They act now that your money will flow into certain mentioned organisations (yeah, right !), in return you get some cheap, childish plastic/wooden sh!t in return (yeah, great) they try to make money with copyrighted stuff (the entire DA lore, games, characters, etc. yes it it all copyrighted). The money flows directly into their own pockets and they share it with their scam-"artists".
Do not give these thieves/scammers any of your personal informations nor any money, if you want any DA merch get the official Bioware merch and prints or create these cheap plastic pins, emotes yourself (if you do it just for your own use, without selling it, it is tolerated) -> go to a printshop, at least you know where your money really ends up and it's cheaper.
Behind these zine and merch blogs sit scammers who will keep the money they make, do not let them fool you and here is another "fanzine" that is working the same way and both blogs are very likely connected, the one who sells Leliana (lelianazine) merch:
(you see the blogs always look similar and emphasize "charity")
This individual here wants for a A4 print or a cheap coffee cup with print on a good amount of money for a character he does not even own the rights on. The printing itself is cheap af and you get it for a few euro in any print shop lol (even the reviews are fake, copy pasted). Like most art scammers he sends himself anon asks, too typical for them to have a reason to advertise their stuff further. There are many of such "artists" out there but they all do the same: they sell art/merch/zines that is copyright protected.
he even tries to copy the original artstyle of Zevran drawn by Matt Rhodes here the original:
Here the following art that copies the original by the concept art style (armor, body posture, dagger position, even the window in the background is same), but yeah it's his art....
(shhhh tell nobody I stole Matt Rhodes artstyle and make money out of it)
^ an abandoned scam account, they create regularly new ones
again: Online transactions can be easily tracked, you can get into trouble by law too not only the one who sells the forbidden stuff that is copyrighted. Many of the tumblr "artists" who create art for the fanzines are known donation scam supporters (others do not know it any better but they know they make money with copyrighted characters), they try to make money from different sources and it is at the end the same = scam. Do not let them fool you !
I always wonder why these artists do not do their own very individual art (if they want to sell anything, fanart is fine as long as not sold) that is NOT connected to any existing merch/company/in general copyright protected. Lack of own creativity? They want to surf on the already existing hype wave of what others had built? I would say both, next to scamming people.
If you want DA prints get it from the original DA artists Matt Rhodes for example I mentioned him in another post you get quality there, it's legal and made by the lead concept artist himself, or merch from Biowares offical merch shop.
My other post about merch and zine scam:
Tumblr is a place to express yourself, discover yourself, and bond over the stuff you love. It's where your interests connect you with your
Characters: Valta, Paragon Aeducan, Original Dwarven Character(s)
Fandom: Dragon Age
Rating: G
Other Tags: Codex Entry, Dwarven History, Orzammar, House Saelac, House Aeducan
Summary: A review of three differing, contemporary accounts of Paragon Aeducan.
Read here on AO3.
From the research notes of Shaper Valta.
I was a girl when my father first took me to the Hall of Heroes. He told me the stories of our honoured ancestors: of Paragon Caridin and his noble inventions; of Paragon Lynchcar and his venerated poems; and of Paragon Aeducan. However, the deeds of our most noteworthy Paragon, the sire of kings and warriors, are too great to be summed up in a few pithy words. My father asked that I lift my eyes to our vaulted ceilings, to gaze upon Orzammar’s people, and to contemplate his name. He told me that I owed him my life.
At the time, I could not fully appreciate the enormity of what he did. Death is closer for those of us who dwell with the Stone than most; its armies wage an unending assault upon our kingdom, but it was still a faraway threat to me at that age.
I know better, now. It is because of the decisions made by Paragon Aeducan ages ago that I am here to challenge him and his legacy.
Here is my work for @dragonageannual 2025! Thank you so much for allowing me to participate and lend my voice to this project. As always, the art and writing are stunning!
The Problem about "fanzines" and the selling of "own" merch
Someone reacted to my previous post (click here) and that person (a fan zine artist) was surprised that it is illegal to use copyright protected characters (official concept art), the character's name, clothes, story what ever else to sell "own" merch or so called fan zines.
Let me explain it a little bit more detailed: Disney, Bioware, CDPR (and so on) got their own merch, they own the rights on the name and look of the characters which had been created by concept artists who work(ed) for the company, it is their idea, their art and they sell their own merch.
