#f!surana

[artofmisi]

i had a lot of nostalgia for the early dragon age days and had to draw my darling odin 💙❄️✨

[commander-krios]

Flawless Amber

Written for @caffeinatedrogue for OC Kiss Week, Day #2! Our crazy lovebirds, Elias and Leda <3

Fandom: Dragon Age: Origins Pairing: f!Surana/m!Amell Rating: General Summary: A Chantry garden might be beautiful, but there was one thing more beautiful to Elias Amell: his wife to be, Leda Surana. Words: 754 Additional Tags: OC Kiss Week 2026, Day 2- Wedding, Warden Surana, Non-Warden Amell, Post-Canon

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The Chantry of Denerim’s garden was in full bloom, every shade a person could imagine painting the ground around him: blues, yellows, purples, pinks, white… a rainbow interspersed with green foliage. The scent of each flower Elias Amell passed by tickled his nose. He wished he could identify which flowers they came from, hoping to hold onto the smell for a little longer, if only for the calm it brought him.

Pebbles crunched beneath his boots as he walked the winding trail, careful to avoid treading on any stray stem or petal, not wishing harm to anything in his path. Once he was certain that the foliage was safe, his gaze focused on the beautiful sight in front of him. A petite auburn haired woman stood in the center of the garden, face tilted towards the statue of Andraste as it towered over her, the familiar white flowers of Andraste’s Grace surrounding the base, still clinging to the early morning dew. 

Leda Surana, the Grey Warden Commander of Ferelden. Former apprentice of the Circle of Magi, the Hero of Ferelden, but only one title mattered to him.

That would be ‘the love of his life’.

She didn’t speak when he stepped up beside her, amber eyes curiously studying the prophet in all of her glory, crowned in sunlight and surrounded by blooms.

Leda tucked a strand of hair behind a pointed ear, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye, a playful tilt to her full lips. “Isn’t it bad luck to see the bride before the wedding?”

A responding smile came immediately to his face. Because bad luck or no, it was worth it to see Leda standing in the Thedosian sun, flowers strewn through her hair, each braid as intricate as the last, waves of copper reaching her waist. Elias had to stop himself from reaching out and running his fingers through them, knowing he’d ruin her hair before they even made it to the chapel. 

“Bad luck for whom? Me?” Slipping his hands around her waist, his fingers twisted into the ivory fabric bunched at her hips, and he counted each bead and ribbon by touch alone. “I’ll take whatever bad luck the Maker decides I deserve if it means I spend the rest of my life with you.”

Leda laughed breathlessly, turning in his arms so she faced him fully, eyes shining in the afternoon sun, like flawless amber in the palms of his hands. “You don’t have woo me anymore, Eli.”

Elias brushed a hand upwards, over her bodice where more of the beading and ribbons were stitched in, across her collarbone where a dainty pendant sat between her breasts, before he gently gripped the point of her chin, his thumb brushing softly against the skin there.

“I’ll never stop trying to woo you. Not when you deserve more.” 

Leda let out a happy sigh as Elias leaned forward, lips pressing to her forehead in a kiss, soft and sweet. In a few short hours, she’d be his wife, though the Chantry ceremony meant little when they’d already been to hell and back for each other. Nothing formed a bond as deep and as binding as fighting beside one another, keeping each other safe and whole, keeping hope alive even amidst the horrors of the darkspawn army.

There were days when he missed traveling across Ferelden, trudging through mud and rain, sitting around a campfire with friends, sleeping under the stars with Leda in his arms. They were safer now, the blight quelled and the darkspawn ran back underground, and there were less meetings with the nobility, less training sessions with warden recruits, less responsibilities to attend to on a daily basis.

But no matter what came in the future: more blights, more kings, more battles… he would do it at Leda’s side.

She wrapped her fingers around his hand, waiting for him to pull back from the kiss so their eyes could meet again. A smile spread across her face, a smirk that spelled trouble for him just as much as it spoke volumes of her affection for him.

“I have more, Eli. I have you.”

Leda shifted forward, pressing her face into his shirt as she hugged him, her body fitting perfectly against his as they stood among the gardens, among the sun shining and the birds singing, the promise of forever closer with every minute passed. Elias counted this moment among the best days. Because everything was better with Leda.

“And you always will.”

