visions from the bog

-collected works pulled straight from the wet earth- Ko-Fi | Commissions header by spidaerman

[eyeofmud]

ok all done thank you for indulging me

[eyeofmud]

a prompt fill for @lyrium-lovesong ​ “things you didn’t say at all, for whichever of your OCs strikes your fancy?”

A direct continuation of this piece - Silence

Anger fading as fast it ignited Noure’s lips fall from their snarl into an open-mouthed sob. Salt on their tongue impossible to ignore. Andraste’s weeping face watches Noure’s shoulders shake, their head falling and their body crumping inwards. Embers dying in their chest.

The silencing glyph on their wrist throbs in time with their heartbeat, with every escaping tear. What is the use of a Maker who abandons their children, how can Andraste leave Noure with faith left unspoken between them? Did Andraste ever love sinners like Noure? Blood tainted by magic made to serve. Silence in a prayer.

Fingers digging into the cool earth Noure clutches at the soil, searching for a connection to the only god they ever believed in. Eyes squeezed shut the only thing Noure can see is a sunburst brand where there once was smooth skin. A forehead Noure had kissed too many times to count now forever still and cold. 

Karl’s blood is still under their fingernails. Noure can smell the rusty tang of it and they aren’t sure they can wash their hands clean again. All they had ever wanted was a future where they could be free. A life they could lead without constantly looking over their shoulder. 

Noure had wanted to tell Karl they could finally stop running. After years of searching, Noure had found Anders and together they had found Karl and they were going to escape for good. Find a quiet home somewhere in the middle of nowhere, a place of healing and shelter built by hands who needed it most. 

But now they’re just words Noure didn’t say at all. A hope they’ll never see again. 

Silent hiccups in a prayer garden. Moss peeling away from dirt under Noure’s hands. Lichen in the shape of tears growing on a forgotten statue in Lowtown. Noure opens their eyes and raises their head to meet Andraste’s stony gaze and finds it hollow. Andraste is as quiet as Noure, the only sound comes from the wind whispering across Noure’s chilled skin.

Unsteadily they rise to their feet. Hiccuping with every breath Noure stretches out a hand and the tips of their fingers can just barely graze Andraste’s cheek. The lifeless statue is cold under their touch and the bumpy lichen comes away beneath Noure’s fingers in a mineral turquoise smear. Wiping Andraste’s tears from her holy skin Noure wishes Andraste cared enough to do the same. 

And maybe she does. Noure remembers lighting candles in celebration and feeling warmth stir deep within their chest as a child, thinking their Maker’s Bride truly knew them. 

But Noure also remembers the Chant sung in the Circle and the templars who spat in their face while quoting verses of purity in servitude. Inside the recesses of their turbulent mind, Noure knows Valor is stirring awake. Their attention caught by the trouble and grief in Noure’s thoughts. 

Would this be a sin too? 

Their friend who saved their life, a union Noure has been taught can only be unholy. But Noure’s never known a sense of peace like the one Valor brings. It’s a quiet contemplation in the same heartbeat of burning courage. And they sooth Noure’s aching exhaustion even now. 

Noure leaves the prayer garden without noise and without a backward glance. Andraste can hear their pleas even when they’re voiceless and Noure already has a spirit they can trust. 

[eyeofmud]

prompt(s) fill for @zeesqueere 34 “ kissing tears away” + 64 “violet bruised eyes for noure?” 

for @dadrunkwriting

Noure screams. The good kind of scream, alone where no one else can hear, a scream which leaves their throat raw with the force of their own voice. The bad kind of scream, brittle and bloody, a scream which rips a vital piece from their chest and spits it into the air to evaporate with the setting sun. Noure screams on the side of the Sundermount surrounded by flowers and hopes Andraste can hear.

Goosebumps raise up along their arms to match the hair standing up on the back of their neck. This high on the mountainside the air is cold, brisk against Noure’s skin and thin in their lungs. Unable to get enough. 

Or maybe they can’t breathe because they’re too busy crying. Knees pressed into the hard dirt, trembling hands held to their chest, vision blurred by the tears leaking down their cheeks to salt the open wound of their throat. Hiccups in the orange-tinted sunlight. Noure keeps their head up and their back straight but only just. Only just.

For most people, an anniversary is a celebration. 

Two weeks ago, Noure thought this one would be too. 

But their cheeks and the back of their eyes ache now and the wind whips Noure’s loose robes around their too-thin body and there is nothing to celebrate here. Grief is all that remains. It reaches inside their chest and clenches Noure’s worn-out heart with bony fingers and squeezes and squeezes until each beat is agony. Desperate. Disbelieving. Frozen tracks down their cheeks and wind knotted hair. 

Alone on the mountainside, Noure isn’t sure how long they’ve been here. If they wanted, they could close their eyes and look down to see their ash-covered hands and smell the smoke from a crematory fire. They’d cried then too. But not like this. 

Those had been silent tears. Broken tears. 

There isn’t any feeling left in their legs. Sinking further the sunset blooms pink and orange and violent midnight blue and Noure isn’t sure they’ll make it home tonight. Mismatched eyes trained on the horizon, one colorless hand reaching for the sun. Maybe if Noure had tried harder, been faster, this wouldn’t have happened. 

Chilly soil crunches behind them and Noure flinches but doesn’t move to cover their tears or hide the shallow quickness of their breaths. They’re long past being ashamed of emotion. 

“I want him back too.” Ander’s voice is as fragile as Noure feels. Small and tightly held together by fraying threads. 

Noure shakes their head, not brave enough to turn their gaze back to him. “I can’t-” Two words and their voice cracks open breaks into pieces. “I can’t do this anymore.” Ribcage shattered by the hand squeezing their heart to leave their chest nothing more than a beating, bloody mess. 

Cold fingers on their neck gently trail up to cup Noure’s jaw. Quietly Noure meets Ander’s violet bruised eyes and knows he’s looking into the same. Two broken people mourning a third on their anniversary. No words to fill the hollow wind echoing through their chests. Anders kneels by Noure without taking his hand from them and tenderly kisses their tears away.