If someone now sells merch for example anything connected to Cullen Rutherford, or a Leliana plushy who wears the clothes Leliana wore in DAO or Cullen's DAI sword or his lucky coin, that person illegally uses the reputation and design of the original character to make profit out of it and this is illegal. There are several cases existing where Disney sued small companies because they used one of their characters for their business (restaurants, bars, a small book store for example). The problem here is as I mentioned before to make profit with the idea, characters that are copy right protected, like in this example:
The core design was not created by some fan artist, it is not a complete own creation but you can identify this plushy as Leliana from DAO even the clothes are recognisable. She is called Leliana and is sold as such: They try to make money with DAO Bioware's Leliana.
Cullen Rutherford, Solas..... inspired candle? yeah right LOL 100% soy..... yeah that I believe at once. Same person asks for donation too, obviously is unable to get a decent education and get a job, begging for money is easier.......
AGAIN: If you create a plushy or what ever for your OWN use WITHOUT selling it, like for your own cosplay props that is tolerated by most, but making an own business with it and making money out of other ppl's ideas, concept art, characters, the entire DA universe, is illegal and can be sued easily and I have seen enough of such cases.
The excuse: but so many others do it, so it's ok right? does not really work, would you jump off a cliff because others do it? yes? then go ahead but the impact will be hard and merciless (and very expensive). That is why I send out this warning because people do not seem to realize what they get into and think it is just some harmless fan-thing.
After researching a little I found out that some of the artists who produce art for the DA zine are well known for supporting gaza scammers and scam spreaders too, that means they use their art in two ways to make illegal money, with the merch and luring people into scam donation for which they get a piece of the cake too as you can imagine.
If you want to support the real artists, the official ones who sell art books and prints, Matt Rhodes (Bioware's art director) is an option who got the rights to sell prints and artbooks on his official website, and it is completely legal, you do not get into trouble here.
Rated T, 2.3k - Written for @dragonageannual 2025 ✨ AO3 link
After a powerful storm strikes the alienage, Garahel finds his life altered in unforeseen ways. A story about the man who would become the Hero of the Fourth Blight.
Garahel’s body ached as he trudged into his home, and the silence that met him there was the first peace he’d felt in days.
A sliver of moonlight illuminated sights worn smooth by the years: the crate that served as a table, the cot in the corner, the antiquated wood stove. Tonight it all seemed new to him somehow.
Looking at his home, he was keenly aware of how fragile everything was; it was nothing but wood and stone, really, and the dreams of whatever elf, decades ago, had taken it upon himself to build. That every window pane was still whole was a blessing. Most in the alienage could not say the same.
It’d been a week since the storm had swept through the alienage, leaving behind a wake of destruction. Not a soul had slept through the howling winds and drumming rain that night—nor the deep, brassy crack that tore through the din, louder and more resonant than thunder.
That following morning they realized what had occurred.
The vhenadahl at the center of the alienage had been struck by lightning, and a portion had fallen upon the little ramshackle apartments near the courtyard. Black scorch marks stretched upwards along what remained of the great tree. It was, the hahren said, a bad omen.
Garahel had joined the repair efforts, asking for nothing in return, save what the people could spare. He was resolute in this. Even now, on this weary, hungry night.
At his side he carried a sack of flour—payment for the day’s work—which he gingerly set upon the table, beside a half-penned letter.
Isseya, the letter read.
Repairs are underway since the storm swept through our home. Believe it or not, shemlen visited yesterday, offering work. The pay is low, but regretfully I am considering the offer. A man cannot get by on goodwill and flour alone.
We ’ve heard tell that the Circle is sending mages to help in the shemlen cities that were affected. I understand the knight-commanders’ priorities. But we could use all the help we can get in the alienage.
And it would be agreeable to see you once more, sister.
The writing stopped there.
He never quite knew what to do with sentiment, and with the way he missed Isseya, even now. She was all the family he had. They were orphans, both abandoned to the streets, where they had lived and survived together—until Isseya’s magic manifested, and she, too, was swept away.
Briefly, Garahel considered finishing the letter. But his eyelids felt heavy.
He promptly climbed into his cot and fell into a deep sleep.
.
He and five others answered the call for work the next day. They made their way to the alienage gates, where a brief discussion with the guards granted them access to the city.
Ansburg had fared no better in the storm. People everywhere were industriously mending fences, patching roofs, or clearing debris. Most paid them no mind, though there were a few startled looks of suspicion.
The disparity never ceased to amaze him.
These streets were familiar to him, but he was a stranger to them no matter how many times he’d walked them. He’d lived his whole life less than a stone’s throw away, but it may as well have been another world. There was a rule of behavior that was expected here: eyes down, voice quiet.
