common, it seems.”
“Apparently so.” He gave a breathless laugh that turned to a pained gasp. “But it – ” Another tremor shook him, his breathing growing more labored by the minute. “It seems this is the end.”
“Have faith, Chancellor.” Thenera patted his hand before struggling to stand. Lalen wrapped an arm around her waist, and Solas hovered nearby. “So long as I have breath, there’s hope.”
They needed to get him inside, to a healer…perhaps there was still time? Yet, even as that hopeful thought crossed her mind, Thenera knew deep down that the pale stranger was right:
Chancellor Roderick Asignon was not long for this world.
The heavy doors of the chantry slammed shut behind them with a thunderous crack! Wooden beams creaked as iron latches slid into place, locking them inside. And would hopefully keep out the former templar monstrosities.
For the time being, at least.
Inside the air was humid and cloying. Scores of people milled restlessly through the chantry halls, eyes wild with animalistic panic. There was a semblance of safety within the herd, but with an undercurrent of fear that clogged every inch of their temporary refuge.
The scent of smoke, sweat, and blood clung to every surface. Children screamed and cried as a group of sisters prayed fervently in a nearby corner. Someone else retched nearby, vomit splattering against the cobblestone.
As she took in the chaotic assembly of survivors, there was an overwhelming realization: these were her people. Even in her own clan, as First, her own people regarded her with hatred and suspicion. The difference here was in their actions after Thenera had proven herself.
Clan Lavellan never failed to remind her of her many perceived sins from the day she was born and continued to hold on to their disdain no matter how many times she tried to prove herself trustworthy.
But the people of Haven…
This group of shemlen had seemingly welcomed her with open arms. They placed their trust in her, looked to her for hope in their darkest hour, and stood alongside her against a threat none of them understood. It humbled her, weighed on her…yet there was comfort and strength in it, too.
Thenera’s bond with the Inquisition was no longer one forged by obligation. It had slowly but surely shifted to one of genuine trust and shared hardship.
Or maybe it was simply the byproduct of fevered delirium.
She staggered, overwhelmed. Her tunic clung to her skin, damp and sticky with fresh blood. The arrow wound in her stomach pulsed – sharp, hot, and insistent.
Beside her, Solas guided her towards a makeshift cot. Once she settled, he murmured something to Dorian before heading off to the storerooms at the back of the chantry.
The human knelt down in front of her and tsked softly.
“I must say, my dear,” he said blithely in direct contradiction to the anxious sweat at his brow, “you look positively dreadful.”
“Dread Wolf take you.” Even though she knew he was right, Thenera rolled her eyes. “Thank you for reminding me, lest I forget.”
“Of course!” Dorian grinned. “After all, someone has to take appearances into consideration. Now off with that eyesore you Dalish call clothing, if you would be so kind.”
Lalen moved behind her, helping Thenera remove her blood-encrusted tunic. Each touch was tender, yet firm – a comforting warmth against sick-chilled skin. Setting the garment aside, Lalen sat down next to her, and the two of them exchanged a silent look.
Thenera’s breath caught and tears welled in her eyes as more memories flooded through her – memories of intimate nights spent under a canopy of stars, curled under mountains of blankets after a long day’s travel, dreams full of laughter and spring-touched meadows. The thought that this could well be the end of their journey was too much to bear.
But if this was truly the end…they would face it together.
As they always had.
Dorian started the arduous task of cleaning out the wound, interrupting those dreary thoughts. The process of removing her bandages was routine by this point, but he still took great care to be gentle. Yet even then, each touch sent shocks of pain up her spine. While he’d stopped going sheet white every time he looked at the wound, Dorian still muttered to himself in Tevene as he worked – a rhythmic, anxious chant that sounded like some kind of song.
Lalen shook her head like she could shake the sound of it out. Reaching over to interlace their fingers, Thenera squeezed gently and rested her head against her clan mate’s shoulder.
“It’s alright,” she murmured, voice lowered for Lalen’s ears only. “He’s been nothing but kind, and I owe him my life.”
Lalen’s fingers signed quickly. I am here.
The familiar reassurance filled Thenera’s heart to the brim with affection and grounded her through the worst of the pain. She responded in the way she always had.
We’re still here.
Solas returned, carrying a jar filled with a pungent green salve. The sharp scents of elfroot and oakmoss filled the air as he carefully applied it to the cleaned wound and fresh bandages. Relief washed over Thenera, the salve cool against inflamed tissue and numbing some of the pain.
“Here.” Solas gave her a handful of elfroot leaves. “For the pain.”
He had been strangely distant since Redcliffe. Was it just stress from the journey, or had she offended him in her fevered delirium?
…would she even have the chance to ask him?
With a murmur of thanks, she wadded the leaves into a tiny ball, popped them into her mouth, and chewed slowly. He laid a hand against her forehead, checking her temperature, yet his eyes kept flitting to the wolf’s jaw amulet that hung heavy around her neck.
Thenera leaned into the touch. “There’s much we need to discuss, hahren.”
Solas sat back on his haunches with a guarded expression. “So it would seem, da’len.”
Back to da’len…
Thenera lowered her eyes to the floor, trying to tamp down the painful twist of disappointment that single word caused. It was ridiculous, really. Here they were facing almost certain death, and she was upset over a word. And it was foolishness to hold tight to anything from that horrid future.
“Almost done,” Dorian said, sincerity briefly taking the place of his usual bravado. “Compared to that awful affair at Redcliffe, this is nothing, eh?”
Thenera let out a shaky breath and put on a weak smile. “As you say, Serah Pavus.”
While the altus wrapped the fresh bandages around her torso, she took those moments to take in the surrounding scene.
As the sounds of fighting grew louder outside – Thenera could make out Cassandra’s fierce battle cries, the Iron Bull’s booming laughter, Sera’s vitriolic taunts, and Blackwall’s shouts of encouragement – Vivienne took charge inside.
Near the barricaded doors, Madame de Fer had rallied the mages, voice clear and imperious over the sounds of battle outside.
“Gather your strength, mes chers!” She moved through the crowd with effortless grace. A touch of the shoulder here, a smile to embolden those who stumbled over their wards. “We can’t falter now!”
Next to her, the strange boy – apparently called Cole, according to Lalen – knelt beside Chancellor Roderick. He quietly tended to the gravely wounded man, changing his bandages when they soaked through and murmuring gentle reassurances.
And across the hall, Varric had gathered a group of children together alongside a few adults. His warm voice rose above the clamor, weaving tales of heroism, bravery, and resilience.
Thenera idly wondered if he truly believed such things. Yet the way his face lit up as he told those cherished stories, how his words held an unshakeable conviction…a single dwarf erected a shield of hope within the tempest.
Perhaps belief itself could be enough.
From beyond the heavy doors, the sounds of battle only intensified. As it drew closer, Thenera felt both overwhelming dread and a fierce sense of pride.
The Inquisition still stood, its soldiers fighting against overwhelming odds and holding the line against a dark future only she and Dorian knew of.
The pages of this book—memory?—describe regret in a myriad of forms.
But none so poignant as that of...
"What if there had been a better choice?”
The message slipped between grasping fingers. Her thoughts were thick and heavy, hard to focus. She needed crispness and clarity.
Reaching up, Thenera clutched the jagged fangs of the wolf’s jaw necklace that hung between her breasts.
Sharp. Like a knife’s edge. Or a pair of pointed ears.
Solas’s eyes followed the movement, then his lips parted and all the color seemed to drain from his face. “How did you…?”
A prick of pain and she had them! The words from a Future-That-Never-Was. Leaning forward, Thenera released the amulet, took his face in her hands, and pressed her forehead to his.
The words rang, clear and true, from numbed lips:
“Felassan was right.”
Pairings: F!Lavellan/Solas | F!Lavellan/Cullen | Others to be added
Rating: Explicit (18+)
Word Count: 100K+ (WIP)
Author Note: An attempt at novelizing Dragon Age Inquisition alongside my longest and dearest friend NotYetWritten.
Amazing cover and tarot art was made by @ayamikasai <3
And the beautiful page break design is courtesy of @glasvera!
You can also find me over on BlueSky!