[eyeofmud]

a prompt fill for @daydreamweavercat ““You’re so fucking adorable” for the pairing of your choice!”

 Emprise du Lion is quickly becoming Renenh’s absolute least favorite place to be. It has the bones of beauty, mountains reaching for the Beyond in jagged peaks set against a sky so clear Renenh wouldn’t be surprised to see his own reflection in the blue. When he finds black lotus and felandaris growing in secluded corners Renenh knows the soil beneath the snow is rich and plentiful only locked away beneath ice. 

Normally, he wouldn’t even mind the cold. But here it is acrid and bitter instead of crisp and refreshing, the wind bites into his skin and the snow falling around them is sharp not sweet. Poisoned. 

Whatever was here is now laid waste by the tide of corruption erupting from beneath the land. Mountains reflecting crimson. The only heat to be found is near the towering spires of craggy red lyrium jutting up in every direction. 

Or it can be made through battle. 

This is the second party of red templars they’ve come across on their way to the mine and it isn’t large. Only a handful of them muttering around a fire, though there is one keeping watch near the road. Renenh glances over to Bull and nods in the direction of the group before raising an eyebrow. Charge or quiet? 

Bull shrugs. It’s up to Renenh this time, when they’re off guard its more fun for him and only one on watch is child’s play. Renenh grins and rolls his shoulders, slips his twin daggers out of their sheaths silently and begins to creep around the uneven rock keeping him out of sight. Snow muffling his footsteps, falling on his blades. 

With his back to Renenh the templar on watch doesn’t notice him until it’s far too late. He isn’t even wearing a helmet. Quickly Renenh rises from his crouch, flips a dagger around so the blade is aligned with his arm and covers the man’s mouth with a hand. Slices across his neck with a single deep stroke. All the warmth in Emprise du Lion is ruby dark and it spills across Renenh’s blade hungrily. Blood melting the snow in drops.

The man is dead within heartbeats. Renenh drops his corpse and moves on to the group, grinning at Bull and gesturing towards the crowded campfire. There’s too many for him to take on alone, unfortunately, but the two of them are a good match. Though they might get an earful from Dorian about unnecessary risks later. 

Bull charges the templars with a deafening shout, scattering them like so many frightened leaves. Allowing Renenh to slip into their midst without noise and a second templar falls with his daggers buried to the hilt in her back. Flushed with the warmth of battle-lust Renenh yanks the blades out of her flesh with a wet squelch leaving her to gurgle into the snow. 

Not a moment too soon either, for now he’s been noticed. Three quick templars with short-swords and one with a long-sword and shield, though Bull has his greataxe raised and with a bellow and sickening crunch there is one fewer short-sword wielding templar. Sunlight glints off the massive blade as Bull rips it out of the mess that used to be a person and blood is flecked across his chest. Chunks of gore splattered in the stained snow, reflecting crimson on the blade.

The nearest templar to Renenh makes a poor decision to try and flank him. Out of the corner of his eye Renenh catches him and flicks his gaze to the templar in full. Reaches for a shimmering orange flask at his hip, rips it away from his belt, and smashes it against his chest. It shatters in an eruption of flame. 

Flickering tongues of breath-warm fire coat Renenh’s vision and when he grins at the templar they stop in their tracks. 

Neither of them move for a beat. The frozen second of measuring the other up, eyes glancing over weapons and stances. Wind shivering across the back of Renenh’s neck. And the moment breaks with a blink.

Rushing towards him with a shout the templar brings their short-sword up in a vicious arc aiming for Renenh’s chest. Ducking out of the way Renenh deflects the blow with the flat of one of his daggers, bringing the other up to slice across the templar’s thin armor and into their leg. The blade bites deep, spilling blood as flesh is carved away from bone. The templar stumbles and falls and Renenh doesn’t hesitate to slice through their throat next. 

Four corpses in the snow. Four bodies still fighting. Renenh glances across the camp, the remaining two templars are locked in combat with Bull, who is more than a match for them both. His greataxe glints pink and drips crimson in the cold winter sunlight and Renenh waits only to hear the roar of Bull’s attack before he’s moving. 

Renenh knows the rhythm of Bull’s attacks. They’ve fought together for long enough now Renenh can feel, with an electric kind of intimacy, the moment Bull recognizes he’s close enough to join the fight and makes room for him. Brings him into the flow of blood and battle. 

Slipping into the cadence Renenh brings his fire-coated blades up to block a blow meant for Bull’s blind side. Snarling the templar parries and switches his attention to Renenh, short-swords bared with his teeth. Renenh strikes first, lashing out with one blade aimed for the templar’s shoulder, only to be blocked and forced backwards. Countered and made to duck. 

Flames lick at his vision but they’re beginninng to fade. There isn’t time to think in the heat of combat but Renenh measures up his opponent without it. Behind him, Renenh can hear the ringing of Bull’s greataxe hitting the other templar’s shield and the crack of it splitting under the attack. And Renenh grins. 

The templar before him hesitates, watching and realizing he’s the last one standing. A final crunch is the only sound he needs before Renenh springs back into action, parrying the templar’s haphazard strike and slashing with both daggers across the templar’s neck. 

It isn’t enough to decapitate him but the templar’s head falls back, hanging on with only a sliver of bone and a thick line of deep red tissue. Flames flickering out just in time.  Bull whoops and Renenh laughs loudly, a little recklessly. They’re a force of nature.

Large hands wrap around his waist and Renenh’s feet lift off the ground, battle-lust still humming in his blood and heating him far beyond the hints of fire could hope to. Bull’s face is bright with it, too, and his smile is sharper than the edge of his blade. “You’re so fucking adorable.” 

Renenh just keeps laughing, “I nearly decapitated a man three seconds ago.” 

“Fuck yeah you did.” 

Bull’s kiss could reignite the flames Renenh used up a moment ago. Weapons sheathed or forgotten on the ground, Bull’s arms shifting so Renenh can wrap his legs around Bull’s waist. Wandering hands on blood speckled skin. Renenh’s laugh is lost in a groan of teeth scraping against his lips and he cups Bull’s face to tilt him where he wants him.