Still, Garahel kept a trace of a smile for himself.
Their work brought them to a warehouse on the river, where the waters still ran muddy with the storm’s residue.
“Good, you lot are here,” the foreman called gruffly. He scanned their faces, his mouth twisting. “Only six? Never let it be said the elves of Ansburg are known for their work ethic.”
Garahel bit his tongue as they were led into the warehouse.
“River overflowed during the storm,” the foreman explained. “Damaged some merchandise. Your job is to sort the ruined crates from the undamaged ones—do not open anything or you’ll be losing more than just this job. Undamaged merchandise gets loaded onto the bulker. We need to reestablish supply lines; we’ve more shipments coming. You’ll be supervised, so no funny business.” The man paused to spit a piece of tobacco on the floor. “You’ll do ten hours today. Five coppers.”
“Five!”
The foreman’s eyes snapped to Garahel.
Anger, hot and startling, filled the elf for a moment. They had been promised ten. But he could feel his fellow workers tense up at his side. Some had families to provide for. They needed this.
“Apologies,” Garahel said tersely. He lowered his eyes and the moment passed.
The foreman nodded, satisfied, and the elves got to work.
It was bitter work. The crates were covered in splinters, with old nails that were beginning to rust. The ground was muddy and slick. Worst of all, the boarding platform was just a few paces wide.
But they stuck with it. The ship slowly filled with boxes of salvaged merchandise.
As the shadows grew short, then lengthened again, Garahel felt a deep weariness settle over him. It wasn’t the ache in his hands that bothered him. It wasn’t the mud that caked his trousers to the knee or the hunger he felt. It was the shemlen dockworkers, who viewed him and the others as beasts of labor, no more.
It was clear in the way they talked about them, the way they kept their distance—they may have been poor but at least they weren’t elves.
And it was clear in the way they laughed when the youngest among Garahel’s group slipped upon the platform and hit his head against the corner of a crate.
Garahel set down his load at once, and rushed to help. He grabbed the boy by the shoulders, steadying him upon the platform, which threatened to overturn.
One of the crates landed in the river with a splash. Thankfully that was all they lost.
“You’re alright,” Garahel said gruffly as he got the boy back onto shore.
“What’s this?”
The chorus of laughter from the human workers settled into silence at the foreman’s approach.
“He’s injured,” Garahel said. “If we could have some gauze—”
“Not him,” the foreman clarified. “The crate full of wine that is currently floating downriver! Who is responsible for destroying my merchandise?”
“Ser,” Garahel tried again.
“Quiet!” he hissed. “Get that bleeding oaf taken care of, and when you both return, you may begin working to pay off the losses!”
Garahel shut his mouth.
Part of him wanted to slam his fist into the foreman’s face. Another part wanted to jump into the rushing river and let it take him—maybe taste some of that watered-down wine, since it was apparently worth so much more than elven blood. He did neither. Instead, there came upon him a stark clarity, something past the anger and hunger he’d felt all day.
“Well?” the foreman pressed, as Garahel silently bandaged the boy’s wound with strips torn from his own tunic.
“He needs to rest,” Garahel said curtly. “I will take him back to the alienage. But first, pay him his day’s wages.”
“What?”
“I take responsibility for the wine. But you need to pay him.”
The foreman stared, mouth ajar and still full of chewing tobacco. “Maker damn you,” he said slowly. “I’ll show you what happens to thieving elves, you shite-”
“Someone here, serah.”
Garahel blinked.
He had been so caught up in his numb rage, he hadn’t noticed anything else. He was now startled by an unusual sight: blue banners with a silver griffin, and a group of armored warriors to match. But most unusual of all was the sight of elves and dwarves among them. Of these impressive figures, a tall blond woman with icy blue eyes stood out.
“I am Senior Warden Senaste.” She spoke in a clear, commanding tone, cutting through the mud with assurance. “Our carriages were damaged in the storm. We require transport along the river. Who is the person in charge?”
“Harbourmaster’s that direction,” the foreman grunted.
“Thank you.” Senaste turned her blue gaze upon Garahel. “Your man is injured.”
“He hit his head!” Garahel said hurriedly. “Nearly fell in the river.”
“We’ve a healer who can see to him,” she said, signalling to the others.
“Hang on-”
The Senior Warden snapped a glance at the foreman, who visibly shrank under her look.
“The elves,” he explained. “They damaged some merchandise. They must pay.”
“What exactly was damaged?”