( Read on AO3 )
Next Chapter. / Masterlist. / Previous Chapter.
CHAPTER 56: THEY'VE GOT NO BREACHES
The Veil is not a physical curtain, not a structure limited to a particular place – it is everywhere. It is in their home, in the streets where they walk, in farmers’ fields as well as remote mountain vales. At any moment it could be torn to shreds, allowing demons and other horrors to flood into our world like water through a burst dam.
–Excerpt from The True Threat of Magic by Lady Seeker Alandra Vael.
Lalen awoke when Cullen shifted above her. Nothing had occurred, except the pace of the carriage had slowed.
“Inquisition scouts,” Cullen was saying, eyes focused out the window of the carriage at something draped across the snow. “Fresh, by the look of the blood. Without them, the mountain path can give cover to an entire army. A thousand men could pass unseen from here to Haven’s very doors.”
The shapes were bodies. Full armor, snow stained brown under them.
“Let us hope it has not come to that,” Cassandra said in response. “The road does not look well-travelled. We may yet be ahead of them.”
“Keep your wits about you, my dears,” Vivienne said, hand tightening on her staff. “Whatever advance forces killed these scouts may still be a threat.”
But as they peered intently, door held open to get a better look, the pale green night began to flicker. Miles above, the sky moved. The sickly green cloud that blotted out the moons had been swirling lazily since it tore open, but now began to roil like the sea.
Cullen leaned forward, hands braced against the window frame. “Maker preserve us, we may be too late.”
The carriage sped back up again, as if Blackwall felt they might outrun the explosion, but if the Breach was going to erupt, surely all of Ferelden would be in the blast range.
Above them, the Breach was struck by what appeared to be lightning; massive shockwaves emanated around it and turned the already angry cloud into a thunderstorm. It crackled and pulsed with an uneven heartbeat.
“The Veil is twisting with a surge of power,” Vivienne shouted, voice pointed enough to fake calm. “Something is specifically affecting the Breach. It’s hard to make out the source of it.”
A massive writhing beam of light wriggled across the sky like a great snake until it collided with the Breach.
Are we too late? Is this “The Elder One” taking control of the Breach?
The Breach pulsed in response - a green wound reacting in pain.
And then it exploded.
It did not burst with the energy that tore the top of the Temple of Sacred Ashes off, but with the force of a rainstorm. The green washed away and down, leaving a black swirling sky pouring freezing rain. It poured in through the still-open door on the carriage, drenching everyone except Vivienne who had such things as uncanny self-protective foresight and magic. The door was closed, but freezing droplets still whipped into the carriage from the relentless pace of the bog unicorns.
Finally, though, the sky looked normal. The sickening light finally faded and natural night reigned once more.
Festis bei umo canavarum. Thenera, what happened in Redcliffe?
“She did it,” Cassandra breathed. “Thank the Maker, that’s one less thing.”
The rain let up, and several hours later they had full visibility of Haven still calmly sitting at the base of the Temple of Sacred Ashes. There were some muted sounds of celebration - mostly wafting up from the direction of the bar.
Cullen was out of the carriage before it stopped moving. In the distance a roiling bank of clouds threatened the clear night.
Lalen kept quick on his heels, eyes scanning for her friend’s familiar outline.
“Ring the alarm,” Cullen ordered to one of the gate guards. To the other: “Where is the Herald? Why didn’t she wait?”
“Posioned, Ser,” said the guard briskly. “They couldn’t wait, in case she died. They are expected back soon.”
A frustrated wail escaped Lalen before she had even processed the words.
MOTHERFUCKER. In case she died?! Thenera, what in the Maker’s sweaty ASSSHOLE happened in that Maker-damned city?
Lalen grabbed the guard by the front of his tunic and pulled his face extremely close as if she could will her thoughts into his head with sheer attrition.
“She wonders where the Herald is,” Cole translated calmly, while Cullen attempted to peel her away from the disgruntled guard.
“Lalen, I need you to focus,” Cullen said, “She won’t have returned yet so we need to buy her time.”
“Yes,” the guard agreed, trying to right himself so he could begin the alarm. “The rest of the Inquisition is due back soon.”
Cullen shook his head. “We will need to work with what we have, then.”
By the first bell, people were already beginning to emerge from buildings. By the second, civilians were being funneled to the Chantry, Adan with them to prepare triage. By the third, soldiers were armed and armored, already emptying the barracks to Cullen’s location.
The pages of this book—memory?—describe regret in a myriad of forms.
But none so poignant as that of...
"What if there had been a better choice?”
The message slipped between grasping fingers. Her thoughts were thick and heavy, hard to focus. She needed crispness and clarity.
Reaching up, Thenera clutched the jagged fangs of the wolf’s jaw necklace that hung between her breasts.
Sharp. Like a knife’s edge. Or a pair of pointed ears.
Solas’s eyes followed the movement, then his lips parted and all the color seemed to drain from his face. “How did you…?”
A prick of pain and she had them! The words from a Future-That-Never-Was. Leaning forward, Thenera released the amulet, took his face in her hands, and pressed her forehead to his.
The words rang, clear and true, from numbed lips:
“Felassan was right.”
Pairings: F!Lavellan/Solas | F!Lavellan/Cullen | Others to be added
Rating: Explicit (18+)
Word Count: 100K+ (WIP)
Author Note: An attempt at novelizing Dragon Age Inquisition alongside my longest and dearest friend NotYetWritten.
Amazing cover and tarot art was made by @ayamikasai <3
And the beautiful page break design is courtesy of @glasvera!
You can also find me over on BlueSky!
( Read on AO3 )
Next Chapter. / Masterlist. / Previous Chapter.
CHAPTER 55: CULLEN'S TERRIBLE, HORRIBLE, NO GOOD, VERY BAD DAY
The patrol pattern is not negotiable. Upon any encounter resulting in injuries, mark trail and withdraw to the villa. We must remain in fighting condition to apply appropriate force and keep refugees clear from the area.
–A note found on a dead highwayman.
The road was a ribbon of sunrise over the frost-dusted purple fields, and over it steadily plodded Auntie and her three exhausted riders.
They took turns - two riding doubled as one held the lead. Cullen took up a good deal more space than Cole did and Lalen found herself pressed into his cloak when the two shared the saddle. It was not wholly unpleasant. A big change from their midnight introduction back in Haven.
A big change to feel safe around a templar, of any kind.
Progress overnight had slowed to the speed of whoever was on foot. Cullen’s steady march-step, Cole’s brisk speedwalk, and Lalen pondering along.
They could now only move as fast as the one who walked alongside the horse. They took turns: two rode doubled and one held the bridle, letting the steam from her nose melt the snow on their sleeves. Lalen attempted to nap atop the horse but it swayed too strongly and she would have fallen had Cole, the elven god of insufferable steadfastness not steadied her.
With the night lost, they did not stop. Lalen walked alongside Auntie as early morning approached and began to warm the air. The road reappeared by degrees, but the fog still clung to the meadows around them. And, as it turned out, provided plenty of daylight cover.
The arrow made no sound when it hit.
One moment their horse was a tired, dutiful certainty beneath them, the next it collapsed, head jerking away from the feather fletching.
Its body hit the ground, rolling Cullen forward. He came up with his shield already in hand just in front of Lalen. Cole did not fall: he was simply on his feet as if there had never been a horse at all.
Auntie passed quicker than Toadstool, and Lalen dropped the reins now limp in her hand with a slow, frustrated anger. Two horses in as many hours.
Come to think of it, she never much liked halla either.
Somewhere, the pair of animals were now judging her.
“Easy!” Cullen’s voice held the authority of the Inquisition, but it carried with an edge of exhaustion. “We’ve no coin worth taking, and you’ve killed our only thing of value.”
A man and a horse rode out from behind a pile of deadfall and rocks, thirty paces off, bow held firmly in one hand with an arrow nocked. There were shapes behind him rising up from the ditchline.
“Perhaps we just want whatever information you carry,” he called. “A bribe for your lives is a good deal in this area.”
“I have no information of value,” said Cullen, shield now slowly pivoting as the shapes closed around them. He took a steady step backwards.