This isn’t how all of their skirmishes end. Not even most of them. Normally they’re not lucky enough to have just the two of them, alone and high on the blood rushing through their ears. But today, today they’re not expected back at camp for another hour at least and Renenh plans on making each second count.

[eyeofmud]

for @dadrunkwriting

Palms on the rough bark Ellanis lets himself relax back, shifting on the log to get a better view. Sunlight through the leaves, shifting shadows in the golden haze of early afternoon. Two daggers glinting as Zevran holds them, moves with them through a dance Ellanis watches with half-lidded eyes. He doesn’t know the steps himself, but he doesn’t need to know them to appreciate them. Or to appreciate the light hitting Zevran’s hair where its pulled back away from his face, or the flick of his wrist as he deftly flips a dagger, or the small beads of sweat running in thin lines down his chest. 

No, he doesn’t need anything special to appreciate those. Just the sunlight and the warm air to hide the heat under his cheeks. 

Though, it isn’t exactly a secret he’s watching either. Once, twice, every few minutes now Zevran throws a glance and a smirk his direction and Ellanis meets his eyes with a sharp smile of his own. His legs stretched out in front of him, hands propping himself up behind, Ellanis is quite content to simply sit beneath the thick canopy and enjoy the show. 

Though, now, with everyone else returning to camp Ellanis is running out of excuses to linger. They've danced around each other for the past month now, moving in circles and glances, so Ellanis shouldn't need a reason to be here. But, if he doesn't have one, why is he here?

Blonde hair falling from the hasty bun, curling slightly around his eyes and into his mouth, Zevran pauses in the middle of whatever form he’s practicing to push it back into place. More than enough to grab Ellanis' thoughts and hold them. Dark eyes still locked with Ellanis’ his smile grows wicked and Zevran straightens up fully, pointing the end of one dagger in Ellanis’ direction. It really shouldn’t make his heart race or his cheeks flush, but, Ellanis doesn’t think too hard about it. 

“Why don’t you join me if you’re so keen to learn?” Zevran asks it like a question and the edge of his voice is playful but Ellanis wonders if it isn’t also a test. Dipping a finger into the water to make sure it’s warm. 

Ellanis picks up his cane from beside him and wiggles it slightly through the air above his bad leg, “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, sweetheart, but I’m not really one for dancing.”

Falling into step, shifting leaves on the breeze and sunlight glowing on Zevran's hair. 

Grin growing lopsided Zevran flips the dagger into the air again idly, casually. As if either one of them are not paying attention. "Don't play coy, bello, I've seen you fight before." Catching the dagger he gestures with it towards Ellanis' foot, "You can make your brace can you not?" 

Ellanis hums, carefully raising a hand to his chin in thought, turning his head to the side. "I could." 

"Hand to hand combat is a skill even mages should learn," Taking a step closer Zevran extends his dagger in Ellanis' direction pommel forward this time, "I can teach you a basic form, to start."

Glancing back to Zevran out of the corner of his eye Ellanis wonders. He shouldn't, not really, he'd be too clumsy and too vulnerable and the warmth under his skin blooms at the thought. Dangerous, it says, to even want to get closer. But the sunlight is melting in Zevran's dark eyes and the bark against his palms is rough enough to imagine calluses and it would be so easy just to give in, just once, to something he wants. 

"Fine," Standing up Ellanis' spirit brace flairs to life around his bad leg, taking the dagger from Zevran, fingers barely brushing. "Show me." 

Evening breeze ruffling his hair, Zevran takes another step closer. "Fighting is like loving, pay attention to the hips." He reaches out and Ellanis could swear it was easier to breathe a moment ago, his heart wasn't beating quite so loud when he stood, was it? 

Blade oil and sweat, Zevran's hand is warm hovering over Ellanis' hip and he's so close Ellanis can see the baby hairs sticking to his temples. "May I?"

"Yes." Any more and his voice would crack, shaking with a threat to collapse anyway. Goosebumps rise across the back of his neck and Ellanis is in danger if the heat in his cheeks did anything to warn him. Maker what is wrong with him. 

"Relaxing is important to both too." Dropping his voice Zevran carefully straightens out Ellanis' posture. Fingertips grazing his hipbone in time with his words. Oh now he's just toying with him. 

Drawing himself up Ellanis smirks, "Now who's being coy. I thought you were just showing me how to fight and yet y-" Cut off by the smooth press of dull steel under his chin Ellanis lowers his gaze until he's looking at Zevran through his eyelashes. Unaffected beyond the racing of his heart in his chest.

"First rule of fighting, Ellanis, is to play to your strengths." One hand still on Ellanis' hip, fingers still pressing into warm skin, the other holding a practice blade to his throat. Backlit by late afternoon sunlight Zevran glows even if his smugly raised eyebrow ruins the picture. Bastard. 

Tipping his chin back Ellanis keeps his eyes locked with Zevran's. "Does that mean I should practice my fighting or my love making?" Lowering his voice to match Zevran's Ellanis shifts his stance without guidance this time, his good leg between Zevran's and their hips almost aligned. 

He doesn't miss how Zevran's eyes darken and his cheeks flush. Two could play this game, dance to this rhythm. 

If he's honest, they've been circling for far longer than the last half hour. Moving in step and watching and waiting. Holding his breath for wanting. Ellanis doesn't raise his gaze when Zevran lowers his dagger and he doesn't move when Zevran's fingers tighten on his hip. Locked in a sunkissed moment Ellanis licks his lips and looks at Zevran's and wonders if he tastes like sunlight.

[eyeofmud]

Trust

Zevran isn’t the one to fall asleep first. Never has been, he learned young to stay awake if he wanted to stay alive. He’s waited for marks to close their eyes and still their breaths in more ways than one and every time Zevran has to wonder at how easily they can sleep by another. Trust is a word fools use. 

And yet, this time, it’s different. Night has long since fallen, the silver-white moonlight cutting across Ellanis’ cheek tells Zevran as much, and Zevran is still awake. But not because he’s waiting. He could be, if he wanted, waiting for Ellanis to fall into the deepest part of sleep so he can reach back for the dagger lying on his armor. But he’s not. And Zevran doesn’t know why. 