“A crate of wine. Very fine bottles-”
He paused gain, visibly blanching as a mage Warden, staff in hand, healed the injured worker. In a moment the cut was gone as if it had never happened. With a mumbled thanks, the young elf rushed off.
“Wine,” Senaste repeated. “How very dire. Well, I trust the use of my healer more than compensates for the loss. Good day.”
As the Wardens turned away, Garahel stood rooted to the spot.
He’d heard of the Grey Wardens, of course—had grown up with stories of their heroism like most children. As the foreman stood in mute shock, Garahel felt his legs moving of their own accord.
“Warden Senaste,” he called.
He followed the Wardens away from the muddy job site. Away from his five coppers, the leering dockworkers, and the abusive foreman.
He almost thought she was ignoring him, but then she said over her shoulder: “Speak. I’m in a hurry.”
“I wish to be a Grey Warden!”
The words came out in a rush. He hadn’t even realized he was thinking them until he said them—but now they were out, and to his own surprise, they were honest.
The Senior Warden slowed, then glanced back at him to regard him properly. Garahel had the impression that he was being assessed. She cleared her throat.
“It’s a death sentence,” she told him.
“Life is a death sentence,” Garahel countered. Senaste laughed. Seeing an opportunity, he pled his case. “I am hungry. Haven’t eaten nothing but hardtack in days. My family’s gone. I have nothing keeping me here.”
“Ser,” the mage Warden from before said. “Harbormaster has passage for us tomorrow on a vessel transporting materials to the Circle.”
“Thank you.” The Senior Warden then glanced at Garahel and said, “Go home, young man.”
“But-”
“Go home, and think on it. A Warden’s life isn’t easy. It’s full of sacrifice and toil. You’d be leaving everything behind. You may not even survive the process. But if tomorrow you feel the same… come find me.”
With those words, she was gone.
.
That night, Garahel returned home for the final time. He didn’t bother packing his precious few belongings. His letter to Isseya sat unfinished. He didn’t sleep, didn’t write, and was still awake when a knock came upon his door.
“Hahren,” Garahel said when he answered it. “What’s wrong?”
“Do not join the Wardens, da’len.”
“So you heard.” Garahel sighed. “I know, it is a life of hardship. I might die before I even join—”
“More than that.”
“Then what?”
“You’ll be missed.”
Garahel’s brow furrowed. “I will miss you too,” he said softly. “All of you. As I miss Isseya, every day. And my parents, though I never met them. I think life must be like this; gathering more people to miss with each passing year. But, hahren, I can do more for our people this way. I’ve made up my mind. I’m going. Here-”
He passed a few coins into the hahren’s wizened hands.
“The money I made today. Thank you for everything.”
For some reason, those coins were still on his mind when the Joining chalice met his lips.
The fire that poured into him was unlike anything he’d ever experienced. But it was too late to renege. Among the Wardens, he took into himself a corruption beyond language, beyond thought.
It was the storm. The river. The vhenadahl burning. The Templars dragging Isseya away. The chewing tobacco in the foreman’s mouth. Every sorrow and terror in the world condensed into a cup.
Then, Garahel was lost to the fire.
.
He was on a ship when he awoke—he could tell that much—gently rocked by the current.
“Ah,” he said softly. “I’m dreaming.”
“No, you reckless fool,” Isseya said. “You’re finally awake.”
It made no sense. Isseya was in the Circle; she couldn’t be here, wherever here was. He frowned at her, confused, and this earned him a roll of Isseya’s eyes. But when she embraced him, he knew she spoke true.
“What-?”
“I boarded this ship on an aid mission for the Circle. Didn’t expect to share travel arrangements with Grey Wardens, and I certainly didn’t expect to find my own brother among them. How do you think I felt when they told me? Really, Garahel!”
Stunned, Garahel laughed. She was certainly right to be angry. He couldn’t begrudge her that; he was simply happy to see her, amazed by how she’d changed so much yet stayed exactly the same. Then the door to the cabin opened.
“Warden Garahel,” Senaste said. “I’m relieved you’re well… and in good spirits. I have something for you.”
“What is it?” Isseya asked.
She handed over a large item, wrapped in brown paper.
“Unsure. It was waiting for us at the Circle,” Senaste said. “When you are ready, come see me. We have much to discuss.”
He opened the parcel. “Now I surely must be dreaming.”
Within was a beautiful hand-carved bow. There were tell-tale marks upon it that hinted at its parent tree.
Garahel would carry it with him thereafter: the bow the hahren had sent to him.
A parting gift carved from the fallen piece of his vhenadahl.