“'Armor'll fetch a good price. Knife-ear and boys go for a pretty penny, too. Kill the man, take the rest,'” Cole warned in the same quick, rhythmless voice he used when he drew Lalen’s thoughts. Then, in his normal tone, “Staying out of sight, stalking, sneaking and waiting for just the right moment. To them, our fates were decided hours ago.”
The highwayman’s eyes locked on Cole, skin flushing a patchy red, and his mouth opened in shock. He was expecting to buy time, not hear his lies uncovered in the street.
So he did as all men do when they are found wrong-footed in an argument: violence. His men drew too, certain that their numbers would work in their favor, but as the first arrow clanged off Cullen’s shield, the odds changed.
Cole was behind the highwayman.
There had been no interval of mounting the horse. Cole was simply there, behind him, as if he had always ridden alongside him. Just as he was always alongside Lalen.
The highwayman’s lies opened from ear to throat and he slid forward in the saddle, falling. The horse - as uneasy as the road agents watching their leader fall dead - startled at the sudden shift in weight and took off at a run. The others fled alongside it.
The sound of their running through the frosty grass was not subtle, but with a dead horse and a message for the Inquisition, the three had no time or desire to give chase. Cullen lowered his shield, eyes on Cole.
“Maker’s breath,” he said very softly.
Cole looked at him somberly, body perfectly nonthreatening and still. “You’re angry and afraid and you want to be sure the anger belongs to the right thing. It does.”
The elven god of teleportation, mindreading, and talking to wolves. Fen’Harel. Say it.
Cullen reached the edge Lalen had been trying to peer over since Therinfal: “What are you?”
“Hungry,” Cole said, although it was not his own thought.
Lalen pulled out the last corner of the group’s cheese wheel and ate it like it was the only thing that made sense.
Cullen was putting together everything he had seen: all the cryptic, inexplicable things Cole had been saying. Two and two and two.
“You’re not a mage.” His face was stern. “You’re not -”
He searched for words. Lalen willed him to find them. Surely the Commander of the Inquisition could determine what manner of creature he was.
“You’re not a boy.”
Cole did not answer him, he answered something deeper. “I want to help. I want Haven not to burn. The girl with flour on her hands who gives you two slices when you only asked for one not lying still under a table. The one with the mark who keeps getting up even when she is shaking - frightened, frail, and forsaken by those she would call family.”
Cullen went still at that, as if Cole had pulled dreams right out of his head. “And for that,” he tested, “what do you require in return?”
“I don’t wear other’s faces as my own or seek repayment.” Just as warmly and helpfully as he had answered Lalen, he calmly repeated, “I want to help. Because it hurts already, in your heads. Because it will hurt you more if we’re late.”
Cullen sheathed his sword, mouth still slightly agape. “I’ve heard stories of spirits, but …” He trailed off and shook his head. “We don’t have time for this. If you’re here to help, fine.”
Lalen balked. A spirit? In the flesh?
Not a god, then, just a creature of the Fade?
Solas would know. He was an expert on such things. He would know if such a thing could be trusted. But, he had helped, unless Envy had been only a trick that she had fallen for.
“You wonder if Andraste sent the Herald, then could Andraste have sent something like me. A dying ember of hope, that this time will be different. I hope so, too.”
Cullen nodded hesitantly. “We need to press on. We are still many miles from the town. Without horses, we’ll have lost multiple -”
The road answered first: iron on iron, a wheel singing, the creak of leather, and the thumping of hooves hitting dirt. A boxy shape moved in the fog, and Cullen and Lalen both braced for combat.
Cole, the elven god of spirits, did not.
“A frozen ford befell feet. Your friends wonder if the Commander has lost his way.”
“Commander?” asked Cullen. “Are you saying these are Inquisition forces?”
Cole did not need to answer, because the grizzled form of Blackwall became an unmistakable outline atop a carriage still obscured in the lingering fog. Their pace must have been relentless to have caught up to the two horses.
“We will have to table the rest,” Cullen said, quietly enough for the three alone. His eyes flicked to Cole. “And you won’t speak of what you are to the others. They won’t understand.
Cole nodded, as one might nod to the weather. “They won’t. Not yet.”
The horses came into view: a terrible outline that caused even Lalen - who had seen countless acts of blood magic - to briefly recoil.
There were two. Each had a coat of gaunt, leathery skin stretched taut across every visible bone of their bodies. Their faces, too, had lost their soft, velvety noses and indeed all skin. Only the sharp nose and teeth remained - giving the skull a leering appearance. And the most unsettling of all, the blow that had killed them - a thrust upwards through the jaw - was still in evidence with a long, rusted blade protruding from their empty skulls.
“Andraste have mercy -” Cullen began.
The horses slowed to a halt under Blackwall’s direction with no steam of breath or any indication at all that they had once moved. They stood, as still as a grave.
A deathless pace, Lalen amended.
They could not outride a carriage drawn by horses who never needed to breathe, or sleep, or eat.
“Bog unicorns,” Blackwall called down, as if he could assuage the unease of Cullen and Lalen.
Cassandra swung the carriage door open, face relaxing into relief, and then tightening back into a scowl.
“Abominations,” she said wearily. “Unfortunately, necessary ones.”
Vivienne sat behind her, composed as if the ride was a social inconvenience.
"They're quite expedient, my dear." The Iron Lady smiled serenely. "And wouldn't have been needed if we'd been advised of the urgency of your mission." That very same smile took on a razor's edge as she appraised the state of them. "I hope such recklessness didn’t come with too high a cost."
“What she means is - you took off with enough urgency that she could use that to leverage one of the Orlesians into giving up his prized collection,” Blackwall called down.
Cassandra held out a hand to help Lalen into the carriage. She took it, and the carriage rocked sternly until she seated herself across from Vivienne.
“We would have overtaken you by the first night had we not … had an incident trying to cross the river,” she said, and sat so Cullen could maneuver in with swords and armor.
“And I am Cole,” said Cole, who was already sitting next to Blackwall.
“He has been aiding us,” Cullen explained hurriedly, closing the door. Blackwall directed the horses to start immediately. “He learned of a plan to attack Haven. Those templars we encountered at Therinfal? Most have already been changed. We only encountered the rear guard babysitting those that had not yet been converted.”
“What?” Cassandra gasped. “Surely not! But that would mean -” Then she shook the thought away. “If the Herald was not successful, we may not be able to close the Breach. They must have gotten word of our plans before we even set out. The templars must have been lost from the moment we chose to contact the rebel mages.”
Conversation found its feet like a fawn learning to stand. First they spoke of Therinfall - Envy had not been killed. They had attempted to break its barrier, but eventually settled on falling back and aiding the Orlesians in leaving. They had recruited some of the surviving templars. Cullen recounted what he knew of Lalen’s adventure with Envy as told by Cole.
It took a lot of pantomime to correct him.
Vivienne pretended not to be interested, but her quips said she heard every word. Then talk turned of their trip. Cullen explained the loss of the first mount, and then the second. His voice choked a little, and he fell back to silence.
Cassandra scowled thoughtfully out the window, the weight of the templar order settling on her shoulders. Vivienne preened, fingernails smoothing perfectly smooth fabric.
It persisted until Lalen began to fidget in the uncomfortable stillness.
Cullen finally cleared his throat and leaned in to her conspiratorially.
“When I was a boy,” he began, “there was an old statue in the square. Eight feet, if it was an inch. Some said it used to be alive. In winter, the drifts piled at its base. I would climb the statute and jump into the snow. Felt like flying.”
His smile came warm, as if he looked into a memory plucked just for her.
“Snow came heavy one night and drifted almost to the statue’s waist. I climbed as I always did and jumped as I always did, only this time I landed on something firm.”
Cassandra’s eyebrows went up enough to show she was listening intently.
“Up jumped a cart horse that had fallen asleep beside the statue. She started to run. Maker, that horse was fast. I clung to her mane equally terrified. She didn’t throw me, and I managed to calm her down miles from town. Helped her get some water and then coaxed her to take me back home. That -” He smiled again, “was the first time I rode a horse.”
She thought of the reverent way he had been with all of the horses they relayed. Then, the sincerity with which he told the story. The image of a child that might one day grow up to be Cullen painted itself: a scrawny boy shocked to find a horse under a pile of snow.