It isn’t the stretch of Ellanis’ bad leg against his, nor the warmth of his back snug against Zevran’s chest, it isn’t the comfortable way Zevran’s arm fits on the curve of his hip to rest his hand on Ellanis’ soft stomach. No, no it’s the gentleness of Ellanis’ parted lips and the shallow rise of his chest as he easily falls asleep in Zevran’s arms. 

Just like other marks before. 

Yet Ellanis isn’t like anyone Zevran has met before and the half moon of his eyelashes against his cheek, caught in the silver sliver of moonlight, have Zevran’s hand curling protectively over his stomach. It could be easy. A single movement. One blade slicing home in a movement more familiar to Zevran than breathing.

Fingers twitch against bare skin, pressing down and letting up in a feather-light moment of hesitation. One of Ellanis’ hands comes up to cover Zevran’s and he curls slightly around their joined fingers. And it’s really the difference between one mark and another. This is the mark Ellanis has left beating inside his chest.

Trust is a word for fools. 

Ellanis’ hand is warm over Zevran’s, the rise and fall of his chest is slow and even under Zevran’s arm. The moonlight falls in a thin line across his face - from the tip of his ear down the angle of his cheek to softly kiss his lips. Eyelashes and flyaways. 

Zevran slips his fingers between Ellanis’ and squeezes. Maybe. 

Maybe it’s the quiet of night and the silence of Ellanis’ trust. Maybe somewhere in the months on the road together Zevran forgot to be vigilant. Maybe the dagger sitting in its sheath on his discarded clothes can stay there. Maybe it should. 

Shifting in his sleep Ellanis curls up on himself further, pulling away from Zevran’s chest and clasping Zevran’s hand. Simple. How does Ellanis find it so simple to fall asleep next to someone like him? Does he know what he’s doing? Does he care?

Zevran bends to kiss the base of Ellanis’ exposed neck. Blackberries and vanilla. Baby hairs tickling his nose. Does he care? 

“You are a fool, Ellanis Tabris.” Whispered against Ellanis’ skin, gently spoken between the knobs of his spine, “But if you are, then, so am I.” A confession given in the gap between moonlit snores. Zevran’s words meant only for himself and the night and the stillness of sleeping lovers.

[eyeofmud]

prompt fill for @midnightprelude "We slept in the same bed for space reasons but now we’re just waking up and there’s something about your bleary eyes and mussed hair...FOR THE DWC BECAUSE I AM TRASH FOR THIS."

for @dadrunkwriting

Last night Zevran had been annoyed by the deepstalkers destroying his tent, to say the least. His bedroll had been in tatters and the precious few things he had were scattered but, thankfully, recoverable. Though repairing his things on one of the last nights here in the Deep Roads certainly hadn't been his plan for the evening.

Except, when Ellanis offered to share his tent with a soft voice Zevran thought maybe it wasn't quite as bad as it could have been. Over the campfire he'd given Ellanis a half smirk and a yes and Ellanis had quickly glancef away. Nothing more behind the gesture. At least, nothing more Zevran should want to chase.

Of course, it had been slightly awkward at first. A single tent, a single candle, a single bedroll, and two people in the flickering dark. Ellanis had only rolled his eyes at Zevran's quiet remarks but he also kept a distance between the two of them under the fur, exhausting the candle with a wave of his hand before Zevran was all the way inside.

Now though, the careful space between them is lost in the sleep-warm weight of Ellanis curled up against his chest.

It's a vulnerable thing, in the shared darkness, to be the one to wake up last. And Zevran has always risen early. Ellanis' hair is a tangled mess and his chest is rising softly, slowly, and his eyes are shut in a gentle kiss of eyelashes against cheeks. But this, too, is something Zevran shouldn't see.

It's too intimate, too trusting, for someone like him.

But it doesn't last for long anyway, just giving him enough time to commit the memory of Ellanis' sleeping face to a secret part of himself never to be remembered. Lips parting in a yawn Ellanis opens bleary eyes and his legs stretch out against Zevran's. Slipping between them for a heart racing second.

A second stopping in time. Ellanis' eyes focus on Zevran's in the moment his legs are still tangled with Zevran's and his hands are still resting on Zevran's chest and he's still curled up beside him. Neither move, neither breathe, just a pounding of heartbeats in sleepy synchronicity.

And it breaks like a bubble caught by too eager hands as Ellanis lights the candle sitting by the edge of the tent. Casting flickering shadows and warm mellow light on them, not a dream but a moment of fantasy. Without a word Ellanis untangles himself from Zevran, pulling his warmth away and turning his back towards him.

It shouldn't have been something Zevran was allowed to see. A stolen moment in the dark, sleep mused hair and bleary eyes not meant for him. But there's something about it which Zevran can't ignore, the tightess in his chest at the sight of Ellanis' vulnerable trust. Something shared in the dark Zevran shouldn't want.

But shouldn't hasn't ever really stopped him from wanting before.

[eyeofmud]

for @dadrunkwriting

Palms on the rough bark Ellanis lets himself relax back, shifting on the log to get a better view. Sunlight through the leaves, shifting shadows in the golden haze of early afternoon. Two daggers glinting as Zevran holds them, moves with them through a dance Ellanis watches with half-lidded eyes. He doesn’t know the steps himself, but he doesn’t need to know them to appreciate them. Or to appreciate the light hitting Zevran’s hair where its pulled back away from his face, or the flick of his wrist as he deftly flips a dagger, or the small beads of sweat running in thin lines down his chest. 

No, he doesn’t need anything special to appreciate those. Just the sunlight and the warm air to hide the heat under his cheeks. 

Though, it isn’t exactly a secret he’s watching either. Once, twice, every few minutes now Zevran throws a glance and a smirk his direction and Ellanis meets his eyes with a sharp smile of his own. His legs stretched out in front of him, hands propping himself up behind, Ellanis is quite content to simply sit beneath the thick canopy and enjoy the show. 

