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there’s amicable breakups and then there’s these, as The All-American Rejects can tell you
(art credit: @tevivinter for bringing this idea to life)
More Solavellan smut, because you all love it, babe!
Solavellan, “Healthy Disagreements” (AO3) [Explicit]
Solas was in his study, set on the lowest floor of the library rotunda that was adjacent to the main hall in Skyhold, poring over some sketches he’d made of the frescoes he’d observed at that lost temple of Dirthamen which he, Rivka, and the others had explored not a week past following his research into the glyphs they’d found amongst scattered ruins in the Exalted Plains whilst they were clearing out the Freemen there.
He in particular was fascinated by the fact that many of the murals had in fact been not of Dirthamen but of Falon’Din, that guardian and friend of the dead. He let himself have a smirk, marvelling that the old secret-keeper would choose to hide himself behind another’s guise, even unto the very end…and beyond. He looked over their form and design carefully, looking for any variations from what he knew Falon’Din normally looked like to see if the God of Secrets’ handiwork was visible.
Casting a gaze at the oil lamp on his table, he idly wondered how long he’d been at work. Certainly it was long past the time where more sensible men retired to their quarters. But then again, he hardly felt like dreaming tonight, and Rivka had assured him, in fact multiple times, that neither he nor she would be needed for much important the next day.
So focused was he upon his task that he barely noticed her coming in, only glancing up to acknowledge Rivka’s presence as he heard the door closing behind her.
Looking back down at his sketches, he said, “Evening, vhenan. Or is it morning? I hadn’t thought you’d be up at this unearthly hour, to be quite honest. I…”
Slamming her palms on the table, Rivka violently interrupted him, saying, “It’s an hour past midnight, Solas, and I well know that because I’ve been sitting around for a full hour in my room waiting for you to come up.”
Barely even reacting to the jolt which had shaken his desk and merely noting that the oil lamp hadn’t been upset, Solas said, giving a cursory look to Rivka, “Ah, yes! Pardon me, vhenan, but I was so caught on a detail I found in my last sketch that—”
“Dread Wolf take your sketches and your murals!”, Rivka shouted, yanking them off the desk and scattering them on the floor, where they gently fluttered to land around her slippered feet. “And the least you could do is look at me when you talk to me, as well!”
Having no choice but to do so, Solas turned his gaze upwards at Rivka, noting that her usually coiffed hair was now hanging in strands around her face, and that she didn’t seem to be wearing much beyond a silken robe with a Chantry insignia on it and her slippers.
Finally, he asked, “Forgive me, Rivka. Is there something I have done to warrant…”
“I don’t think I will, and I think you have, or more accurately haven’t, Solas,” she scolded. “When I ask you to come up to my quarters for a…private meeting…I expect you to at least tell me if you’re not going to beforehand instead of wasting my time.”
Looking more closely at her, Solas noted that despite the chill of the night and her rather scant attire, she was flushed partly with anger and partly with…something else.
Comprehending some of the subtext, he said, “I am truly sorry, Rivka. I must still have failed to grasp your meaning when you did say that, and I swear that I was far too engrossed with my work to note the passing of the hour.”
Walking around the table to draw herself up to him, Rivka said, “I’m not going to accept your apology, and I’m certainly not going to say sorry for knocking all your precious drawings to the floor either, seeing as you clearly care about them far more than you do me. So, are you going to do something about that?”
“Whatever do you mean?”, he asked innocently.
Rolling her eyes, she said, “Creators help me if you truly don’t get it, and may they help you if you’re just playing dumb. This is what I mean.”
Demonstrating her intent, she reached out for the back of Solas’ neck and head and pinned her lips to his, forcefully kissing him repeatedly and breaking away only to catch a breath.
“There,” she said. “That’s what I was expecting a full hour ago, in the comfort of my own room, and not in the chilly recesses of—”
She never finished her sentence as he now took the initiative, forcing her to seat upon the now-empty desk as he took his turn to land his own kisses upon her. Before she could lay back upon it or adjust her position, he grasped his beloved by her arms, his own eyes flashing lustfully.
“I think I am about to ‘do something about it’, as you’ve so nicely put it,” he hissed. “But before that, a word?”
“A word?”, Rivka asked, essentially thinking aloud before realising what he meant. “‘Ocularum’, then.”
His question was silently asked by the raise of an eyebrow.
“It’s the least sexy thing I know,” she explained. “Now, I suppose you’re going to take your anger out on me for scattering your beloved sketches?”
Answering her in husky breaths, he said, “And more. It’s remarkable—and distressing for your people as a whole—that you lived your entire life in a clan with essentially a dozen mothers and fathers and none of them taught you any manners.”
“Manners?”
“What sort of person petulantly storms into another’s study and throws their work to the ground when they think they’re not being given enough attention?”, he asked. “Imagine the insolence were you to do that anywhere else, to anyone else!”
Locking her gaze into his, she breathily said, “Ooh, say ‘insolence’ again, Solas. I like the sound of the word on your lips.”
“Amongst so many things about them. Time to work this insolence out of your system then, vhenan,” he growled, next commanding, “Turn around.”
Looking at Solas with a blank expression, Rivka saw his turn from impatience to offence.
“Did you not hear me, Rivka?”, he said. “Turn around and put your hands on the table. If I have to ask again I can’t promise you I’ll do so patiently.”
Nodding meekly, she turned to face the table and gently placed her palms on the tabletop. With a sudden jerk, one hand on the small of her back and another at her nape, Solas forced her down on the table, her nipples squashing against her breasts as her cheek firmly landed on it too. The bottom of her robe hiked up a little as she bent forward, and she felt a chill draught around her thighs, shivering as she did so.
Solas then glided along the insides of her legs with his knuckles, curving away from her quim to round her buttocks as he gathered the loose end of her robe, bunching its folds and gathering them around her waist, exposing her to the elements and noting with some amusement that firstly, she had indeed not been wearing anything under that robe, and next that she was already slick with anticipation.
Rivka gasped as he spread her arousal along the length of her folds with his fingertips, moaning as the momentary contact faded just as soon as he’d made it.
“Shush,” he said. “This is meant to be a reprimand, not an outlet for your lasciviousness. Lie still whilst I administer some corrections.”
“Corrections?” was all she was able to manage as she thought about what he meant before she felt the sudden sting of his palm on her buttock, releasing a loud groan of pleasure as its coursed through her body.
“Enough!”, he cried, smacking the other one in an attempt to silence her but only making her moan even louder, alternating between the two savagely.
Gasping shallowly, Rivka felt her slick running down her thigh, glancing upwards and hoping nobody was watching or hearing this depraved scene.
“You really are something else,” he said, “Wantonly crying out so that everybody in this rotunda can hear your arousal. I wonder if…”
She’d barely even started pondering his trailed-off sentence before the next slap struck her full on her lips, causing her to quiver in pleasure, with the next one and the following one after that making her buck against the empty air where Solas’ palm had been, and she felt herself on the brink of coming when he reached out and grabbed her entire mound with his hand, closing her lips against each other.
What pleasure there was turned to pain as he gripped it tighter, the force of his fingertips overriding any urge or ability for her to come there and then, and she felt tears from both agony and joy run down her face as he leant over her back, whispering into her ear.