Lalen laughed.
The emotions that image of him clinging to the horse drew up were too powerful to ignore and she laughed from stress and tiredness and sheer delight. Emotions wept out as mirth, until she was laughing so hard she couldn’t breathe.
Cassandra and Viviene both seemed taken aback by the sound, which only made her laugh harder. She folded into Cullen, unable to hold herself up, and the carriage’s grim mission loosened. Cullen had the unsure grin of a man who had broken someone and had no concept of how to fix them, but their smiles were intoxicating and soon all of them had one.
Outside, miles unspooled along the road’s ribbon and the daylight chased away much of the fog. Inside, exhaustion had taken Lalen and she leaned bodily into Cullen’s shoulder waiting for sleep to take her. Cullen’s cheek drifted to rest atop her head as he dozed.
Lalen thought of Flissa, the kindness in her eyes as she tried to genuinely make sense of what she wanted. She thought of Adan, both of them pressed into service they did not want. She thought of Krem, bold enough to poke fun at the towering oxman without fear of repercussion. And alongside them, she thought of fire licking rafters.
She did not let those thoughts become funerals.
She pushed aside the candle-carving for Thenera, and the others, and thought only of how far they had left to go. Perhaps being relentless would be enough.
The cold seeped into the carriage. The road continued on. Somewhere ahead, whether in smoke or memory, Haven burned. It was fitting, then, that the thing that might buy them the time to carry warning were two long-dead horses and a carriage driven by a Grey Warden and a demon.
The pages of this book—memory?—describe regret in a myriad of forms.
But none so poignant as that of...
"What if there had been a better choice?”
The message slipped between grasping fingers. Her thoughts were thick and heavy, hard to focus. She needed crispness and clarity.
Reaching up, Thenera clutched the jagged fangs of the wolf’s jaw necklace that hung between her breasts.
Sharp. Like a knife’s edge. Or a pair of pointed ears.
Solas’s eyes followed the movement, then his lips parted and all the color seemed to drain from his face. “How did you…?”
A prick of pain and she had them! The words from a Future-That-Never-Was. Leaning forward, Thenera released the amulet, took his face in her hands, and pressed her forehead to his.
The words rang, clear and true, from numbed lips:
“Felassan was right.”
Pairings: F!Lavellan/Solas | F!Lavellan/Cullen | Others to be added
Rating: Explicit (18+)
Word Count: 100K+ (WIP)
Author Note: An attempt at novelizing Dragon Age Inquisition alongside my longest and dearest friend NotYetWritten.
Amazing cover and tarot art was made by @ayamikasai <3
And the beautiful page break design is courtesy of @glasvera!
You can also find me over on BlueSky!
( Read on AO3 )
Next Chapter. / Masterlist. / Previous Chapter.
CHAPTER 54: THE HALLA KEEPER’S APPRENTICE
Commonly known as “the Stallion.” Equinor has historically been depicted as either a rearing horse or a seated griffon. However, there is also speculation that the constellation originally depicted a halla, which would indicate that the ancient Tevinters deliberately supplanted the constellation’s original representation of the elven goddess Ghilan’nain, known as “Mother of the Hallas.” Since horses also held great significance to Neromenian culture, the Imperium’s predecessor, this speculation is largely considered unfounded.
–From A Study of Thedosian Astronomy by Sister Oran Petrarchius.
The horses were at a run again. An hour had been lost bargaining for them, but the innkeeper’s daughter’s wife’s brother’s aunt thankfully heard of the Inquisition and recognized Commander Cullen from their trip north. Two fresh horses were traded and they set off again. That was many, many hours ago. Now, both horse and rider flagged. Even Cullen, a man used to long journeys, was beginning to slump.
And Lalen — Lalen was discovering new traits of her time with the Inquisition. She had gone without food alongside Thenera for many days at a time when they wandered the Free Marches on trade missions. The gnawing hunger would last for several hours on the third day, and then on the fourth day transform to a deep ache and the constant flitting of thoughts of food. By the sixth, the hunger would go silent.
The trip from Therinfal to Haven, then, should have been easy for Lalen to tolerate.
The ride, of course, was expected to pose challenges. Muscle pain and chafing were inevitable even after riding at a leisurely pace with hours of downtime to recover. They would not be as easy, but Lalen had anticipated them.
But Lalen had not roamed the woods with Thenera in quite some time. And without realizing it, a warm meal was habit. There were salves to soothe aches and hot fires to keep warm and relatively soft bedrolls to sleep on.
All her years of calluses against hunger and pain were softened. Her legs hurt, her spine hurt, her thighs hurt, her hands hurt. The horses’ hooves on the rocky ground sent painful jolts through all her joints and all the way up to rattle her teeth. Cullen had shown her how to stretch to ease some of the riding aches but the vibrations and bouncing and cold and hunger was shaking her sanity loose.
“Pain was once a comfort.”
Cole’s voice startled her, and she turned minutely towards him.
“Callouses that covered. But yours have gone soft with creature comforts. 'How can I help when I don't remember how to endure the hurt?’”
Kaffas. There was something uncomfortable about Cole saying her private thoughts aloud. In the past, the idea of communicating so readily would have been intoxicating, but this? These were concepts she barely understood herself - not words she wished to communicate. Hearing them laid bare left her more stripped than nudity.
Lalen shivered, and not from the cold.
As the sun began to set, even their horses walked closer to one another for warmth, putting Lalen well within arm’s reach of Cullen. His arm shot out from time to time on reflex, stabilizing her as if she had stumbled, and not her mount.
“Steady,” he said, softly.
His fingers sometimes lingered. An accident — joints too sore to quickly pull back, or his frozen fingers craving her warmth. But after so many days without touch, her skin, too, craved the weight of his hand. Her heart fluttered when he pulled them away.
In her mind, it was Thenera — or Varric. In her heart, though, she weighed his softness. Templars were cruel, hard. Lackeys or jailors.
This man? She had seen him hard when he thought her a danger, but she had seen him tremble too. She had seen him meditate. And now he believed her enough to ride for days through the winter.
A real man of faith.
Nightfall brought a short rest to relieve themselves and let the new horses drink. Cullen refilled their waterskins and when he came back around to hand Lalen’s to her, she proffered food in exchange. He ate it without argument and with only a mumbled thank you that came from a man not used to small kindness.
Leadership must breed the lonely.
Cole, seemingly uninterested in the food and drink being offered to him, kept an eye on the weather.
"The clouds want to come closer, thick and humid. It will be hard to see," he said, glancing toward the trees where the air already looked thicker.
Cullen looked perplexed for a moment, then: "...you mean fog."
“Yes.”
Lalen could not hide the quiet laugh as they returned to the road. Cullen, too, smiled, and Cole alongside him - even as he understood it was at his expense.
They pushed for a few more hard miles while the visibility held.
“Another hour,” Cullen said finally, “then we’ll have to walk them while it's dark.”
So they pressed. Snow began to powder around them — just enough to melt to water against their warm cloaks.
“Sing, Commander?” asked Cole with no hint of mockery.
Cullen gave an exhausted chuckle and began another Chant — this one more positive than the last, but still wrapped in layers of memory of cobbled streets where elves were little more than possessions. Andraste, the woman that had freed slaves, revered in a city that kept them.
By the time the first fingers of fog dragged across the ditches, the stars and Breach were the only source of light. They did not speak of their exhaustion. It was obvious. It was shared. They did not speak of hunger. That, too, was shared. Still, Lalen tried to imagine the others bantering in such conditions.
Varric would workshop a line of prose to draw attention to his discomfort.
“Would you say this cold is more stinging or bitter?”
Vivienne would say something opaque that made it difficult to determine if she agreed.
And Solas? The one person in the party that seemed to have experienced everything that had ever happened.
Solas would be the only one in the party who could understand which one Vivienne meant, and would reply equally opaquely. Blackwall would normally give a dry remark making it clear which person he agreed with, but since Vivienne was involved, he would instead say something humble and agreeable.
… The Iron Bull would only turn out to have food stashed about his person and no opinions on the weather.
A sudden feeling manifested at the thought of the Iron Bull and his Chargers. She missed them. A Qunari and a band of mercenaries. Not a typical place to find a fast friend. But their group was charming and Krem hated Tevinter as much as Lalen did.