[herald-divine-hell]

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Summary: Nurraya Surana is unsure who she is - a mage of the Circle of Magi, the last few of Ferelden's Grey Wardens, a destined doom for the Kingdom of Ferelden, a mad woman who believed she heard the shattered dead whispers of an old god. The only thing that she holds with any true confidence is that Leliana is a dawn she is afraid to see set, a light she is afraid to see go out, and a fire she is afraid to allow to burn for her sake alone. The burdens of heroes are stained in the bones of the world, and selfishly she refuses to allow any other to carry hers.

Period: Dragon Age: Origins

Pairing: Warden/Leliana, Surana/Leliana

~~~

Read Below:

Her dreams drowned beneath brackish and fetid waves that clamored toward a darkened sky. The oily caress still lingered, even as her heavy eyes stung with sleep and the brittle bites of the mountain air made their feast on her flesh. A touch that she had no hope of cleaning, no matter how many times she scrubbed, no matter how many turns her mind made toward other topics, pleasant and otherwise. The ashen dead whispers stirred, clung in the hidden caverns of her mind, a fearful darkness that hated the light. There they remained, the maddened murmurs of the gods that endured to the world, the deafening cries of a stolen mind that no longer was the archdemon’s own. 

Sometimes, Nurraya almost pitied the old god. Was it Urthimiel? Razikale? Lusacan? Did their names truly mattered, accursed though they were? Did somewhere in that consumed heart, the spoiled soul recalled who they once were, like images peering through a frostied window? 

Did gods grieve with the tears of mortals?

Stiff fingers dragged the heavy wool cloak over slight shoulders, drowning in a warmth that Nurraya could not feel. Frozen wolves snarled and tugged at the hems, casting it billowing behind her. A wind of shivers stole through her. Teeth clattered together, white breath misted as plumes against her numbed fingers. Her thoughts fled away, stolen by the gales of the mountains. Fire seemed a thousand leagues behind, left burning in the stone horrors that was Haven. Warmth was a promised dream. There was only cold, a cold that killed even death, and the oily caress of a living breath squirming through her flesh. 

Alistair made a suggestion, his voice a thrown pebble skimming across the surface of a lake, lost to her behind a veil of mist. A snide retort from Morrigan, a wolven pace through the forest. Slender fingers wrapped around Nurraya’s wrist, callous-marked but gentle as spring’s breath against her neck. Leliana whispered in her ear, dawnlight stirring behind the jagged shoulders of mountains. Nurraya nodded, though she could not be sure what conversation was made. The only thing there was the delirious whispers, entangled in the frigid breeze.

The winds hollowed a silver song beyond the threshold of the cave’s mouth, twining around the snarled fangs of ice that marked the lintel. Skeletal pines marked the mountain side like crooked graves remembered only by the snow. Time fled like the blowing snow, and she could only remember the sharp crackle as a flame came to life in the small pit they had dug, with an armful of gathered pinewood from the skeletal trees that marked the mountainside as crooked graves. 

Shadows danced and played along the roughed walls, golden-dressed and black-robbed. Embers seared through the air with the trails of fallen stars, ruby as droplets of blood. The amber reeds of the flames swayed in a billowing cloud of hazy bronze and copper, licking the air. Leaden kisses born of heat pressed kisses into the skin of her fingers and palms. 

Yet only the soiled breath that stained her blood stirred any warmth through her limbs, a vile sickness that clogged her throat and rotted her heart. The crackling laughter of the fire was the knife-scratching chortle of the archdemon; the flying embers of the infernal blindness that burned in its eyes. Its breath seemed to be against her, consuming her, drowning her. 

Drowning, drowning, drowning…

An arm snaked around her waist, a warm face pressed against the side of Nurraya’s neck. “You’re thinking,” Leliana said, her lips the dusting of a kiss in the hollow where her neck melded into her shoulder. 

Another shiver racked through her, far more pleasant, like the stirring of flowers by spring’s first perfumed wind. She smiled, for Leliana, for herself. Maybe it was both? She could not entirely be sure. “We always think.”

 “You more than others.” Leliana laid her head on Nurraya’s shoulder, and the elven woman found herself missing the sweet press of her lips against her flesh. Heat stained her cheeks, no doubt from the fire. Beneath Nurraya’s chilled, heavy cloak, Leliana’s thumb made a faint circle into her side, as if she was painting a memory into the canvas of her skin. For a while, Leliana seemed to have watched the flames, or traced a story into her mind with characters of the fire and snow beyond, but then she turned and kissed Nurraya’s cheek. Her words sunk into her skin. “Your nightmares again?”