“Don’t presume to come now, not without permission. Do so and I’ll leave your hands bound to this table and bring you to the edge of orgasm again and again, unable to relieve yourself until I decide you’re worthy of doing so,” he promised, asking, “Do you understand me, vhenan?”
She nodded as best she could, her cheek scraping a little as she did so against the table.
“Good,” he said, seemingly satisfied with that. After some silence, she heard some noises behind her, like cloth falling from a place, then the sound of Solas’ footsteps again.
“I do wonder now,” she heard him ponder, “If you’ve ever given this over to anyone.”
At this, she felt what had to be the tip of his phallus briefly touch…briefly touch her rear end? No! Not there! She shook violently against the notion, feeling fresh tears run down her face as she did so.
“Shush,” he said gently. “Calm yourself. I was merely asking. And…here?”
Warmth pulsed through her body as he made contact with her pussy, and she nodded enthusiastically, biting her lip to restrain herself from moaning lustfully at the touch’s promise.
Her self-control was brought to the edge of her limits as she felt his tip slide in whilst his thumbs sought out the little dimples on the back of her waistline and his fingers grasped the skin around her hips, rolling the flesh of her curves between them. Just as she sensed all those touches on her skin, his shaft fully slid into her, Rivka groaning as he did so, with his grip on her hips tightening as he pumped in and out of her body.
Although not quite as long and as…girthy…as she’d imagined or fantasised, it was hitting all the right spots, the head in particular coming to rest against a tight bundle of nerves that caused her to gasp as he slowly, agonisingly, massaged it with his cock. She tried to work her pussy around him to stimulate that spot, but that was only met with anger, as he withdrew his penis entirely, leaving her aching for him to thrust it in again.
“Are simple instructions beyond you, Rivka?”, he hissed, reaching for her wrists one at a time and pinning them to the small of her back with one hand as he slid back into her, stating, “I’ll be taking my pleasure first before you’re allowed to do anything. Understood?”
She nodded again, trying to relax and stand still despite the myriad of sensations coursing through her as he resumed fucking her over his worktable, the obscene sounds of slapping skin echoing through the tower. His pace, steady at first, became more and more fervent, only slowing down long enough for him to lean over to her ear again, shifting his body weight on her wrists as his grip tightened to a vice.
“I think I’m about to reach…that point,” he growled, asking, “Are you ready as well?”
She nodded, and started quivering and trembling impatiently under and around him as the wait for the promise in his words dragged on, until he reached under her chin with his free hand, tilting her head up at him so he could make sure she saw his stern glare. Rivka slowed her breath, exhaling fully as she attempted to calm down. As Solas released her chin, she also felt his grip around her wrists vanish.
“Hands on the table again, vhenan,” Solas ordered, further commanding, “Let’s not have any distractions, shall we?”
Grasping her hips again, he ploughed into her savagely, grunting and groaning in ancient elvhen as he brought himself to his climax, flushing her insides with his release. Rivka heard his voice, as though from a vast distance, saying, “Now, vhenan. Be with me here and now.”
The floodgates tore open there and then, as she screamed to the high heavens, her palms digging into the table as she ignored the last of his commands, slamming her rear into his hips to drive herself over the top, feeling her own fluids flood her pussy, mixing with his as they dripped out of her and along her thighs, trickling downwards to stain her slippers and, ultimately, the floor of Solas’ study.
Rivka flopped bonelessly onto the surface of his desk, breathing hard and quivering with the aftershocks of her orgasm, even as she felt him withdraw at last, the final strands connecting the two breaking in the middle and falling upon the ground.
Long moments passed before, in the blink of an eye, she found herself transported back into her own bed, all offending fluids cleaned up, and naked under her sheets. Rivka gasped, sitting up and turning around to find Solas next to her under the bedcovers, also similarly undressed.
Smiling, he asked her, “Was that everything you expected it to be?”
Her cheeks flushed, Rivka nodded wordlessly as she slowly regained her composure, finally managing to answer, “Yes. I…didn’t know if it’d all work out but…you were so commanding, and it felt so right.”
“I’m glad you appreciated it,” he said, asking, “Although I do wonder if all of your fantasies are this…vivid?”
“What do you mean?”, she asked, it apparently being her turn.
“Simply that there are few whom I have known or met would so willingly…let themselves be used, as such,” he said.
Rivka asked in equal parts hesitance and defensiveness, “You’re not judging me, are you?”
“Not in the least,” Solas answered quickly. “I just was curious as to whether your own romances in the physical world ever took such turns as our times together here have.”
She shook her head, explaining, “No, the last time I was…with someone…was shortly before the Conclave. We’d both been dispatched by our clan to attend the Conclave, and we both knew it’d be the last time we’d see each other for a while, if at all. He was a nice lad, and we spent the night beforehand gently and tenderly.”
“I see,” he said, then coming to a realisation. “If you were both at the Conclave then…”
Rivka nodded her head slowly and sadly, confirming his deductions. “Ismael didn’t make it. Neither did his brother Esaias.”
“I’m so sorry to hear that,” Solas said. “Forgive me for dredging that pain up again.”
She now shook her head curtly. “It’s alright. It hurts less nowadays. But you’re right, I think. I’m only this…adventurous…in the Fade. I don’t know if it’s the Fade itself inducing this, or…”
“…your thoughts about me?”, he asked.
“You know me too well,” Rivka said with a laugh. “Still, thanks for bringing me somewhere warmer and cozier after all of that. Have we time to just…lie here a while?”
Solas smiled, saying, “We have all the time we want or need, vhenan. Come over here.”
Taking him up on his invitation, Rivka slid down the bed and rolled over until she was close enough to put her arms around him, and him hers, burying her face in her shoulder and relaxing into his body as the minutes before the sunrise, and the inevitable return to their responsibilities in the daytime, slowed to eternity.
-
@dadrunkwriting
okay lets do this *cracks fingers* Solavellan: oral sex, where they can be overheard and with (optionally) sex pollen
Merry Xmas! Have some filthy, filthy, filth.
Solavellan, “Priapic Venom” (AO3) [Explicit]
“Excellent,” Solas remarked as he observed the elven artifact pulse with the same green energy which emanated from Rivka’s palm. “That should strengthen the Veil here for the time being.”
Clapping imaginary dust from her hands, Rivka said, “I think that’s well enough for one day. I don’t know about you, Solas, but I’ve honestly had it with this wet, spider-infested cave.”
“I concur entirely,” he said, turning away from the waterfall and heading towards the cave’s mouth. “It’ll be pleasant to return to camp and warm up a little by the fires—urk!!
That interruption of the usually unflappable Solas’ exposition had been caused by a vicious bite by one of those spiders which Rivka had been complaining about just now. He and Rivka sprung into action, making short work of the pest and leading it to explode in a mass of viscera and green blood some few moments later.
Wiping some off the gore off her armour, Rivka commented, “Speak of the Dread Wolf and he turns up. Now I’m going to have to wash spider guts off my arm…”
Her voice trailed off as she turned around to see Solas lying on the ground, weakly propping his back up against one of the columns of flowstone in the middle of the cave. He looked even paler than usual, and looked as limp as a puppet with its strings strewn on a floor…with one notable exception, of which Rivka was actively avoiding catching an eyeful as she looked up at him concernedly.