Lalen shook the thought away and tried to picture Sera with her ragged hair and absurd pranks. She frequently made Lalen laugh, even if it was not her goal.
Sera…she would say something to imply the need for food somehow made the Iron Bull weak, or perhaps just miss the point entirely and blurt out ‘I’m too fucking hungry to understand you lot, yea?’
Everyone would laugh at how she had missed the point except Cassandra, who would just grunt.
When night fell fully, it poured out the fog Cole had warned of. It might have been breathtaking — a good night for a warm fire and the hot exotic drink Thenera liked. But when one is forced to ride within it, it is as cold and lonely as a gravesite.
They kept to a walk. The message they carried was important indeed, but they were still miles and miles from the next town. They could not take the risk with the way the road disappeared underfoot. By the feel of the ride, the ground had become treacherous, rutted where cart wheels churned up mud and frost into mortar.
The accident, then, amidst those thick hands of moisture coating the earth, was as cruel as it was expected. A hidden rut, a hoof slipping on ice buried under the fog, and a sound like a branch breaking.
Maker’s taint, not NOW.
Cullen was on the ground before the horse finished falling.
Lalen and Cole both moved without coordinating — the one beneficial use of mind reading — and dragged him free of the creature’s thrashing body while he spoke to the horse with apologies.
Ever the halla keeper’s apprentice, Lalen was already unsheathing her knife — the one she used for her charges when ordinary, expected accidents happened to them.
They could not carry the horse even if it stood a chance of healing — it would suffer here in the cold — scared — and die from hunger or fear or a predator in the night.
“She feels fear, not understanding. Death is not always mercy, but for her, it will be,” Cole said softly as if he had always been right next to her.
Cullen’s head lifted. “Go ahead. She deserves the mercy. We’ll have to double up riding.”
He grabbed the saddlebags and dusted the snow off his cloak where he had fallen.
Lalen tried to remember the prayer she had been taught.
Something about Ghilan'nain?
The horse — the barkeeper had named her Toadstool — did not care for such things.
May whatever carries the souls of animals take you to a place where you cannot fall in holes anymore.
And she killed it. There was no ceremony, only a soothing hand and a swift strike.
…It suffered, because it turned out halla and horses were very different beasts. It did not suffer long, because Lalen — the, in fact, only partially trained halla keeper apprentice — immediately panic-sliced everything that looked vital until it stopped moving. She stared guiltily at the pooling blood. Thankfully, Toadstool could no longer judge her for the missed strike.
Their only remaining horse — a mare named Auntie — perhaps had some judgement in her warm brown eyes.Afterwards, there were three people and only one Auntie. The bard at the Singing Maiden might have written a song about it — if they could still make it there in time to warn them.
A pair of commissions by the AMAZING @mooreaux of my Mourn Watch OC Aleksandra Ingellvar and our darling professor from a WIP chapter of Memento Mori | Memento Vivere...which I may or may not be having trouble with lmao
Stuffy Nevarran parties aren't Rook's thing, so she has to find entertainment elsewhere 😏
Snippet and pictures under the cut cause NSFW shenanigans.
18+ MDNI.
“Enjoying the festivities, my love?” He reached out and popped a feta stuffed mushroom hors d’oeuvres into his mouth.
“Not really.” Aleks peered up at him through lowered lashes. “I’ve never been much of a fan of these sorts of things.” Her eyes dropped to his lips, the rose of blush coloring her freckled cheeks. “A touch too formal for my taste.”
Oh, but Emmrich could lose himself for hours in tracing those cherished speckles. An eternity spent exploring scattered constellations and newly found galaxies across his lover’s face, shoulders, arms, the valley between her breasts, thighs thick with quivering musculature…
With a start, he realized he’d been staring just a touch too long.
Long enough for Aleks’ grin to widen.
“I have a…growing —” Her eyes darted down towards his groin then back to his face. “— list of things I’d much rather be doing.”
She does so enjoy tormenting me in public.
“The tedium of these events make it so very easy for the mind to wander.” He cleared his throat and deftly snatched two glasses of cordial from a nearby undead steward’s tray. “And how easy it is for these weary eyes to be drawn to such beauty.”
Aleks took the proffered glass and raised it in a toast. “To tedium.”
He smiled. “To tedium.”
They each drained their glasses, set them back upon the tray, and took a pair of replacement drinks. The skeletal steward bowed low before disappearing back into the crowd with a pleased hiss.
Taking another sip of cordial, Emmrich relished the pleasant warmth of it. Aleks followed suit, eyes never once leaving his. A crystal droplet hung fat on her lower lip for a moment before his lover’s tongue peaked out to lap it up. It lingered just long enough to make his belly flip and fingers tighten on the stem of his glass.
Flashes of the previous night rose, unbidden.
Aleks’ piercing blue eyes drilled holes into him as his hips jerk upwards. A pathetic whine escaped from between teeth clamped around one gloved knuckle, composure undone from hours of teasing touches and sultry glances throughout the evening that promised bliss. Then watching as finally — finally! — those kiss swollen lips of hers wrapped tight around his cock. Thick and luxurious ebony hair gripped in Emmrich’s fist, tangling with his rings and the jangle of bangles accented each bob of that beautiful head of hers.
And, sweet Maker, the way she swallowed every last drop of his seed was nothing short of —
“Professor Volkarin!” came a boisterous shout from behind them.
Emmrich jumped, nearly spilling his drink.
“What a pleasure to see you again!” A familiar figure materialized from the crowd. Dorian Pavus — newly appointed Archon of Tevinter, and his former (yet still troublesome as ever) pupil. “And in such lovely company, no less!”
Fingers crossed I can get out from under this awful bout of writer's block and churn some more chapters out
The pages of this book—memory?—describe regret in a myriad of forms.
But none so poignant as that of...
"What if there had been a better choice?"
The message slipped between grasping fingers. Her thoughts were thick and heavy, hard to focus. She needed crispness and clarity.
Reaching up, Thenera clutched the jagged fangs of the wolf’s jaw necklace that hung between her breasts.
Sharp. Like a knife’s edge. Or a pair of pointed ears.
Solas’s eyes followed the movement, then his lips parted and all the color seemed to drain from his face. “How did you…?”
A prick of pain and she had them! The words from a Future-That-Never-Was. Leaning forward, Thenera released the amulet, took his face in her hands, and pressed her forehead to his.
The words rang, clear and true, from numbed lips:
“Felassan was right.”
Pairings: F!Lavellan/Solas | F!Lavellan/Cullen | Others to be added
Rating: Explicit (18+)
Word Count: 100K+ (WIP)
Author Note: An attempt at novelizing Dragon Age Inquisition alongside my longest and dearest friend NotYetWritten.
Amazing cover and tarot art was made by @ayamikasai <3
And the beautiful page break design is courtesy of @glasvera!
You can also find me over on BlueSky!
UPDATED EVERY 2 WEEKS ON FRIDAY.
Reblogging this bad boy since we're finally out of hiatus after a bunch of health issues on both our sides. But we finally have a nice long queue ready to go up through December so eyyyyy :D
The pages of this book—memory?—describe regret in a myriad of forms.
But none so poignant as that of...
"What if there had been a better choice?”
The message slipped between grasping fingers. Her thoughts were thick and heavy, hard to focus. She needed crispness and clarity.
Reaching up, Thenera clutched the jagged fangs of the wolf’s jaw necklace that hung between her breasts.
Sharp. Like a knife’s edge. Or a pair of pointed ears.
Solas’s eyes followed the movement, then his lips parted and all the color seemed to drain from his face. “How did you…?”
A prick of pain and she had them! The words from a Future-That-Never-Was. Leaning forward, Thenera released the amulet, took his face in her hands, and pressed her forehead to his.
The words rang, clear and true, from numbed lips:
“Felassan was right.”
Pairings: F!Lavellan/Solas | F!Lavellan/Cullen | Others to be added
Rating: Explicit (18+)
Word Count: 100K+ (WIP)
Author Note: An attempt at novelizing Dragon Age Inquisition alongside my longest and dearest friend NotYetWritten.