Nurraya’s lips thinned. She turned her head, laid her own kiss against the Orlesian’s forehead, brushed with the constellations of freckles she had come to love most of all. Beads of dawn, she’d named them, the tears of fire that lingered into the pale flesh of a snow-cloud. In all other lights, they seemed shy, a soft scatter that almost seemed to fade into Leliana’s fair skin. But in the firelight, they appeared like the stars in the night, hidden stories waiting to be found, to be revealed. Her lips counted their number, and her fingers, too. But the poems that she dreamt of could swallow the whole of the sky and the earth, with how many she’d wrought for her in embarrassed silence. Counting them eased some of the pain, even if it was all just imaginary. 

“Don’t worry about me,” she mumbled against her skin. Her eyes closed, and the shadows of her freckles glimmered in the grey darkness. The scent of incense long since faded seemed to waft through her senses, a comfort that only came with the taste of Leliana against her mouth. The shattered roars trembled into a faint whisper, consumed by the peace that was Leliana. 

“Does the moon cease to follow the sun, despite how feeble her attempts are to reach him?” Leliana asked. Her head rose from her shoulder. Nurraya’s lips almost sunk into a frown, until the lay sister placed a kiss to her nose. “I shall worry my heart because it is my own, even if I’ve given you a piece.” 

The sentence made her smile. For a brief moment, she forgot it all—the search for Andraste’s ashes, about Loghain and Ostagar, about the archdemon. For the smallest second, she could almost forget the Circle. Then the taste of blood would be in her mouth, that coiled anger with its hope-drinking fangs. She would see Willelm, Sabrine, Tainor, with their scourged flesh and slashed necks draped in a band of crimson, eyes glossy, reflecting the writhing shadows of mages and templars she once knew. For a brief moment, a dawn would climb the eastern horizon, before it tumbled into the abyss, leaving only dull grey stars to rebel against the dark. 

A tremble clenched her in its shaky grasp. Her breath shrunk and disappeared in her chest. The ceaseless whispers crawled out from the dark crevices that she could not explore, lost and drunk and hungering. So hungry. For what? What could appease a fallen god?

The prayers of mortal breath, even if it may come from a feast of screams. That had been what the archdemon once said to her, in her madness as she wandered the strange road of the Fade and Waking Realm. When the tongue of the heavens was scorched by the fire of mortal speech. In a storm of roars, beneath the screaming rain, Nurraya thought she could understand it—could understand them. Alistair had once suggested older wardens could, with that unassured voice that inclined that they were only made mad from the encroaching taint. Delusions. Was she like them? Did the Circle break her mind, rend apart her spirit, that now she flitted between the firmness of mortality and the insanity of the Fade? 

Was she still Nurraya?

Her eyelids smashed close. Her breath trembled in her chest, as frantic as the wings of a caught moth in a lantern. It was now her turn, to hide her face in the column of Leliana’s neck, to hide from the world. Leliana’s circling finger halted, her hand sprayed along her waist, before encircling deeper, drawing her into a hold that placed Nurraya on the taller woman’s thigh. Nurraya’s own coiled around the lay sister’s neck, fingers feeling the cold run of melted water trickling from her short red hair as they twined a few strands. 

“You don’t have to carry this burden alone.” Her voice was a murmured prayer. “Allow me to bear some of it, even if it's little more than a petal.”

Even a petal would be far too much, she thought, ashamed. And Nurraya could not dare allow Leliana to carry her sorrows that would only leave her arms scarred, ruined. Bleeding, with nothing to clean the wound, to bind it tight to cease the blood’s flow. Grant me only your smiles, your laughter. It would make the burden all the more lighter. That was a kindness Leliana could do, for them both. Allow Nurraya to give herself, over and over again, a flame clinging to its last kindle until its smoky breath sputtered and withered away in the cinders. Without that…what was she? A Circle mage with no Circle to return to, a Warden with only a single other to share the unspoken woe neither wish to dwell upon? This offering, to hand over a piece of herself to another…it was frightening, terrifying. For that piece surely must be mottled and putrid, withering with maggots and sickness. What she’d done at the Circle…