“Vhenan,” he croaked, “I can’t feel my arms.”
“I think I know where all the blood went to,” Rivka said, letting herself finally observe the considerable bulge in his trousers.
“Dear me,” Solas muttered, finally noticing his predicament.
Rivka scrambled to fish an elfroot potion from her belt, uncorking it and dribbling its contents into Solas’ mouth, before stripping her gloves off, followed by the outer layers of her armour.
“What are you—?”, he asked, growing more concerned with every article of clothing she was removing.
“You must have encountered this in one of the more lurid dreams you experienced whilst exploring the Fade,” she explained. “It certainly was mandatory education in my clan, although to be frank…I never expected to ever use this knowledge in my lifetime.”
“Of course I recognise a paralytic poison, vhenan, but what do you mean?”
“This is no ordinary paralytic agent, Solas,” Rivka explained, now completely bare above her beltline except for her undershirt. “You’ve just been bitten with priapic venom.”
Solas’ eyes widened as he spluttered, “Priapic…venom…?”
Rivka nodded gravely. “Creators know what sick purpose the Forgotten Ones had in mind when they imbued animals with the stuff—probably Anaris’ doing, the old pervert—and in other forms it’s a mild aphrodisiac, but right now you’ve been poisoned, and rather sadistically at that.”
“Are you saying that this priapic venom is causing not just my paralysis but…”
“Quite so,” Rivka said. “Who knows how many hunters have met a disastrous and humiliating end thanks to this stuff, unable to relieve themselves to the last.”
“That brings me back to my original question,” Solas said, following Rivka’s gaze to his own belt. “What are you planning to do, vhenan?”
Raising an eyebrow as she reached for another vial, Rivka said, “It’s quite simple. I’m going to relieve you.”
Quivering in outrage as much as his deadened muscles could manage, he protested, “I absolutely refuse! I shouldn’t…you shouldn’t…”
“Solas,” Rivka said sternly. “If this isn’t taken care of, your penis may well be defective for the rest of your life.”
“Nevertheless, I won’t let you give yourself to me, not in these circumstances of all things.”
Guiding Solas to her trousers, which were still belted and buttoned up, she said, “I think you need to relax a little, Solas. I wasn’t about to have a tryst with you in this dank, wet, cave.”
“Then what…?”, Solas asked blearily.
Looking up at him as she squatted back in front of him, Rivka said, “I’m simply going to perform the remedy, unless of course you’d prefer me to summon the nurse from the campsite…?”
Turning the options over in his head and figuring the latter was more mortifying than the former, Solas finally conceded, “Very well, do as you wish.”
“You make it sound so romantic,” Rivka said, rolling her eyes.
Pulling his trousers and smalls down, revealing a truly torturous erection, and pouring a vial of Prophet’s Laurel oil over her hands, spreading the lotion on her palms once it was exposed to the chill air. Finally taking a good look at it, Rivka blinked as she appreciated its size. It was…considerably respectable, easily the length of her hand from palm base to fingertip, and wide enough to look proportionate and not, uh, skinny.
Not that she’d seen all that many penises in her life, but she knew enough to recognise one that would cause considerable envy. Maybe she should be spending less time staring at it and, well, doing the necessary treatment.
Breathing on her palms to make sure she wasn’t about to chill Solas with her touch, Rivka got to work, wrapping it with her right hand and slowly pumping it. Blood started rising in Solas’ pale cheeks, which at least was some kind of indication that she was doing it right. Drawing upon her limited experience, she tried a kind of rotating motion at its base with her left hand, then deciding that it wasn’t really working, she settled on massaging his balls.
Hearing a deep groan rise from Solas’ breast, she looked up at him teasingly, asking, “Enjoying ourselves, are we?”
-
Continued on AO3, because this is 2000+ words about Rivka jerking Solas off and blowing him too. See you there!
@dadrunkwriting
"OC telling LI about their past" with a pairing of your choice for DWC? :D
Here you go, enjoy! Hopefully!
Solavellan, “Reminisces and Fables” (AO3)
Rivka stood over the map in the meeting room, with all its little counters and symbols, in particular the two which were lain over Redcliffe Castle, and the other on Therinfal Redoubt. As she looked from one to the other, deciding which course of action to take as concerned closing the Breach, she felt her fingertips stroke the long scar running down her temple, ending shortly above her right eyebrow.
So deeply engrossed in thought was she that she hadn’t heard Solas walk in, only noticing his presence when he spoke.
“Forgive me for interrupting,” he said, “But you appear as though you might need some advice, or simply to talk about your impending decision.”
“Solas,” she said warmly, looking up to greet him, “I suppose I do. Incidentally, just how long have you been standing there, watching me stare at tokens?”
“Not very,” he answered, “Merely long enough to note your tic.”
“My tic?”, Rivka asked.
“Merely that whenever you are deep in thought, you touch your right temple, and when the problem is of a specific nature, you run your finger along it,” he explained.
Rivka crossed her arms, asking, “Interesting. How often do you look at my right temple and my fingertips, Solas?”
Some colour rising in his cheeks, he defended himself, saying, “Only…often enough to notice that it is a habit of yours. May I venture a guess, seeing as that is hardly a fresh one ascribable to your encounter with the Breach, or our exploits since then?”
“You hardly need to, Solas,” Rivka said. “I must’ve forgotten who I told it to before, but I simply fell on a riverbank whilst gathering herbs one day—”
Solas shook his head and waved his hand dismissively. “A just-so story, and one that pins no responsibility onto anybody except your own childish clumsiness. If you’d allow me to give my opinion…”
Her eyes flashing with anger, Rivka turned to fully face Solas and closed the distance with him, spitting, “I beg your pardon?”
“Its origin is one of your most formative memories, Rivka,” he explained, “Which guides your thoughts so strongly that I could not help but catch glimpses in your restless sleep those few days after your recovery from the initial attempt to close the Breach.”
“You dare—”
“I did not wish to pry, but I could not simply stand here and accept the sanitised version of your story,” Solas said, standing firm. “I can guess from how you touch your temple whenever Ser Rutherford enters your vision or when you consider even the possibility of going to Therinfal Redoubt, or you might wish to save some time by clarifying its meaning.”
Her heart still thundering with rage, Rivka collected herself with several deep breaths, before saying, “Fine. It seems to me that keeping secrets from you is a pointless exercise. Just know that this anecdote has never travelled beyond my clan before.”
“I understand, and I apologise for asking you this so forcefully. I merely thought that vocalising your thoughts might help you resolve your current dilemma.”
Sighing, Rivka sat back on the table. “I don’t know, maybe you’re right. Where to begin…? Well, I think I’ve mentioned before how as a First-in-training I was basically tending to the children, right?”
“Yes, hence your skill at telling the old fables.”
“Yeah, that,” Rivka said. “Once, about five years ago, I was trying to keep them occupied whilst the clan was out hunting when Templars from a nearby city came on a raid, hunting apostates or maleficars or whatever the shems call mages they don’t like. I told the children to run for the hills whilst I occupied one of them. He didn’t like that at all, and tried to kill me, spitting every curse he knew as he tried to carve me in two.”