Amazing cover and tarot art was made by @ayamikasai <3
And the beautiful page break design is courtesy of @glasvera!
You can also find me over on BlueSky!
( Read on AO3 )
Next Chapter. / Masterlist. / Previous Chapter.
CHAPTER 53: TRAVEL MONTAGE
His name is Cole.
He’s not that old, perhaps twenty years, no more. He has blond hair that hangs in front of his eyes; he wears dirty leathers — perhaps the only clothes he owns. He was there when you found Rhys in the templar crypt, but you couldn’t see him. Nobody can, and those who do forget him. Just like you are right now.
Remember the dream.
—A letter allegedly written by former Knight-Commander Evangeline de Brassard; found in the Spire in the aftermath of the mage uprising.
Tales of heroes riding to a town’s or distressed peasant’s aid paint a ride as one continuous heartpoundingly fast ride. I have ridden a fornight, nonstop, declares the hero on arrival, collapsing into a dramatic pile of clothing and being given water by a nearby barmaid with voluptuous…hair.
The reality of desperate rides is: the horse dies.
With the distance between Therinfal and Haven, they needed to pace themselves, because there were no fresh mounts waiting. Killing a horse meant walking to the next town through miles of woodland at whatever two-legged pace they could manage.
So they rode soft but relentless, giving the horses chances to rest. They looked to be riding even leisurely at times - their mission lackadaisical - but it was caution, not a lack of urgency that cycled them between walking and galloping.
Cullen, for his part, had fallen silent. His initial curiosity waned into clipped directions when the way split, or declarations to be more cautious when riding through areas easily concealing an ambush for highwaymen.
For miles, the road was a ribbon of mud and frost-bitten stone, only visible by its wide darkness stretching between the white fields faintly reflecting the green sky. The wind opposed them, whipping Lalen’s wool cloak into Cole’s hunched form. He patiently helped her tuck it under herself so its warmth would not be spread across the night.
Ahead of them, the templar shouted something, his words torn away by the wind. She could not hear him over the hoofbeats and the sounds of the angry night and squinted as if narrowed vision would make her ears work better. Cole caught her sleeve and tugged. She turned a bleary eye to him only to find him leaning into her shoulder, inches from her ear.
"He wonders," Cole enunciated so his words would not be ripped away too, "if you can keep going."
Lalen nodded, although the gesture was invisible in the moons’ light.
The horse will give out first.
Truly, though, the ride hurt. Cullen seemed practiced at riding long distances, but while Lalen travelled frequently with Thenera, the Dalish took many rests and often travelled on foot rather than on the backs of the halla or even in the aravels. Her body was already ragged from the ride to Therinfal Redoubt, and there had been no chance to rest on arrival.
Every mile was borrowed from the future; payment would be due. But Haven already burned in the back of her mind: fire licking at roofs, servants screaming - those mutated templars destroying servants and soldiers alike. She would not let that future blossom.
In answer, she spurred the horse faster, trying to close the gathering distance between them.
“They wish to rest,” Cole shouted her response to Cullen. Or rather, raised his voice enough that the same timid tone somehow crossed the distances clearly.
The commander nodded in affirmation.
Lalen spared a glance over her shoulder. Some people, like Thenera, understood her intrinsically. Others, like Varric, were astute enough to guess. Blackwall and Deshanna, like many others, made no attempt whatsoever.
This boy, on the other hand, seemed to have taken a fourth option: reading her mind and coming up with the wrong answer anyway.
Well, at least he was decisive.
“Your heart says one thing, your thoughts another.” Cole tilted his head, brow furrowed. “Oh, I think I understand.” Then his voice drops, only for her ears. “It’s too soon and it hurts like before. That’s alright. I won’t tell anyone. You hide her secrets, and I’ll hide yours.”
Secrets are just lies that are true.
Cole, if he had heard it, did not respond further.
They rode on for another mile, following Cullen as he steadily scanned the road on either side. Eventually he found what looked like a trail leading into the woods. No footsteps marked it, just the subtle removal of brush from grazing horses and hooves trampling down from time to time.
They followed it to an old campsite. Looked like a Warden’s camp once, maybe, with the bare outline of some shelters crudely built and withstanding just due to pure luck. A fire pit ringed in stones held some rusting cookware and a broken Inquisition crate was discarded in a bush. Nothing glamorous, but a decent enough spot to make camp.
“Here.” Cullen jumped down from his horse with a wince. His movements were stiff as he immediately tended to it as he always did when they took breaks to piss or refresh their waterskins. And as he worked, he gave orders - an insistent delegation that assumed authority over both man and beast.
Lalen, who was not technically part of the Inquisition, ignored him. Fortuitously, her own plans made of her own free will happened to coincide with Cullen’s plan for fire.
When they first made camp, it was an unspoken agreement for Lalen to gather materials for fire while Thenera set wards.
She really missed those wards. She really missed Thenera. For many years she had grown accustomed to the routines of making camp. Thenera setting wards then starting the fire. Letting her hair down as they warmed and telling a Dalish bedtime story. Sometimes they were new, but many times they were dusted off and retold. The vallaslin was a disguise, but Lalen hoped that the idyllic world Thenera painted could one day be hers.
She set about with her flint and steel while he cared for the horses and remembered one of those stories for Cole, if he was listening.
Once there was a clan who were threatened by a great monster. Each year they sent someone from the clan to try to kill the monster. Each time, they did not return. One year, a girl was chosen to go to the old ruins where the monster lived. They gave her a lantern and bid her farewell.
On her way, she met a spirit of Curiosity.
“Curiousity,” she bid to it, for she knew spirits had great knowledge. “I am going to the ruins to kill the monster.”
“I have seen many of your clan pass through here,” said Curiosity. “But none have ever been curious, and none have ever returned. Tell me, what do you believe the monster is?”
“I do not know,” said the girl truthfully.
“Then perhaps this monster is simply a shape that is not known to them.”
The girl thanked Curiousity and pondered the spirit’s words as she went on her way.
The fire was birthed quickly, large enough to burn away the chill. She gestured vaguely at the fire in front of Cole and he seemed to understand his impromptu duty as firekeeper, freeing her up to scan the woodland for the sorts of plants Thenera had shown her were good for treating pain. Elfroot was a panacea but sometimes there were things more suited to an individual’s woes. She found just such a plant growing not too far from the campsite - its evergreen leaves heavy with snow - and gathered enough for the ride home.
As the ruins grew closer and the night grew colder, the girl met another spirit.
“Wisdom,” she bid to it. “I am going to the ruins to confront the shape my people have called a monster.”
“I have seen many of your clan pass through here,” said Wisdom. “They do not seek wisdom and they do not return. Why did they choose you to do this deed?”
“I do not know,” said the girl truthfully.
“Then take heed not to hold yourself to other’s expectations. Keep your mind open to other possibilities of your own making.”
The girl thanked Wisdom and considered the spirit’s words as she continued into the cold night.
At the camp, it was warmed into a tea, and by the time Cullen finished with the horses, she was offering him a cup of what should have been a poultice, but could serve as a drink when in dire need. He sniffed at it, puzzled. The smell was not appetizing.
“Thank you, Lavellan, but -”
“They see your hurt and hope it helps. Herbs without name, but healing to make one whole. She is patient and kind, walking and pointing out which are safe to use. ‘Here, lethallan. This one’s good for joint aches. Like the salves we make for the halla.’”
Cullen seemed to be fielding his surprise. Lalen, on the other hand, was openly staring at Cole who most definitely just read her private thoughts aloud.
“Oh,” he murmured, sipping with a slight grimace. “Well, you have my gratitude.”
Cole tilted his head. “You wonder how we will keep watch over the camp. You do not need to: I will watch over us.”
“Very well,” Cullen said with a nod. “You can take the first watch, and wake me for the second.” He looked hesitantly at Lalen. “We will not need a third if we mean to set out at sunrise.”
Of course, the mute has no possibility of awakening the others. As if we do not have a cooking pot that practically clangs like a bell with every stir of a spoon.
But instead Lalen slumped over next to the fire and shut her eyes without even taking dinner. It was not as if hardtack tasted any worse as breakfast.