Though, now, with everyone else returning to camp Ellanis is running out of excuses to linger. They've danced around each other for the past month now, moving in circles and glances, so Ellanis shouldn't need a reason to be here. But, if he doesn't have one, why is he here?

Blonde hair falling from the hasty bun, curling slightly around his eyes and into his mouth, Zevran pauses in the middle of whatever form he’s practicing to push it back into place. More than enough to grab Ellanis' thoughts and hold them. Dark eyes still locked with Ellanis’ his smile grows wicked and Zevran straightens up fully, pointing the end of one dagger in Ellanis’ direction. It really shouldn’t make his heart race or his cheeks flush, but, Ellanis doesn’t think too hard about it. 

“Why don’t you join me if you’re so keen to learn?” Zevran asks it like a question and the edge of his voice is playful but Ellanis wonders if it isn’t also a test. Dipping a finger into the water to make sure it’s warm. 

Ellanis picks up his cane from beside him and wiggles it slightly through the air above his bad leg, “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, sweetheart, but I’m not really one for dancing.”

Falling into step, shifting leaves on the breeze and sunlight glowing on Zevran's hair. 

Grin growing lopsided Zevran flips the dagger into the air again idly, casually. As if either one of them are not paying attention. "Don't play coy, bello, I've seen you fight before." Catching the dagger he gestures with it towards Ellanis' foot, "You can make your brace can you not?" 

Ellanis hums, carefully raising a hand to his chin in thought, turning his head to the side. "I could." 

"Hand to hand combat is a skill even mages should learn," Taking a step closer Zevran extends his dagger in Ellanis' direction pommel forward this time, "I can teach you a basic form, to start."

Glancing back to Zevran out of the corner of his eye Ellanis wonders. He shouldn't, not really, he'd be too clumsy and too vulnerable and the warmth under his skin blooms at the thought. Dangerous, it says, to even want to get closer. But the sunlight is melting in Zevran's dark eyes and the bark against his palms is rough enough to imagine calluses and it would be so easy just to give in, just once, to something he wants. 

"Fine," Standing up Ellanis' spirit brace flairs to life around his bad leg, taking the dagger from Zevran, fingers barely brushing. "Show me." 

Evening breeze ruffling his hair, Zevran takes another step closer. "Fighting is like loving, pay attention to the hips." He reaches out and Ellanis could swear it was easier to breathe a moment ago, his heart wasn't beating quite so loud when he stood, was it? 

Blade oil and sweat, Zevran's hand is warm hovering over Ellanis' hip and he's so close Ellanis can see the baby hairs sticking to his temples. "May I?"

"Yes." Any more and his voice would crack, shaking with a threat to collapse anyway. Goosebumps rise across the back of his neck and Ellanis is in danger if the heat in his cheeks did anything to warn him. Maker what is wrong with him. 

"Relaxing is important to both too." Dropping his voice Zevran carefully straightens out Ellanis' posture. Fingertips grazing his hipbone in time with his words. Oh now he's just toying with him. 

Drawing himself up Ellanis smirks, "Now who's being coy. I thought you were just showing me how to fight and yet y-" Cut off by the smooth press of dull steel under his chin Ellanis lowers his gaze until he's looking at Zevran through his eyelashes. Unaffected beyond the racing of his heart in his chest.

"First rule of fighting, Ellanis, is to play to your strengths." One hand still on Ellanis' hip, fingers still pressing into warm skin, the other holding a practice blade to his throat. Backlit by late afternoon sunlight Zevran glows even if his smugly raised eyebrow ruins the picture. Bastard. 

Tipping his chin back Ellanis keeps his eyes locked with Zevran's. "Does that mean I should practice my fighting or my love making?" Lowering his voice to match Zevran's Ellanis shifts his stance without guidance this time, his good leg between Zevran's and their hips almost aligned. 

He doesn't miss how Zevran's eyes darken and his cheeks flush. Two could play this game, dance to this rhythm. 

If he's honest, they've been circling for far longer than the last half hour. Moving in step and watching and waiting. Holding his breath for wanting. Ellanis doesn't raise his gaze when Zevran lowers his dagger and he doesn't move when Zevran's fingers tighten on his hip. Locked in a sunkissed moment Ellanis licks his lips and looks at Zevran's and wonders if he tastes like sunlight.

[eyeofmud]

Zevran’s fingers slide through the hair at his temples, catching individual strands and rubbing them together in thought. It’s dark, quiet, later than when they usually head to bed these days. Instead of a dusty sunset the sky outside their window is purple and black and Ellanis stands with his good foot on Zevran’s. Trusting him to hold him up like he has so many times before.

“You’ve got grey hair.” His words match the night, softer in the silence. Zevran doesn’t stop playing with his hair.

Laughing into Zevran’s neck with his arms draped over his shoulders, “Do you not like them?” The first time Ellanis noticed them he wanted to yank them out of his skull. Vanity had only played a small part in his reaction, fear had played another.

There hadn’t been many to start with, but that had been a few weeks ago.

Zevran presses a kiss softer than his words to Ellanis’ temples. “Its a good look for you.”

Ellanis slides his hands down Zevran’s arms slowly, brings Zevran’s out of his hair, tangles their fingers together and rests his head in the crook of Zevran’s neck. Takes a steadying breath. “You haven’t lied to me like that in years.”

Fingers squeeze his, tightening their grip on Ellanis’ hand. Quiet laughter in his ear. “I haven’t.” Laughter fading into sighs. Holding so tight Ellanis’ hands ache.

“And you say you’re not vain.” Ellanis doesn’t want to say it either, dancing around the same fear he felt when he first saw them. So he puts levity into his voice and tries to bring the quiet night back.

Zevran snorts, “Now who is lying.” But he lets his fingers relax against Ellanis’ anyway. “It is just-”

A heartbeat in the darkness. Words and fear safe until they’re spoke.

“Just what Zev?” Skipping beats and aching chests.

“I wanted the chance to grow old with you.” Heavy with quiet this time, Zevran’s voice wavers and Ellanis lifts his head even though the night hides most of Zevran’s face.