Solas cast his eyes to the ground, saying, “Forgive me. I sensed the fear and pain in your memories of that scar, but hardly knew…”
Rivka shook her head. “It’s alright. It was a long time ago, and I suppose I’m glad I can finally tell someone here about it before getting corrected on how they must have been exceptions, or particularly ignorant, or whatever. I was still very raw as a mage back then, and could only put up a barrier a couple of times before he got in range, and we tumbled over the edge of a riverbank—that much is true about the version I tell people—and that’s when I struck my head against a rock.”
“I’m so sorry,” Solas muttered.
“It’s not as though you were him, Solas,” she said, continuing, “When I came to, I was being forced underwater, with my face up, thankfully. He was trying to drown me, probably while he was searching for his sword to finish the deed, but that didn’t last long at all—thank the Creators. The hunters from my clan had returned, and one of them got an arrow through his neck, and another one killed him. As that Templar fell down and I got my breath back, his helmet came off and I saw his face.”
“Oh?”, he asked, wondering what that detail’s significance was.
Rivka choked, holding back tears, before finishing, “He couldn’t have been a few years older than I was. He was barely a man, and whatever Circle he reported to had turned him into a zealous mage-killer—I don’t think they taught him the epithets, but at least most of the people spewing them aren’t killers. I want to tell that story to everyone I meet who thinks that the Templars can go back to doing good. It’s not even as though I harbour any resentment for Cullen in particular, I just hear it the most from him.”
Sighing empathetically, Solas stepped closer to her, saying, “You can imagine with the life I’ve eked out for myself that close encounters with Templars are no stranger to me either, although my experiences are perhaps not as vivid or perilous as yours.”
Looking up at him as she wiped her eyes dry, Rivka said, “Thank you. You were right, Solas. It did feel good to get that off my chest.”
“And you are truly remarkable,” he said in return.
“What do you mean?”
Stroking the underside of his lip, he said, “The man was trying to murder you, and to this day you still feel sorry for his life…and his death. That takes a compassion scarce few people in this world have.”
“I think you give me too much credit,” she said. “It just seemed like such a waste. In another world he could have been here, at Haven…or maybe one of the hundreds we’ve killed in the Hinterlands…or in Therinfal right now. I don’t want to imagine, sometimes.”
“At any rate, this goes a long way in explaining your reluctance,” Solas said.
“That’s what I was afraid of,” Rivka said, “Am I allowing my own personal experience to colour my judgement like this? Maybe Cullen’s got a point, but maybe he doesn’t.”
Thinking hard, Solas said, “Perhaps I might be able to help you there a little, with a story of my own.”
Perking up, Rivka asked, “Oh? What would that be?”
“Well, a parable told of Fen’Harel at any rate,” he said, smirking, “Who seems to be fast becoming your favourite stock villain.”
“I didn’t know you paid those fables much heed,” Rivka said, her curiosity piqued.
“They serve their purpose,” Solas said, “As do all stories, in their own way. Forgive me if my retelling isn’t quite as entertaining as yours are.”
“I’m sure you’ll manage,” she said with a smile.
“Very well,” he began,
“The Dread Wolf had been feasting well upon a flock of august rams, but to his regret, he swallowed one’s remains rather too quickly and a small bone became caught in his throat. He was in pain and discomfort, being unable to eat or drink, and went from animal to animal to help his suffering, but they simply laughed and left him to his plight.
“Finally there was a heron by a riverbank, who asked him to promise her a reward should she help him, and he readily agreed, his pain being so onerous that he would do anything to alleviate it. She used her long beak and reached down his throat to fish the offending bone out, and having completed her task, turned to Fen’Harel and asked for her reward.
“Fen’Harel said to her, grinning with his teeth bared from ear to ear, ‘Your reward? Is it not enough reward that you have had your head between the jaws of the Dread Wolf and lived to tell the tale?’”
Rivka’s brows pinched towards each other, as she said, “I think I’ve heard that one before. Is it not the moral of the story that the heron’s being greedy for what should ultimately be an act of charity?”
Solas clasped his hands, leaning by his side on the table. “That certainly is a valid interpretation. But consider this other one: The powerful have no reason to reward the weak for their help with such inconveniences, terrible as they may be, once it is lifted and their power is restored.”
Casting her gaze at the marker which lay atop the Templar stronghold on the map, she asked, “Are you likening the Templars to the Dread Wolf then?”
“Hardly,” Solas said casually. “Merely that there is no guarantee that there will not be another Templar like your assailant, nor an elf like you at his mercy, ten or even twenty years down the road, regardless of what course of action you choose.”
“Is your opinion of them that low?”, she asked.
“Low?”, he retorted. “I think that’s positively optimistic. It appears, however, that by dint of your mark that the decision falls to you and who can help seal the Breach more effectively…well, I must have taken up far too much of your time by now.”
“Not at all,” she said, returning to his gaze. “Thank you, Solas. For hearing me out, and for your advice. I think I know what to do.”
“I’m very happy to hear that,” he said, departing the chantry.
Rivka turned back to the table, sweeping some of the tokens off it and peering at the one marking Redcliffe Castle with a new determination, making her decision.
@dadrunkwriting
One more for the Casswall road!
Blackwall/Cassandra, “Dressed to the Teeth, or Otherwise” (AO3) [Mature]
A Villa by the Winter Palace
“For the final time, I won’t be need any moisturising or scented oils!”, Cassandra bellowed, storming out of the bathroom as the complaints of several elven servants were silenced by the door swinging shut behind her, narrowing the shaft of light from the garderobe into a thin strip, then nothingness.
Blackwall, who stood between her and the rest of the wing of the palace, coughed politely, asking, “Is this an inopportune moment, Cassandra?”
Clutching the towel which was the sole preserver of her modesty to her chest, she turned to him, having just realised Blackwall’s presence. He’d put on the heavily starched trousers they were expected to turn up in for the Winter Ball in a matter of hours, and nothing else.
“What do you think, Blackwall?”, she hissed, actively avoiding sizing up his bare, broad, chest to look him in the eye, only to see his gaze darting around the hallway.
“Well, I…”
“Oh, for the Maker’s sake, Blackwall,” she said, “Don’t pretend as though this is your first time seeing a woman dressed so. It certainly isn’t mine seeing a man shirtless.”
“Right,” he said, his gaze moving to her face. “I was just, ah, surprised.”
“Undoubtedly. What were you doing out in the corridor, at any rate?”, she asked inquisitively.
“To be perfectly frank,” he answered, “It was your protests coming from the bathroom which got my alert. I was half concerned that the Venatori assassin had already struck.”
“How very droll. Wait, is that why you’ve got a poker in your hand?”, Cassandra asked, looking down at his weapon arm.
Scratching the back of his head with his other hand, Blackwall said as he followed her gaze, “That would indeed be the case. Well, seeing as it happens to be a grievance of a much less deadly nature, I’ll let you go your w—”
Cassandra interrupted him, saying, “Wait. Just stay here awhile. Maybe that’ll be enough to deter them from following me with all their damned bathing lotions and perfumed oils…”
She trailed off, having lingered by the doorway enough to notice the scent hanging in the air around her companion.
Finally, she asked him, “You let them put one of those balms on you?”