At last, at the mouth of the ruin, she met a spirit of Compassion.
“Turn back!” it called sadly. “Or you will die as the others did!”
“Compassion,” said she. “I am going to the ruins to see the shape that lives there. Do you know of it?”
“I have seen many of your clan pass through here,” said Compassion. “But none have found compassion. Tell me, what is your purpose now for seeking out this shape that your people call a monster?”
“I do not know,” said the girl truthfully.
“A monster can take many forms,” said Compassion. “Some are what they appear - horrifying and malicious. Some are only reflections of those who look upon them. Keep an open heart, lest you mistake one for another.”
The girl thanked Compassion and pondered the spirit’s words. She entered the ruins with no expectations, no hostility, and no fear.
Inside the ruins, the girl found a mirror that created all that was reflected upon it and no trace of a monster at all.
Inside the mirror, the girl saw only a child full of curiosity, wisdom, and compassion.
Nothing more.
The morning began with Cullen’s voice projecting like a thrown stone. It did not travel far but it was heavy. “What do you mean you ‘asked them to leave’?”
Lalen sat up blinking in the morning light. She gathered her things by instinct, fingers moving across saddlebags and tack as her mind tried to connect aching body to aching body.
“They did not want to harm us,” came Cole’s reply, tone placid as the snow around them.
“They did not want to - !” Cullen sputtered, voice rising. “We were surrounded! Andraste preserve us, they are dangerous.”
Lalen finally, finally pieced together what they were arguing about.
‘The snow around them’ was covered in pawprints. Wolves. Dozens. Enough to shred even a former Knight Commander as skilled as Cullen. Yet, there was no sign of struggle in the morning powder, just a languid circle and a bloodless exit.
“Danger can take many forms. Some are only reflections of those who look upon them.”
Kaffas, the Maker-damned story.
Had Cole taken it as holy text? Instructions? How? A mage’s power? Lalen tried to wrack her mind about stories of mages controlling animals, but all that came to mind were the stories about Chasind transforming into animals.
But one thing was clear - the boy was a mage. No creature not born of magic could do as the boy had done, and he was surely no demon. Lalen failed to help with the templars, but perhaps a boy who could control animals and read minds would be a serviceable replacement.
Or give people more reason to fear mages.
Lalen checked the horses one more time by habit, fumbling only a little. They were bigger than halla, but still manageable. Both were ready by the time the camp was broken down.
Daylight did not improve their ride. Frost melted and refrozen into perfect panes of glass that cracked and slipped under shoed hooves. They ate breakfast from the saddle: a wheel of cheese shared across three, although Cole’s portion seemed to find its way back into the bag, and more road provisions that tasted like peppered shoe leather. Even the stream harried them, a thin sheet of ice forced them to break into the stream so the horses could drink, and the warm wool cloaks were reaching their limits.
The difficulty of the journey was beginning to weigh them down.
Near mid-morning, Cullen started humming to keep time with the horse’s trot. It fell into a verse of the Chant, as most things do with templars. His voice was pleasantly on key. Lalen listened, feeling warm even though the Andrastian chant was usually some combination of: ‘oh Maker, I miss you and cannot do anything without your help’ or ‘Your wife, the most wonderful and fairest of them all, was set on fire. Please come back.’
This verse was a little less familiar to Lalen, although she was sure the girl that tended the cooking fires in Tevinter sang it once while openly poisoning the evening’s dessert exactly as instructed, because she knew she would be killed for doing as instructed. The scapegoat had still been executed, of course, because the Maker was too busy drinking tea in the Golden City to save elves that were just doing as they were told to do.
He stopped midway through a line about mist or fog.
“Sorry,” he said, suddenly remembering he was not alone and did not know the faiths of the two riding with him. “Didn’t mean to - I understand the Dalish-” He cleared his throat, then settled on reiterating: “Apologies.”
Cole, trying to be helpful, picked up the melody where Cullen left it and soldiered on until Cullen and Lalen were both hiding smiles. His voice was lovely too, he just sang as if he did not quite understand tempo.
Cullen and he sang together, the mood of the chant evolving from somber to much too jaunty for a song about wandering blindly and then dying. But, their cheer was contagious, and Lalen found her spirits lifted despite the exhaustion.
Thenera used to sing on long journeys - sometimes bawdy bar songs, and sometimes songs so sad they broke her voice even as she sang them.
It was distracting enough that Lalen almost missed seeing the flowers at first with how they blended into the snow: a cluster of green with an arc of small, white bells nodding against the frost. They were so small they almost receded into the snow, but as she found one cluster, she steadily began to see more and more until she became aware that they were riding through a field of them that stretched out as far as the eye could see. She excitedly tugged Cole’s sleeve and pointed.
Both Cole and Cullen stopped singing. Cullen squinted until he realized what she was gesturing at.
“Snowdrops,” he said, smiling. “Or something like them. They don’t grow north of the Free Marches. I haven’t seen them since I was… Well, since I was a boy.”
The smile faded as his face cracked with memory. Loss, perhaps. Of his family, or himself.
Lalen watched the fields until the petals faded into the distance. Flowers blooming in the snow? Never in her life had she dreamed such a thing could happen! The cold and the snow was always described as lifeless. But here it thrived.
When it was finally out of sight, she turned back to watch the road, only to find Cole holding out one of the small bells.
“It won’t miss one,” said Cole.
How did he get down from the horse?
Lalen took the bell and pushed it into a buttonhole, but something about the boy’s continuing behavior rattled her. Where Sera’s alarm bells rang over flippant behavior, Cole was the perfect calm of a summer day. The most suspicious part about him was how little alarm he caused, even with inexplicable behaviors and mind reading powers and teleportation magic and … talking to …
Maker’s taint, I found an elven god.
With some trepidation, Lalen briefly considered whether it was Fen’Harel currently riding the horse with her. That would be her luck. Thenera sent her out to recruit templars and instead she returned with a trickster god in tow. But she wracked her memory for any stories about an elven god named Cole.
Perhaps the god of … hats?
Whatever he was, he proved as good as any scout at reading ground. He would direct the horses and warn them about ice or rocks and he was never wrong.
Elven god of navigation and animal diplomacy?
At a shallow stream, he suggested where to cross, and by then, Cullen did not question how he knew. They simply followed and the horses managed.
As the sun began to creep high in the sky, they eased the horses back into a walking pace and filled the time with talk.
“Honnleath,” he said, when Cole asked where home was. “My family lived near a lake.” He addressed Lalen specifically, “My sister used to bring snowdrops inside the moment they showed themselves. She once said it forced Spring to keep its promise. She was only nine.”
Cole tried, with serious effort, to participate in the small talk, but personal questions seemed to confuse him. He answered vaguely, or with answers that made no sense.
Not a god, then, Lalen finally. A god would come up with a better backstory. Bog witch, or … perhaps renowned scholar if it was one of the gods obsessed with rules.
When their conversation about Cole’s presence at Therinfal, homes, and Andrastian theology ran out, Cullen offered a game he called “Twenty Questions” which seemed to consist mainly of trying to guess an object with the use of twenty questions or less, but there were rules dictating what counted as a question. He explained in short sentences, which Lalen listened to carefully and Cole nodded along earnestly.
“Is it alive?” the boy asked, before the game even begun.
Some mages could not turn off their magic, so Lalen peered at him skeptically. A guessing game with a mind-reader who still did not quite understand the rules. But, in spite of herself, she picked an object and shook her head no. She could not guess, but a guessing game where someone attempts to guess your secret? That she could participate in.
“Useful?” asked Cole without waiting for anything else.
Their packs were sparse. It would be difficult to find a single object among them that was not useful, so she nodded.
“Something you carry?”
Lalen looked at Cullen, cocking her head as if to ask him whether they could even guess an item that could not be carried, then nodded again.
Cole frowned in concentration, like he was trying not to listen to her thoughts. “Rope?”
Maker, he intended to guess every item in her possession. And yet - it might well put her under the twenty questions mark.
A shake.
“Flint?”
A shake.
“A sword?”
Lalen thought of Dog, tucked back in her campsite in Haven. Its ridiculous weight had become a comfort to her, and its absence made her feel as fraudulent as she was when she picked it up in the first place.