Maybe he should have yanked them out. “I’m not dying, Zev, they’re just grey hairs.” If he tells himself enough maybe he can believe it too. Its been ten years, a third of his time is up. Slipping away from him faster and faster with each passing second.

“No, you’re not.” Ellanis can hear the pause, the yet.

Ellanis is the one to grip tight enough to squeeze bones together now. “If you think I’m going to let you grow old by yourself.” He doesn’t finish his threat, can’t really think of anything to round it out. It really isn’t up to him, but he’s not going to let himself out quietly, or softly.

They’re going to grow old together, Ellanis will make sure of it.

[eyeofmud]

reblog spam incoming this is your warning

[musingmycelium]

Some may consider a desert a graveyard in itself but standing in a graveyard in the desert the difference is clear. Moon shines full on the plump Broc flowers and Joshua could swear they smell like death, like they know the dirt they grow in is so good to them ‘for the bodies layin’ in it.

Joshua should know too, seein’ as how’s he was one. 

He ain’t now and his momma raised him to keep movin’ on, keep towards that horizon boy, but just for a second. Just one moonlit moment. Would it be so bad to wonder how he got here?

That’s what the Doc asked him this afternoon when he woke up, fresh bullet scar not quite between his eyes and ain’t that lucky, what’s he done to wind up in a shallow grave. Well, Joshua’s mind’s never been the quickest but his mouth more than makes up for it and he spins his yarn for the Doc just right enough to not be a lie. Missin’ enough for it to not be the truth. 

When he was younger, young, he’d’ve got in trouble for that, real trouble. Never did wanna lie but he knew his way around the truth well enough to make his momma’s head spin and make his daddy's laugh ring right across the ranch. 

Not his Father though. 

No, not his Father.

His Father would smirk, secret around a cigarette, a priest with a pretty mouth and Joshua was older for a choir boy but he was damn near the only boy in town free enough to help and he was good with his hands. Repairing, sewing, fixin’ up those little things on the Church grounds, he was older for a choir boy but not old enough. Not yet. 

Cigarette smoke burns on its way down. Joshua knows his lungs are black as graveyard dirt with it, even if he ain’t smoked since. 

Smoke burns but sometimes, just sometimes, fingers don’t. 

His Father was a careful man, his burns never scar'd where anyone would find. Not unless they were tryin’ to leave the same kind. 

Lungs full of the scent of Broc flowers, thick with nectar drained from the dead. 

Just because the Church taught him to use his hands as well as his mouth don’t mean he can still keep them steady enough to smoke. Nah, Joshua stuffs a wad of tobacco under his tongue, tastes the nicotine bloom. 

But this time he spits instead of swallows. 

Leave those memories in the mud.

Good with his hands, good with his mouth, his momma raised him well enough to know the difference. Joshua grown’d into a fine young man, she told him so often enough he’d even believed her, and keeping his hands busy on a ranch is easy business. There’s always a fence to mend. 

Cattle tend to be just as easy. Driving them across the Mojave with the ranch hands his daddy hired Joshua finds the desert alive. A campfire means a full belly after careful hands have tended to it, cooked on it, put a handful of chicory and coyote chew into the beat up coffee pot and let them simmer into something warm on a cold night. After a hot day. 

It’s good work, honest work. A fine young man with a silver tongue and heart of gold could hardly do better. Even if his hands are rough to the touch, rumor has it they’re gentle too. 

Some of those ranch hands, when their hands are wrapped around a coffee mug and they’re sitting, nearly touching, next to Joshua on a spread out Brahmin hide, ask him if those rumors are true. 

If his hands are as gentle as his mouth. 

Under that bright desert moon Joshua is kind enough to tell just enough of the truth for it to not feel like a lie. 

He’s got good working hands, ranching hands, quick on the draw hands, and a mouth that knows how to be quiet when it needs to be too. 

Only the lingerin’ streaks on gun powder on a ranch hand’s skin, his kindness without regret, Joshua wishes he could pull a steady man as well as he can a trigger. 

Because Joshua he’s a crack shot, deadeye aim and quick, but he can’t sweet talk a coyote out of eating cattle and he can’t pull the trigger on a man who don’t deserve it. His momma raised him right, raised him good, and don’t you ever think you’re the one who can make those kinds of decisions, boy, only one man can decide who lives and dies. 

And standing by his open grave in the desert, Joshua has a bible in one back pocket, and a black handkerchief in the other.

Wonderin' in the moonlight how'd he got there, and where he's goin' next.

[eyeofmud]

Silent Shadows

Cicadas sing. Music in the not quite dawn spilling from the trees in the form of birdsong and insect buzzing. No light in the tent beyond the hint of sunrise, purple as deep and dark as a wound, outlining the horizon. Zevran prefers the shadows, the almost silence. 

In the city there is always noise. Horses neigh no matter the hour and servants hurry with hushed footfalls in the dark corridors and bedsheets rustle no matter how slight the movement beneath them. Not all his marks share these noises, not even most, but it does an assassin well to know what sounds death can take. The rush of air out of startled, ruined, lungs when a blade slips between ribs. In the surprised glance before a muffled shout. How quietly a mark can be kept when death catches them in their sleep. 

For all he is aware of death Zevran finds he enjoys the sounds of life far better. Cicadas and bird songs and snores drifting together. 

No bedsheets rustle, the thick fur Ellanis prefers to sleep in caresses his skin and Zevran has no need to move beneath them. Not yet, not for a while yet. Ellanis’ arm is sprawled out under him, his chest rising under Zevran’s cheek, gentle snores moving enough for the both of them. 

Shadows before dawn. Under the tent flap he can only make out the barest suggestion of purple, inside the dark blue hides them yet and his eyes tighten at the encroaching light. At the noise it will bring. Cheek resting against a slowly rising chest. Heartbeats.

So quiet Zevran almost cannot hear them. Even in the shadow, even in the almost silence. When did this sound replace all others? Why does the silence in between beats sound so cold?

Why did he start to listen for them at all?

Ellanis sleeps peacefully tonight.A quiet night between them is rare and perhaps the reason why Zevran counts heartbeats is simply because he is tired of counting sheep. There has been no nightmare, no screams, no soothing after. Just sleep. Quiet laughter. 