“…it smelled pleasant,” he defended himself.
“I certainly hope you’re not letting our Lady Ambassador get to you with the pressing need to play the Orlesians’ frivolous games, Blackwall,” she said. “I’d assumed that you had as little time for this pageantry as I did.”
“You’re not wrong there. Still, it’s nice enough to get a decent bath when I can get the opportunity. They’re far and few between on the road as Warden, and I’ve certainly never had one in a palace, mind.”
Turning it over in her head, Cassandra conceded, “I suppose you’re right. Still, I must admit that this is something of a new side from the man who sleeps in a barn.”
“I confess that your protestations are equally surprising, Cassandra,” he said, asking, “Surely growing up so close to the royal court at Nevarra meant that all this sort of thing would be second nature to you, or at least familiar.”
Sighing, she said, “You’re not wrong. Maybe that is why I despise it so—I haven’t had to return to this sort of preening and dressage for years, not even as the Divine’s Right Hand. I had forgotten that this would be a luxury and not a nuisance for many of us. Perhaps I should return to their ministrations lest your perfume overpower my soap’s scent.”
Blackwall laughed warmly. “And perhaps you should let them restyle your hair whilst you’re there, as refreshing as it is to see it down at last. I always did wonder what it’d look like minus that braid.”
“Always?”, Cassandra asked, tilting her head.
“Curiosity, nothing more,” he said carelessly, rapidly changing the subject. “I do hope our Inquisitor is comfortable, though, never having had the privilege or the freedom to get bathed by others quite like this.”
“And by elven maidservants, no less,” Cassandra mused. “It is easy to forget that this palace lies upon the last of their great cities at times, for us anyway. I doubt it’s ever left her mind ever since we received the Grand Duke’s invitation. On the other hand, Solas has seemed more imperious than ever since getting here.”
“Hm. Perhaps he tapped into the dreams of some long-forgotten king, adored by thousands of his subjects and hated by the backstabbers of his court, to get into character,” Blackwall theorised. “That, or he expects the world to bend to him regardless of where he goes.”
Cassandra let a smile cross a face. “Who knows? Perhaps both are true. Very well, I shall return to that blasted garderobe to let them do what they will. Maybe we’ll present a nice enough picture for Josephine to relax a little.”
“We could be the picture of the next Age’s styles and she’d still be fretting,” Blackwall chuckled. “Still, stay any longer out here and you may well catch a chill, and ruin the beautifully embroidered handkerchiefs she’d made for us by sneezing all over them.”
“It’s almost charming when you worry about me,” Cassandra said, “Go on, then, and put the rest of your uniform, Blackwall. I’ll see you in the main hall along with Rivka and Solas.”
With that, she was gone, leaving Blackwall to gaze after her as she turned back round to finish her bath, absentmindedly noting her bare back and its muscled form, marked but far from marred by the small scatter of scars upon it, before he retreated to his quarters.
Heading back towards the door she’d almost slammed into an elven servant, Cassandra, too, idly wondered what her companion would look like in the fresh, if gaudy, uniform that had been picked out for the ball. Certainly, he’d be filling it out rather nicely, if nothing else.
-
@dadrunkwriting
“That’s how the story goes.” For Solavellan?
Solavellan, “The Halla Princess” (AO3)
“Finally, Fen’Harel bit off his own tail, and away he fled,” Rivka recited with all the theatricality the tale warranted, “And ever since, the Dread Wolf thinks twice about playing his tricks when dogs are on guard.”
The elven children in Haven laughed and clapped as she concluded her story. From where they were sitting around her on whichever boxes and barrels they could find, arranged in a circle around the hearth which Varric normally hung around, they began to disperse and head to the various odd jobs which they’d been assigned to around the Inquisition camp.
Rivka watched them leave with a smile on her face as she warmed her palms, before noticing someone in the corner of her vision descend the stairs on her left. It was her fellow elven mage Solas, using his staff in the manner of a hiking pole.
“Forgive me if I’m intruding,” he said, approaching the fire, “But I overheard the end of your tale, and I simply had some questions.”
Gesturing to one of the taller crates, Rivka said, “Ask away, although I’m now suspecting that you’re going to correct me on the details.”
“Not at all,” Solas said, shaking his head with a chuckle. “It merely seemed to me that you were very comfortable telling those stories.”
Feeling herself blush a little, Rivka answered, “Well, that’s logical enough. Back when I was in training to be the First of my clan, one of the duties I had was to take care of those too young to help with tasks, or even those who were between their errands, and since one of my other duties was remembering all the tales I thought I’d substitute in for the hahrens.”
Nodding as he understood, he said. “Your practice does you credit, lethallan. That was a tale well-told.”
Glancing away from the fire to him, Rivka said glibly, “But not well-composed? Perhaps there was something in the Fade that you saw which…”
Laughing, he said, “You think too much and too little of me at once. That was a children’s story, was it not? Every tale needs a villain, after all. But tell me, do you know any that have Fen’harel using his cunning?”
Thinking for a while, Rivka said, “I think I do, but surely you’ve better things to do than sit by a dying fireside and listen to old stories, not when you could see them for yourself?”
“Humour me, Rivka,” Solas said. “Besides, there is scarce little for inconvenient apostate mages to do whilst we wait for Lady Nightingale’s little messengers to return. Unless you’d rather scrounge around for ores and prospective logging sites in today’s chill…?”
Reflexively shivering, Rivka said, “I guess not. Have you heard of the Tale of the Slow Arrow, Solas?”
“I might have, but I’d like to hear your take on it,” he answered.
She began her story, narrating how a great beast was terrorising a village, with its inhabitants begging Fen’Harel to intercede by slaying the beast. Rivka continued by explaining that Fen’Harel’s only answer was to loose an arrow into the sky, letting the beast kill and eat the elders, the men and the women, who cursed his name as they died, and concluded that the arrow fell from the sky, killing the beast in a single stroke, before it was able to eat the children, who despite their grave losses still gave him thanks and offerings.
Turning to her, Solas asked, “What do you think the moral of that story was?”
Rivka shook her head, saying, “I rarely told that one, mainly because the adults didn’t want me telling their children they could die so horribly, so I don’t really know. If Fen’harel’s arrow was so powerful why didn’t he shoot the beast on sight? If he knew the beast would be there why didn’t he tell the adults to hide when it came? We only have fragments of stories, and we’re supposed to make sense of them all.”
“Perhaps Fen’Harel’s arrow was powerful but not himself,” Solas thought aloud, “and perhaps the beast would not have been positioned where it was, were the beast to find the village empty. It might have been that Fen’Harel reckoned that there was to be a cost either way, and saved the children such that the village might have a future.”
“A future where they owed that great debt to the Dread Wolf, doubtless,” Rivka said. “Still, that’s hard to argue with, I suppose.”
“Have you any which have less grim endings, at any rate?” Solas asked. “Happy endings seem to be rare in our times.”
Rivka giggled, saying, “You’re like a child, Solas!”
“I beg your pardon?”
“They never let me stop at just the one story, and they always wanted the ones with happy endings, too,” she answered. “But all right, Solas, I’ll tell you one of my favourite ones then.”
“I’m privileged,” he said. “Which one is it?”