They never reached the answer: the pace changed back to a run when Cole spotted a rotted sign advertising a nearby town. Conversation fell back to exhausted breathing. But the game was a warm fire they might sit down with again soon.
The day’s sun washed past them without warming anything. The cold wore them down. Cullen’s shoulders stayed firm, but Lalen could see how his hands trembled against the reins. Before evening, they stopped only long enough to exchange the mounts at an inn. Lalen did not know the name of the Inquisition’s horse they pushed for the first day, but she bid it good-bye as if it were an old friend.
The warm firelight of their hearth barely melted the frost from their clothes before they were once again on their way with barely a cup of stew in their bellies.
The pages of this book—memory?—describe regret in a myriad of forms.
But none so poignant as that of...
"What if there had been a better choice?”
The message slipped between grasping fingers. Her thoughts were thick and heavy, hard to focus. She needed crispness and clarity.
Reaching up, Thenera clutched the jagged fangs of the wolf’s jaw necklace that hung between her breasts.
Sharp. Like a knife’s edge. Or a pair of pointed ears.
Solas’s eyes followed the movement, then his lips parted and all the color seemed to drain from his face. “How did you…?”
A prick of pain and she had them! The words from a Future-That-Never-Was. Leaning forward, Thenera released the amulet, took his face in her hands, and pressed her forehead to his.
The words rang, clear and true, from numbed lips:
“Felassan was right.”
Pairings: F!Lavellan/Solas | F!Lavellan/Cullen | Others to be added
Rating: Explicit (18+)
Word Count: 100K+ (WIP)
Author Note: An attempt at novelizing Dragon Age Inquisition alongside my longest and dearest friend NotYetWritten.
Amazing cover and tarot art was made by @ayamikasai <3
And the beautiful page break design is courtesy of @glasvera!
You can also find me over on BlueSky!
( Read on AO3 )
Next Chapter. / Masterlist. / Previous Chapter.
CHAPTER 39: REPORTS ON ACTIVITY IN THE FALLOW MIRE
The following is a crumpled up first draft of a report penned by the Herald of Andraste’s own hand.
—From Report from the Fallow Mire, as written by Thenera, First of the Lavellan Clan of the Dalish elves, circa 9:41 Dragon.
*Crude drawings of skeletons and various demons have been scrawled in the margins alongside lewd depictions of genitalia in bright red ink.
Spymaster
Dear Nightingale
To the Left Hand of the Divine
Leliana,
*The soldiers were found shaken, but healthy and whole thank the Creators? praise Andraste? the Maker? thanks to the hard work of the Inquisition’s forces.
*The Avvar we fought was apparently the son of a clan chieftain. According to another Avvar we found in the swamp, Sky Watcher no, I don’t know his actual name, we should expect some manner of retaliation for his death.
*Sky Watcher agreed to join the Inquisition and seemed to believed I was sent by ANOTHER FUCKING GOD a deity his people call the Lady of the Skies. I’m so sick of this shit can I just go a few days without another faith claiming I’m some kind of prophet Perhaps This is something Josephine can should look into.
**(Side note — please keep Sky Watcher and Madame de Fer separated at all costs.)
*We found some interesting runes that can infect people with pass on information and emotional states. I’ve annoyed harassed asked Solas to look into this in case it proves useful.
*Unfortunately, we’ll need new clothes for everyone involved in the operation. Between the mud, fire, and undead stench, laundering has failed and the garments are unsalvageable. Please see the attached instructions from Madame de Fer and Serah Tethras.
Attached to the Herald’s report are two sheaves of paper. The thicker stack has the looping, sophisticated script of Grand Enchanter Vivienne while the thinner one contains Varric Tethras’ cramped script. Upon close examination, they both go into meticulous detail on desired wardrobe replacements and what constitutes acceptable boot replacement material (see Serah Tethras’ attached letter below).
Dear Josephine,
I would like to bring a matter to your attention: many of us have made sacrifices for the Inquisition that routinely go unnoticed — specifically in the wardrobe department. I have now had to discard several pairs of perfectly good boots due to water damage, ichor, and other foul materials. It is my understanding that the Inquisition promised to equip its soldiers with needed goods, however no replacement boots have been offered to such vital workers as myself.
Furthermore, boots of a better quality would not only last longer but also provide necessary protection from enemies and trench foot.
Please see my enclosed cobbler recommendations.
Your friend and loyal vassal,
Varric of House Tethras, bestselling author and Deshyr of the Inquisition and the Kirkwall Dwarven Merchant’s Guild.
The following has been attached to the Herald’s report.
—From Report from the Fallow Mire , an attachment penned by the Inquisition’s Fade expert, Solas, circa 9:41 Dragon.
*The word ‘WANKER’ is scrawled across the top of the document in bright red ink.
At the Herald’s behest, I have looked into the veilfire beacons found within the Mire. While many questions remain of their origin, they appeared to be writings from a local hedge mage. Based on the latent emotions impressed within the runes, it was some manner of formula.
Unfortunately, without a legend to decipher the notes and impressions left behind, it is all but impossible to make heads or tails of their intended purpose. While I could speculate, I imagine it would be a waste of time and resources to further explore whatever a mad bog-mage had deemed a subject of interest.
The report devolves into highly technical magical theorems and equations*.
*In Spymaster Leliana’s handwriting in a bottom corner of the last page, there is a note to forward Solas’s findings to Grand Enchanter Vivienne for further review/explanation.
A moderately well drawn map is included with notes about locations of the runes, ore nodes, areas where various herbs could be found, encampments they'd set up, and other interesting landmarks. A big red X and a skull is drawn over a large stone alcove to the north.*
*Signed with symbols of Dirthamen, a note below it in Thenera’s handwriting specifies that this is courtesy of Lalen. Someone has drawn a mustache on one of the mountains in bright red ink.
The following is a letter in Varric Tethras’ handwriting, addressed to an unknown* party.
*On an attached scrap of parchment, in Seeker Pentaghast’s handwriting, is a note:
“Daisy = Hawke? Requires further investigation.”
Daisy,
You seriously had to be there. The Mire is up-to-the-ass wet with up-to-the-knee dead bodies. Well, my knees, anyway.
The Herald activates something called veilfire and bam! It's like a feeding frenzy. Skeletons climb out of the muck like angry sticks and it's all we can do to keep them back. The Herald didn't want to waste time, so she had us hang back and finish them off. And oh boy, did we ever finish them off.
Hero strained his elbow, hacking so many to pieces. A truly heroic injury.
We caught back up to them the next morning. They got separated in the storm and decided to wait everything out.
Anyway, we go to the Avvar camp and Tiny knocks on the door like it’s Feastday and we're caroling. They open the door, armed to the teeth, but practically shit themselves when they see us.
The best part: we all get to what served as this poor bastard’s would-be audience chamber expecting some guy on a throne to stand up and monologue, but instead we see some poor assholes that immediately drop their weapons and start begging for mercy. When we tell them they're free to go, they just have to take us to their boss, they point to a body on the ground and say, I shit you not: “You already killed him."
The look on the Herald's face when she realized the person holding her men was just some guy so unimportant that he'd died in the crossfire!
Seriously, you just had to be there.
The soldiers were all safe, thankfully. Chuckles (not that one) found them in a closet and we got them food and copious amounts of alcohol for their trouble.
So, all in all, a successful rescue mission. Or one you’d have been proud of, at least.
Love,
Varric of House Tethras, bestselling author and slightly damp Deshyr of the Inquisition and the Kirkwall Dwarven Merchant’s Guild.
Attached with a note “For Your Review." Parts have been scratched out and a return note: "Please see enclosed edits.”
*Fallow Mire — no useful resources.
*New magic found in veilfire runes — more info pending investigation.
*Magic from above referenced runes resurrected dead bodies.
*0346 potentially compromised by veilfire magic.
(0346 implied to be a dreamer. Needs confirmation.
*0347 confirmed mage.
*All rifts in location closed.
*Missing soldiers returned alive.
*Avaar scout/priest (Sky Watcher) recruited. Potential for Avaar cooperation?
*Avaar called Hand of Korth killed along with all allies. Warned of possible retaliation from remaining clan members.