The blood was in her mouth, a fire that scorched her tongue, burned behind her eyes. Tendrils of misty scarlet ran between her fingers, blackened at the edges with the dark iron of night, with its tongue of deep scarlet. The anger, that fierce burning anger, had been a living thing, a maddening thing, and the distant roaring of the archdemon seemed to share her grief, her sorrow. She recalled the shadows whose heights were giants, whose arms were the wings of dragons. She remembered the bursting of clots that seemed to have gathered like plucked petals in her hands, the streams of blood that poured from the eyes of twisted abominations and mind-starved Templars alike. The hollow screams that buried itself within the stone. Sickeningly, she recalled how she exalted in it, that pain that was a salve to her grief. And she recalled, perhaps blissfully, the disgust that burned in her as well, that glowering shame. A single choice that was hers, and hers alone. Not one made by destiny. But Nurraya’s. And it was freeing, so freeing. 

And that was what terrified her the most, that sense of freedom. The sense of power that was hers and not hers, as well. That anger that she had sealed away for years folded on years. She had only wished to heal, to ease the pain of others. It was why she had aided Jowan, wasn’t it? That seemed so far away, now. As if all past steps she’d taken to Ostagar were mere clouds of leaves flown away by autumn breezes. But, yes. It must have been why she helped Jowen escape. It must have been…

Leliana’s throat throbbed with a hummed melody. Her fingers ran along the shivering ridge of her spine, a summer river breaking through the snow and ice. Perhaps she did think too much. Perhaps she had regrets too stained to ever be cleaned, to ever be absolved. Perhaps she had taken her heart and shattered it, to trade it away to the world in tiny pieces. All she had ever wanted was to disappear, in the gardens of books and the forest of her lessons. All she wanted to do was to stop thinking, to cease the runaway stream of thoughts, of doubts and questions that she could never find the answers to. 

Her heart was a lute, and every pain was a string plucked, quivering. Morrigan had made her complaints clear, whenever Nurraya beseech they stop to help whomever was in need of helping. I imagine time as one caring enough to stop, she’d said. But whenever she did so, listening to their prayers, the painful melody halted, the sharply stroked strings eased into soothing vibrations from nimble, gentle fingers. All Nurraya had wanted was to walk in her meadows of dreams and stories, and forget about the world. Forget about the iron stare of the Templars, the ravaging hunger in others. All she wanted to do was be a mere shadow, listening in to the stories yet unspoken. She wished to be the stars, awaiting the coming night, to stare upon a world draped in a forgotten peace. Allow her to be the painter, and not the painted. And with Leliana…it felt as if she could do all of that, to forget herself utterly. 

And yet, she could be seen? In those blue eyes traced with hazel and faint flecks of green, like sunlight tracing its ribbons across a glittering lake. In Leliana’s gaze, that saw more of her than she could ever find in herself. She had been so sure, when they first met, about her heavenly dream that others thought her mad. Nurraya had wondered what that was like, to hold a conviction without a thimble of doubt to root at the foundations. Nurraya found herself enjoying being discovered by the Sister, painted in colors where once she had been a mere tracery sketch of blurred grey lines and smeared black. 

And I could do the same, this kindly trade of shy, quiet discovery. This promise that was made only in the words spoken by gazes and slight smiles, small touches and whispered by the brush of their hands as they walked. For Leliana, she would be painted, if only a little bit. But this burden, this grief of what it meant to be a Warden…to carry the broken prayer of a god, lost in its sickening madness…it would be wrong, to give it away to her. She could never allow herself to do so. 

Another kiss to the center of Leliana’s neck. The tickle of Leliana’s giggle stirred something hot deep in her stomach. There were some things that Nurraya could not give away, some things not even a story could reveal in its entirety. Some things that only belong to herself and no others. It was only right, when she allowed herself to give so much already to the world. 

If she drowned in her dreams, in that cold and dark ocean, that would be fine. For in the shimmering surface above glimmered an orange-gold sun, with the first quiet laughter of spring in its twining rays, and that final vision was all she needed to see before she sunk into the abyss, awaiting to arise again to break the surface the next morning. 

[agender-expression]

Recently finished Cullenmance and I have a hunch that this man still had a thing for Mage Warden Amell/Surana (I know if he romanced in DA:I, he will get over her but still)

Like Come On why only Human/Elf race restriction romance for him and why their dialogues are feel so right when inqy is a Mage.

When I saw Weisshaupt in DA:D trailer I fucking excited for my dear grey wardens who still finding a cure for The calling. If Warden Amell/Surana and Cullen finally met each other. Their tramatized parting and several years of yearning wouldn't be in vain.

I still live for Cullen/Warden crumbs so let me delulu.

edit:

I re-check tapestry and this is a world state of female mage warden with no one romanced...Cullen is so hopeless romantic for her I die.