Rivka looked into the flames, concentrating. “It’s the one called ‘The Halla Princess’.”
“This sounds good already. A Dalish princess?”
“Well, it’s said to be set in ancient Arlathan,” Rivka said, “Where the elves had their own kingdoms and their own great chiefs, and their sons and daughters would be betrothed to each other just like the humans and dwarves do these days.”
“That seems fair,” he said. “Ancient memories suggest—”
“With all due respect, Solas,” Rivka said, “Do you want to hear the story, or not?”
Raising his palms in surrender, he said, “Very well, I shan’t interrupt with historical context again.”
“Good,” she said, continuing,
“There was a princess born to a great noble house, whose birth was attended by all the creatures of land and sea save for the spider, who cursed the Princess Tasallan to turn into a halla the instant she came in contact with sunlight.
“Her parents were very ingenious in avoiding that very fate, all the way till she came of age and suitors were seeking out brides. Her painting was said to be so beautiful that a handsome prince broke off an engagement with another princess, Boranehn, the instant he saw it. Boranehn was absolutely furious, and sought out the help of the spider to punish him—even though she said he was free to make his choice, she was still offended.
“The opportunity came when she was on the way to his castle, where the spider, clinging on to Princess Tasallan’s carriage, called upon the powers of Forgotten Ones first to destroy her carriage with a mighty storm, then when she was exposed, to part the clouds instantly to expose her to the sun. It worked, and Princess Tasallan was transformed into a halla, running off into the woods whilst the Forgotten Ones made Boranehn look like Tasallan, and she proceeded to the wedding, the prince unawares.
“However, the spider and the Forgotten Ones had made a terrible mistake when they interceded on Boranehn’s behalf, for the sudden storm and sunlight had killed many inhabitants of the woodland, even if none of the elves had lost their lives, and Mythal was incensed. First, she dispelled the magic which Boranehn had used, and Boranehn fled when her deception was revealed to all, but not before spitefully boasting that the prince would never find Tasallan, and he would kill her long before he managed to lift her curse.
“The prince and all his men rode out of his castle, searching the lands of his realm high and low for Tasallan, but they never found her because she was in the form of a halla, one amongst hundreds that roamed his lands, and he eventually collapsed by a stream, utterly exhausted by his search for his bride-to-be. He slept fitfully, and eventually, Tasallan found him, and approached him as he rested under a tree.
“The spider had one last trick to play, clouding the prince’s vision such that it was not Tasallan, and not a halla which he saw when he woke up, but a massive wolf, its teeth bared, ready to pounce and strike down its prey. He readied his bow and loosed an arrow, and the spider laughed to himself as he witnessed the prince committing such an unforgivable transgression by not only killing his bride by accident, but also slaying a halla.
“But even as Ghilan'nain blocked the arrow which would have pierced Tasallan’s heart and reached out to smite the hapless prince for his error, Mythal stayed his hand, explaining that the prince had been led into delusion by the spider, whom she banished into the caves which saw no light. Their power, however, was insufficient to undo the curse which the Forgotten Ones had lain so many years ago, at least not in the daytime, so although the prince gratefully tended for the halla and kept it in his stables, he did not know that Tasallan woke up every night on the stable floor, nor did the stable hands bother to check at night.
“Mythal pleaded with Elgar’nan to intercede on Tasallan’s behalf, but he said he could not act unless the prince himself realised the halla’s true nature. To this end, Mythal clouded the mind of one of the stable boys, making him leave the door unlocked, and Tasallan, finding the gate open, went her way into the palace, where the prince’s guards attempted to chase her out until Elgar’nan stopped the moon in the sky to cover the sun, transforming it back into Tasallan before the prince’s eyes, and the two of them reunited.
“The two of them married and lived happily ever after, but where Boranehn and the spider fled, no one knows to this day, save that the spider’s offspring now lurks in caves, ready to prey on careless wanderers. And that’s how that tale ends.”
With that, Rivka expectantly turned to Solas to see what kind of reaction he’d have, be it bemusement or a barely-restrained correction of some minor point or other in her story. To her surprise, he expressed neither, simply staring out to the frozen lake outside Haven, eyes glistening in the brilliant shine coming off the snow which blanketed the scenery.
“Solas?”, Rivka asked, trying to rouse his attention.
Slowly realising she’d called his name, Solas turned to her, casually wiping his eyes dry. “Hm? Ah, yes. That was a wonderful tale, lethallan.”
“Really”, she retorted, crossing her arms. “It seems you hardly were paying attention right at the end there, if we’re being honest.”
Waving his hand in front of his face defensively, he said, “That is untrue. It…simply dredged up some emotions, old and very powerful, I had experienced of those closest to Mythal, and how they would have appreciated her love and care as your Princess Tasallan had. And Elgar’nan…”
Rivka leaned forward, unfolding her arms and setting them on her knees, asking interestedly, “What of him?”
Solas laughed sharply, saying, “Oh, nothing, really. I’m just astonished that old All-Father was so positively restrained there. Were it up to me I’d have smote the spider from all existence, myself.”
“Creators forbid, Solas,” Rivka said. “Where would we get all that silk otherwise?”
Shrugging, he conceded, “You may well have a point there. I suppose they were good for something after all. I don’t know about you, but I shall retire to my quarters. You’ve given me a great deal to think about with that tale, I must say.”
“Oh?”
“Old memories kept alive by the young…” he said, trailing off, before adding, “Imagine if they were still here to listen to what stories your ilk had to say about them these days. I imagine they’d be quite amused.”
“The way of our people is that we can only hope that they do somehow…somewhere,” Rivka concluded, hooding her eyes and glancing towards the unclouded sun hanging over them all, turning away to gather her things and leave for a warmer choice of locales along with him.
-
@dadrunkwriting
Continuing from a Casswall prompt about a “Almost Lost You” kiss, here’s the culmination of that stormy mix of emotions between the Inquisition’s two besotted warriors. And sex. Quite a fair bit of it.
Blackwall/Cassandra, “Reflections” (AO3) [Explicit]
Blackwall sat in his barn next to the stables, running a grindstone along the edge of his axe as he occasionally checked on his armour drying by the fire.
The entirety of the keep was bustling with activity late into the night, with sergeants barking orders at footsoldiers to check and double-check the kit they’d need for the arduous trek down the mountain path, and scouts on horseback thundering through the main gate, headed towards the bases in the Hinterlands and the Exalted Plains with the aim of mobilising the forces there for the great endeavour the Inquisition was about to launch.
There had been no good news from Hawke and Warden Loghain concerning Adamant Fortress—the corrupted Wardens were indeed holed up there in force, and while the citadel had been allowed to fall into disrepair, it still remained a formidable barrier to the Inquisition’s attempts to rid the Venatori saboteur’s influence over the Orlesian Wardens.
To this end, the Inquisition would besiege it and set an overwhelming army upon them, with the aim of opening a large enough breach in the walls to slip a small party through led by none less than the Herald of Andraste, where Rivka and some others, Hawke and Loghain included, would seek out and terminate Erimond’s command—with extreme prejudice. The perfumed coats and patterned masks of the Winter Palace had been one kind of danger. This was different, and far greater. Nothing else after the catastrophe at Haven could hope to match this in peril.