The sounds of life. Sounds unfamiliar. If Zevran has any familiarity with the sound of heartbeats it's in waiting for them to slow. And stop. But here he waits on the verge of sleep for another of Ellanis’ heartbeats to promise to continue. Never to cease. 

Cicadas mix with birdsong with snores. With the ever steady beat of his lover's heart. Almost silent and Zevran has never been more grateful for the noise. Dawn trails its fingers up over the horizon and his time is running out. A mark is never more dangerous than when they begin to leave their mark on you. 

Matching the light Zevran shifts to place a hand on Ellanis’ chest and the thin fabric of his shirt does nothing to hide the heat of his skin nor the rise and fall of his breathing. Fingertips brushing aside the low collar so his palm can rest over his chest. Feeling his pulse as he hears it. 

Not yet.

Zevran prefers the sound to the silence.

[musingmycelium]

first meeting

30 days oc challenge for mourning!

It's the slight tug that gives him away. Practiced enough not to be hesitant but not yet good enough to not be noticed by someone else in the business. Mourning grabs the wrist at his belt pouch and it's small enough in his grasp his thumb is nearly at the second knuckle of his forefinger. Kid should know better than to steal from someone like him.

Mourning had learned his lesson the first time he got his fingers broke. He hopes this kid never gets that far. Turning with a wide grin Mourning releases the kid's wrist, "Advice from a professional, make sure your mark is better distracted next time."

Must not have been expecting his reaction because the kid nearly falls over without Mourning's grip. A mop of curls covers his face but Mourning gets a glimpse of his eyes, knows how far they've sunk in. It's too often these days he sees memories. Ghosts in the making. Haunting him before they're gone.

He's not the type of person to sigh but Mourning's smile shrinks by a few teeth. There's no way to save every kid on the street, Mourning knows exactly how get mad if he tries and he even knows why, but that doesn't mean he won't try.

It's an easy decision to give the kid his cloak. There isn't another choice, not for him. Mourning tries not to watch the kid disappear around the alleyway but he shakes his head with a rueful smirk, he'll see Luthias again, one way or another.

[eyeofmud]

Dreams

Mourning is nine. Cold pavement under his quick feet, moonlight guiding him further into shadow. Running from a guard who has nothing better to do than chase after urchins with nowhere to sleep. It's cold and dark and all he wants is to feel safe.

The city streets keep him on his feet. They keep his stomach empty and the only purse he carries is one he stole. His hands are quick but his mouth is quicker, a good story told to a baker gets him a hand pie and a sharp whistle thrown around a corner gets him a purse cleanly cut. As long as he doesn't get caught.

It's only at night, when he finally finds that safe place to sleep, can he dream of somewhere, anywhere, else. Somewhere warm with laughter that doesn't fade and meals that aren't eaten on the run.

Mourning is twelve. His smiles are faster than ever now and they show more teeth but the streets are still cold and Mourning knows now he'll never have the magic to warm them.

But it doesn't matter when he can still swipe a purse better than the older boys who glower at him from the rooftops. They've been egging him on, trying to get him caught, and Mourning knows soon they'll ask him to join or finish their game. When he tries to steal from the gnarled old dwarf he's surprised when his hand is grabbed and when the dwarf pulls him close Mourning can only smile in fear.

Except the old dwarf offers him a dream. Tells him there's no time to waste they need to leave and Mourning, Mourning rides in the back of a wagon away from the streets of a city that wanted to consume him and looks up at the stars. Falls asleep under their light and dreams of nothing but a different future.

Mourning is twenty. Metal sings against metal even dulled for practice and Mourning meets Sero blow for block. Their mentor is fast and Mourning is gaining the speed to match them but he's still not quite there. Sero's trap catches Mourning's blade and he laughs while Sero gives him pointers.

As if Mourning wouldn't take anything Sero gave them. Sero's smile is stretching across their face and Mourning's own is growing. Maybe not every day, maybe not every time, but Mourning no longer smiles to cover up an empty hunger.

When he dreams in the Spire they're always about home. A friend who doesn't try to use him, a family he is growing into. Magic's lack is no hindrance here and Mourning's nights are warm.

Mourning is twenty-seven. This time the streets are on fire and the orphans are running but Mourning doesn't cower anymore. His back is straight and he ushers the kids behind him and his sword. Smiles in the smoke.

A letter came. It came too late and from too far away and when Mourning gets the second he wonders how much faster he could have been. If lives could have been traded for lives. But his smile stays fixed and his back stays straight and Mourning keeps his sword at his hip.

When he dreams it's of fire and Alassar steel. It's stained glass crunching under his feet as he runs from the pungent smoke to the center of the Spire. He's alone surrounded by family. And his smile aches on his face.

Mourning is thirty-two. He wanders a mud filled alley with the last member of his family at his side. Jokes with him to see his smile and tries to forget the way it used to feel. Neither of them are who they used to be and they're the last. The last things Mourning can hold onto in cold streets.

His feet are numb, his stomach is empty. Skies so dark and blue Mourning could mistake them for the sea overhead and it matters only because the horizion is so hard to see. Mourning keeps walking and he keeps smiling and he hopes his family can appreciate his good humor.

A thin blanket covers worn out dreams in a sense of longing. A safe place to sleep, a warm meal, laughter shared between family. Mourning dreams of what he had and only in his nightmares does he see what he still has.

[musingmycelium]

Mycelium Commissions

Hello all! 

I’m opening up commissions again! I offer two different styles of commissions, Ko-fi or Standard!

To Commission Me: Send me a dm here on tumble or send me an email at [email protected]! 

Ko-fi commissions: I’ll be doing these in three levels, all of which will be SFW. my ko-fi can be found here, just send me the receipt with what you’re looking for to either my dms or my email!