[thiefbird]

welcome to dadwc!! how about ❛ why does it feel like this is goodbye? ❜ for any pairing of your choice?

For Nevra Surana x Alistair! This takes place in between Riordan telling the Wardens how the Archdemon must be killed, and Morrigan proposing the Dark Ritual; it's also before Nevra becomes possessed

For @dadrunkwriting

Riordan silently left the room, likely to try to sleep; Alastair's careful, confident shell shattered. She knew it would: a year living in each other's pockets had made her almost too familiar with the slightest changes on his face and she could read the signs of impending panic better than she could sense darkspawn.

Nevra stepped closer to Alistair, just close enough to break him out of his trance, and he collapsed into her, fingers digging into her ribs and spine, as if he held her right enough, not even an Old God could separate them. She wrapped one arm around his waist, looping the other around his neck to comb through the soft, short hairs on the back of his neck as he buried his face in her shoulder.

They stood like that for long moments, the only sounds Alistair's harsh breathing and the pounding of their hearts, until Alistair had calmed enough to pull away of his own accord. "Why is it always you comforting me?" he asked, voice small and ashamed. "You're always there for me, for all of us, and any time it feels like we should be there for you, I'm the one falling apart anyways."

It wasn't the time to explain how the Templars and the Circle taught spent to control their emotions; he didn't need that tonight. He didn't need to know the burns across her back and arms weren't the result of a misplaced spell, like she'd said when he'd asked all those months ago, but were how the Templars countered the cold, heavy weight of Despair.

She didn't want to cry ever, anymore. She didn't think she could if she tried.

"Because I love you. You need me, and I am here." It wasn't a lie. She smiled up at him, brushing her thumb over the salt-sticky tear tracks on his cheeks.

Alistair brought his hand to hers, pressing it more firmly to the side of his face before kissing her palm. "You are... you are the most beautiful, wonderful woman in Ferelden. Possibly in the whole of Thedas, but I've never been outside of Ferelden." His smile was watery, but sincere and adoring, and Nevra wanted to hide from the weight of his regard, even knowing no Templars would separate them.

"I do not deserve you," he continued, "but I will spend the rest of my life learning to, even if it is only-"

She covered his mouth with her hand before he could finish his sentence, a superstitious part of her afraid he'd speak it into being. "You do deserve me, Ali. And you heard Riordan. This will not fall to you if he can help it. Keep hope, love."

Alistair's nose scrunched up indignantly before he pried her hand off. "I know what Riordan said, Nev, I just... Why does this feel like you're saying goodbye?"

Because I am. Because I already got my greatest wish. I've seen snow, and mountains, and the sea. I've slept beneath the moons and stars, and I've fallen in love, and I'm free. Because I forfeited my life at my Harrowing, and even He can't save me from an Old God's soul.

"I'm not, Ali. Just... just promise me you'll..."

"No! No, Nevra, you don't get to- I can't. I can't!" The look of panic on Alistair's face broke her heart; it hurt worse than deepstalker venom. His fingers gripping her shoulders were bruisingly tight as he near folded himself in half to look her in the eyes. "Don't ask this of me. I love you. I love you! Don't ask me to let you die for me like my mother and brother and Duncan and every other Warden-!"

His tears were flowing freely again, distress staining his cheeks with uneven blotches, and she forced herself to step away, breaking his hold on her. "I'm not asking as your lover, Alistair. I'm telling you as your Commander. If Riordan falls, I will deal the final blow." She was proud of how controlled her voice sounded; some small part of her still in the Circle smarted at any sign of emotion.

Alistair froze, stunned by her tone, and slowly straightened up. Oh, how she wanted to comfort him, to reassure him they'd both be alright, but she couldn't force her lips around the empty words. If they both lived, she would apologize beg for his forgiveness. Until then, one of them needed to step back, and she knew it had to be her.

"... You're not my commander, Surana. Riordan is." Alistair sounded colder than Nevra had ever heard him, and it sent a chill down her spine. "You do not command me, and as your lover, I will stay by your side. If that means we both die to Urthemiel, so be it. But I will not let one more person sacrifice themselves in my name."

[qbanalras]

Commission for a fren(insta)

For her fanfic, the trio of mages of circle. Two didn’t-make-it-to-warden and Jowan  (⁀ᗢ⁀)

________

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[saltlordofold]

Commission of ✨ Tini Surana and Alistair Theirin for @andrastini! ❄️💖✨

More examples of my art  [Here] - [Commission Info - tumblr] - [Commission Info - carrd] -  [Kofi]

[0dracoagec]

Daughters of Surana