Like then, he’d be backing up Rivka and her fellow master over the rift’s magics, Solas, but unlike then he wouldn’t have Cassandra guarding his back and him hers (Cole instead replacing her), with her role being to command the rearguard and tie down any Wardens hoping to retreat into the keep and stymie Rivka’s task force. Exhaling hard as he gave his the blade of his axe some last few passes, he planted it onto the ground, handle-first with a grunt of frustration.
Thinking back to the journey home from the Western Approach, whose steps they’d be retracing en route to Adamant, he remembered how perturbed that strange spirit boy, Cole, had been about Erimond’s actions, amounting to the closest thing to total moral outrage he’d ever seen from the lad. Solas, too, seemed to have some special insight on the total insanity of their plan. Little surprise that Rivka had chosen them both for her task force.
And him? Were Warden Loghain to fall fighting his comrades, history would need another to have stood steadfast against Clarel’s mistakes, didn’t it? He stood up, looking upon the Warden armour they had fished from some chest or other whilst following their trail. He’d resisted wearing it up till recently. Nevertheless, with corruption rife in their ranks would it not fall to another Warden to ensure that their reputation emerged from this debacle intact? He found himself letting loose a bitter laugh, turning the irony over in his head.
“Forgive me,” a familiar voice sounded, “but am I interrupting?”
Recognising it, Blackwall drew in a sharp breath, turning around. “Not at all. But what are you doing here, Cassandra?”
It was indeed the Lady Seeker, whose gaze was partly cast to the ground as she approached him. She said, “I understand you have volunteered to join our Inquisitor in hunting down our latest Venatori foeman.”
He nodded. “Yes, that’s right. The Wardens have made a catastrophic error. A Warden needs to—”
She reached out, grasping his shoulder with gauntleted hand. “You don’t need to explain. It was not so long ago that I did much the same for the Seekers. I just…”
Drawing her further into the barn as he gently took her by the wrist of that same hand, he asked, “What is it? You seem troubled.”
Cassandra shook her head. “It’s just that from what the rest describe, Erimond’s hold over the Warden mages seems absolute. If the Calling is truly so powerful…”
Blackwall stepped forward, close enough to her that they standing head-to-head. “I’ve told you before, it seems that being distant from where Corypheus had made his attack on the minds of the Wardens means that it seems not affect me as much as them, or even Loghain—so far, anyway.”
“And yet still you throw yourself directly at the instrument of his will,” she said, not moving to look at him, but opening her eyes to stare upwards into his. At this range he saw them brimming with wetness, and his heart slowed for several beats.
Breaking away, he said, “You knew full well that whatever had affected the Seekers could well have been present at Caer Oswin, Cassandra.”
“I’m…I’m aware,” she finally says, choking between breaths. “I…forgive me, I am letting my judgement here be clouded.”
“Clouded?”, he asked, closing the distance between them again.
Glaring at him with tears rolling down from her eyes in long streaks, she spat, “Don’t be fulsome, Blackwall. I would rather see you dead than turned into a…tool…of Corypheus, but above that I wish to…I wish not to lose you.”
“I also don’t wish to lose you, Cassandra,” he said, his heart growing heavier with every word. “But when we reach Adamant, there’s every possibility…”
Nodding as she wiped dry her cheekbones, she said, “You’re correct, of course. We shouldn’t pretend as though the business of the Inquisition isn’t perilous.”
Casting his gaze at his arms and armour, Blackwall said, “I can’t deny I’m worried for you, either. You and the Inquisition’s vanguard are going to be right in the thickest of it, between Erimond and the rest of the Wardens.”
“I’m well aware,” Cassandra said just as distractedly. “Neither of us are going to have it easy come the siege.”
“It won’t be easy,” Blackwall said, finding words to fill the space. “But I don’t think Rivka could’ve chosen anyone better to hold the line.”
He heard the faint echo of a laugh from her, before she said, “You always did know how to flatter me.”
“It’s hardly flattery if it’s the truth,” he said, smiling, before adding, “I must be taking up your valuable time. There’s a great deal to prepare tonight as it is.”
“No, not at all,” Cassandra said. “I think we’ve done enough drills for one night. There’ll be plenty of time down the mountain trail to remind the vanguard how to hold their line. I came down here…because I wished to.”
“You wished to?”, Blackwall said, the gears in his head turning achingly slowly from Cassandra’s perspective.
“Yes,” she simply said as she felt her eyes brimming with tears again. “Here, tonight, together with you.”
She reached forward, drawing him in for a deep kiss, then another, then another, clinging on to him as though letting go would mean losing him forever, until they both came up for air, his hands on her own shoulders firmly but slowly pushing them apart.
Blackwall looked into Cassandra’s eyes as she gasped for air, her chest rocking with each breath and anticipation—and concern—written on her face.
Finally, she managed a nervous, “No?”
Glancing at the stairs to the loft, he whispered into her ear, “Not here.”
-
[Continued on AO3, or it’d be far too long for one post]
@dadrunkwriting
This is my first self-prompted fic! I’m posting two today.
Blackwall/Cassandra, “Taking the Reins” (AO3)
Blackwall was seated by the fire in the barn, carefully tooling a chess piece.
Dorian had taken his frustration from losing five consecutive games to Cullen out on the board, setting some of them on fire and ripping one to shreds with necrotic energy. Although Josephine had promised to send someone to Val Royeaux to shop for a replacement set, the Warden had taken it upon himself to carve replacements until their envoy had returned.
Besides, since the Inquisitor had decided that she only needed the Iron Bull to hold the line as she explored some recently uncovered ruins in the Emerald Graves, he was getting bored out of his mind, having completed the rest of the tasks he needed to do for the day.
Accompanying Rivka were the self-designated elven expert, Solas, and in what he assumed to be a deliberate provocation of her apostate lover or at the very least a representative of an alternate perspective, the self-designated elven skeptic, Sera. This, along with Vivienne following their envoy to the Orlesian capital and Cole doing…whatever he was doing…left a scarce few of their companions back at Skyhold, including the Lady Seeker, who’d seemed to have been troubled by something ever since settling in.
Speaking of which, that definitely was her coming down the long stairs leading from the main keep. As he turned his attention back to the eyes of the miniature warrior he was working on in wood, he idly wondered what precisely she could be up to down in this courtyard; the surgeon’s tent was comfortingly empty, and it was hardly as though she did much in the way of shopping amongst the stalls which greeted new arrivals.
Looking back up, it seemed to him that she was heading directly to his barn. The breath caught slightly in his throat as he saw her approach him, then dissipated as she went past the barn to look at the stables, leaning on the fence with great consideration, then sighing in that way she usually did.
Putting down the chisel, Blackwall walked towards her, asking from behind, “Is there something in the stables you needed, Lady Seeker?”
Cassandra turned towards him, mildly surprised. “Ah! No, I do not think so, Warden Blackwall. Unless…”
“Unless?”, he asked inquisitively.
“Have you had much experience horse-riding?”, she asked, then shaking her head. “Of course you must have, being a squire in the Grand Tourney and excelling in it, then a Warden alone on the road. Forgive my foolishness.”
Blackwall chuckled slightly, saying, “No need to chastise yourself, Lady Seeker, but yes, I’ve been on the road for quite a fair bit. Surely you also must have needed to ride to wherever you needed for…Seeker business?”