1 Ko-fi: For 1 ko-fi (3USD) I’ll write you a 300-500 word ficlet, with up to three characters.  Examples (x, x, x)

3 Ko-fi: For 3 ko-fis (9USD) I’ll write you a 600-1000 word ficlet, with up to three characters. Examples (x, x, x)

5 Ko-fi: For 5 ko-fis (15USD) I’ll write you an 1100-1500 word ficlet, with up to three characters. Examples (x, x, x)

Standard commissions: I’ll be doing these by word count! For every 100 words I will charge 1USD, up to 1,000 words after which it is 2USD per word, for a maximum of 5000 words (90USD). There is no limit on characters involved and I will write NSFW for an additional 50% of the total cost per words. Meaning if you want me to write 1500 words of NSFW the total cost per words is 10USD for the first 1000 words + 10USD for the second 500 + 50% for a total of 30USD. Both you and all characters in the scene must be 18+ for you to order any NSFW works.

SFW Examples: (x, x, x, x, x)

NSFW Examples: (x, x, x, x, x)

I will write: About your ocs! About your world! About canon characters! All I need is enough information about whatever idea it is you have and how you would like it, so references for OCs and world-building and what kind of tone you’re looking for.

I've done everything from character focused introspection to fast moving fight scenes to world building codex entries, if you have something you'd like written contact me! I'm also open to doing other types of writing, like poetry or contained flash fiction. Poetry commissions may be a different rate seeing as they are usually a fairly short word count compared to the time spent constructing them.

I’m open to writing just about anyone Dragon Age wise (except Cullen, sorry) and if I am familiar enough with the fandom I can write about those characters too (such as Baldur’s Gate or The Outer Worlds or Fallen Hero or etc). 

I will not write: pedophilia, rape/noncon, gratuitous violence. And I reserve the right to expand this list as I see fit.

That’s all guys, thanks so much!

[musingmycelium]

21C? :)

21- "i'm sorry i can't get up" C - "nighttime"

Forests in southern Nevarra grow thick enough to blot out the sky, trees with sweetly scented needles and trunks wider around than Noure though it isn't like the last of that is hard to be right now. A wraith flickering under the moonlight. White hands dragging on knobby knees made of bark leaving dark trails behind. Perhaps even the sweetness of cypress needles in the breeze isn't going to cover the sharp smell of blood.

Wet earth grips the bottoms of their feet viciously, selfishly, unwilling to let them go. Like Noure this time in how it clings to skin and chills to the bone.

Defining oneself in opposition and similarity. Noure looks up towards the moon and raises a hand, pale skin and thin bones and red blood and silver moonlight and deep dark sky. Figures they would find themself in a cemetery when they're dying.

They've used the last of their mana to get this far and it's running out fast. Bleeding out of them through the open wound of their chest. Sinking to the base of a cypress tree Noure drapes themself over a root with as much dignity as they can manage. Even with more blood on the earth than in their body Noure can muster energy for the drama of it all. Why go out with a whimper if you must go out at all.

Noure's fingers glow but their magic is dying too. Pain closing in around their vision to turn the corners rust red and run their breathing ragged. The cypress supports them upright but just barely. Just enough.

It wouldn't do to greet a friend lying down.

A new glow in the cemetery, conjured not by the moon nor by Noure. A true ghost walking through the trees. A voice carrying like needles shifting in the wind. "Why is it every time I see you it is because you have brought trouble with you."

It isn't really a question and Noure huffs a laugh, and when they reply their own voice is weaker than the apparitions. "Good to see you too Valor. I'm sorry, it appears I can't get up." They struggle to breathe now, the words taking too much out of them too quickly.

"I can see that." Valor reaches out and strokes their arm, less real than a breeze but it leaves the hair on Noure's skin standing up. Like a friendly stike of lightning Valor is, so unlike the way Noure burns. "Did you come here for aide or peace?"

Well if Valor is blunt and stinging too then there at least Noure can say they're alike. "I think it's too late for help now." Too late for many things, maybe too late from the beginning.

Valor's hand sinks through Noure's skin and instead of a breeze it's a storm. "Not necessarily but it will be soon."

Pain doesn't just filter through their thoughts it stops them from thinking entirely. "What do you mean?"

"I mean you have a choice, to accept my aide or accept the peace of death." Valor says it simply, maybe it is. Their presence rests under Noure's skin and warms them from the inside out. Keeping the chill of the earth at bay.

Once Noure would have said no without thinking about it. There was a time saying yes would have been too easy. Now though..

Sweet cypress fills their nose, mud hardens on their soles, blood drips slowly and weakly down their chest.

Noure uses everything to lift their hand and grip Valor's arm in return. "I accept."

prompt list

[musingmycelium]

29 or 30!!!

ohhh these are both very good though........ awooga 29. sweat / 30. harsh whisper

Sweat stings in the cracked corners of their mouth. Noure licks their lips and the metallic tang of blood hits their tongue. Enough, let it be enough.

Four silver crescent scars on the palm of their hands meet the warm earth of a recent cremation. Once, a long time ago, their blood rent the earth here from those scars with a power that should have frightened them back then. Now it scatters to the ground weakly from their lips. Their power doesn't frighten them now, it binds them together all the rough edges and missing pieces, it holds them upright and proud and strong.

What frightens them is the thought it won't be enough.

Maybe it was never enough.

Salt from blood, from sweat, from tears, it hits the dark ashy earth all the same and Noure calls to it in a harsh whisper. Jagged words clear only because they're spoken a hair's breadth from the soil. A plea or perhaps a practice of absolution.

What rises isn't what they wanted -how could it be, what could have been enough- the eerie cold glow of shadows and raw magic pulse green and grey where Noure dares their glance. White hair framing the soil, a spirit's bare feet outlined in the ash.

If Noure breaks then it isn't because their power was too much for them. Not because the dead are gone and only shades can take their place. Not because the earth is still warm with the fire that carried the flesh and blood of their beloved into the heavens where they cannot follow.

Not even because Noure isn't enough now and hadn't been enough then.

No, no if they break at all it is because there is no going back. What else is left to do when the earth is salted with everything left inside and even the most desperate of prayers can't be answered. Will a hollow thing break when it finally hits solid ground or was it broken from the drop, so high in the air so perfectly whole.

Blood mixes with tears and the whispers turn to coarse shouts. To soundless sobs.