Cassandra sighed deeply, looking distantly. “You would think so, but on the whole I much preferred following a carriage. There have been markedly few occasions where I needed to ride at length, and certainly not in battle. Animals do not tend to react well to uses of Seeker abilities.”
“I can imagine,” Blackwall mused. “I was always much better at the mêlée on foot, but I performed well enough on horseback to get as far as I did during the Grand Tourney. Is there a particular occasion which needs you to ride forth, Lady Seeker? I trust it isn’t an emergency?”
She turned around, sitting back on the fence as she looked in his direction again, noticing the sudden edge of concern in his voice. “Oh, nothing of the kind. Well, not a pressing one. I…have been receiving reports that some malefactors of the recent war are still at large and asked the Inquisitor to inform me if she came across intelligence concerning them.”
“To what end?”, Blackwall asked, filling in the brief silence.
Her gaze steeled. “To bring them to justice, of course. Their victims will never rest easy until they are found and made to pay for their crimes.”
He drew in a breath, responding, “Ah, of course.”
“You don’t approve?”, she asked.
“No, not at all. It’s a worthy creed,” he said carelessly. “But I fail to see what this has to do with my experience riding horses, to be perfectly honest.”
Staring into the distance, through the end walls of the stables, again, Cassandra explained, “I instructed Rivka to send word to me of such intelligence where she went, and I’ve just received Leliana’s raven with a message saying they’ve reached the Emerald Graves. I shall ride to join them upon further news.”
“And you’d be travelling yourself to join them should that happen,” Blackwall finished, comprehending the situation.
“Precisely,” Cassandra said. “However, I had failed to account for the fact that we are high up in the mountains, and I shall be responsible for taking myself and a steed down the mountain paths, and I haven’t had the time to familiarise myself with any of the horses that made it to Haven.”
“I see,” he said, nodding. “Undoubtedly Horsemaster Dennet can give you better instruction—”
“Don’t sell yourself short, Master Blackwall,” The old stablemaster said, leading a large pony from the stables. “I think even the stable boys could get Princess Mairyn here eating out of the Lady Seeker’s hand. Why don’t you give it a shot? Seems to me you’ve been doing nothing but whittling wood all day, anyway.”
Cassandra turned to him, glancing over the fence at the horse.
“With such a glowing testimonial, how can I refuse?”, Blackwall said dryly. “And this is the thanks I get for baling your hay when I’m not woodworking, Master Dennet.”
With a twinkle in his eye, Dennet remarked, “You’ll thank me later, lad. Meant to be reading the latest news from Seanna anyway. Wonder who’s been besting the circuit lately.”
As she approached the Dalish All-Bred, Cassandra asked, “Does it ever concern you that the Inquisition’s stablemaster also organises races on the side?”
“I can’t imagine why it would,” Blackwall said, crossing the fence. “Shall we see how you get on, Lady Seeker?”
Turning to him, she said, “Cassandra.”
“I beg your pardon?”, Blackwall asked.
“If you’re going to be judging my riding, I think you can save on the syllable and use my name, Warden Blackwall,” she said, sizing up the saddle and the stirrup on Princess Mairyn’s left side.
“I’ll thank you to do the same for mine…Cassandra,” Blackwall said, feeling her name roll off his tongue, and idly thinking he liked the sound of it.
Still sensing her smile curling her lip, she stood on the stirrup and, with an effort, mounted the pony, adjusting her seating and getting her to trot, then break out in a gallop after a while as she took the pony around the picket a couple of rounds, coming to a hard stop in front of Blackwall, reins tightly in her hand. She looked down at the Warden, who was scratching his beard mirthfully.
“Oh, out with it already,” she said, “What was so terrible?”
“Well,” Blackwall started, “You’re still in the saddle, so….”
Her eyes narrowing, she said, “Don’t make me kick you from over here, Blackwall.”
Raising his hands defensively, Blackwall said, “I was merely stating a fact, Lady Seek…Cassandra. But I think I do know why it is you prefer galloping to trotting or cantering, although you won’t be able to make poor Princess Mairyn gallop all the way down the Frostbacks.”
“And why is that?”, she asked.
“As it stands,” Blackwall explained, “You’re riding this poor pony hard by gripping her as tight as possible with your legs when she’s trotting and essentially holding on for dear life once she gets up to speed after you’ve kicked her in the sides to get there, and it’s not helped when you’ve got a death-grip on her reins.”
Cassandra bit her lip, exhaling as accepted took the criticism.
He continued, “Well, it’s not as though you wouldn’t be doing much the same in a fight, but…”
“…it’s hardly appropriate for a gentle ride down the mountain path out of here,” she finished.
“Quite so,” Blackwall said. “If you promise you won’t go any faster than a trot, I’ll try to walk alongside you.”
“Very well,” Cassandra said, waiting for him to do so. He reached upwards with his hand, finding her wrist and guiding it gently as she got Princess Mairyn walking.
“Relax your grip, Cassandra,” he said gently, also glancing at her side. “At this speed you don’t need to clutch her tight with your knees either. Same holds for trotting or cantering, really. Just sit back and guide her gently. You can get her trotting with a slight kick.”
The pony started speeding up a little, and Blackwall broke into a light jog, finding the breath to say, “That’s good—don’t forget to relax. Break into a canter when you’re able to, and try that for a couple of rounds instead of forcing our poor Princess into a gallop.”
Moments later, she did that very thing, passing Blackwall thrice before bringing the pony to a far gentler halt than her first attempt, gingerly dismounting before him.
“It seems your prowess is well-earned, Ward…Blackwall,” she said. “Thank you.”
“I think you’ll find the ride down far easier without you attempting to choke Princess Mairyn with your thighs this time,” Blackwall said, before coughing politely and skipping a beat, continuing, “Should you need further guidance and should I be away on other business I’m sure you tear Dennet from his betting book.”
“I’m sure I can manage,” Cassandra said, smiling as she gazed back over to the barn. “Perhaps once you’re done making replacements you could bring them up for a game of chess. I’m sure I owe you that much, Blackwall.”
“I, ah,” he said, scratching the back of his head, “I’m hardly any good at the game, I fear. I mainly find the pieces to look pretty.”
“Oh?”, she asked, genuinely surprised. “Well, that’s even better.”
“How so?”, he asked in return.
“I get to teach you something in return, of course,” she said. “If within a month you manage to make Dorian break the board, I’ll consider it a victory.”
“I believe the pawns you play with in chess are meant to be on the board, not your friends,” Blackwall retorted.
She smiled then laughed a brilliant laugh, nearly a giggle, and turned away, saying, “It’ll be a memory to keep me warm on the mountain path to be sure. Until then, Blackwall.”
With that, she was gone, leaving him alone with his thoughts and the thought of seeing her again across a chessboard, and perhaps the lingering mental image of the Lady Seeker’s thighs astride that horse. No, it surely couldn’t be that. And surely Horsemaster Dennet wasn’t chuckling to himself from across the paddock, having watched the whole thing from his little shack.
Because if it was and he’d somehow engineered the whole damned thing, Blackwall swore that this was the absolute last time he baled hay for the man.
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@dadrunkwriting
