I see a lot of art depicting Dorian as a cat person and okay I can see that, for sure; he’s more of a cat person than a dog person, without question.
But consider this: Dorian with a pet parrot.
It came home with him from their little trip to Arbor Wilds. It’s bright and colorful and gaudy; he names it Ignis for the flame-like crest of feathers on its head. Dorian teaches the bird to swear and insult people in Tevene, and it rides around on his shoulder everywhere he goes.
The only other people in the Inquisition who can get near the bird without being bitten are the Inquisitor and Cole -- a fact which particularly confounds Cullen, who is often seen glaring at the bird, genuinely and personally insulted.
Specify a character and leave a number in my ask, if you’re feeling so kind!
ok well since you requested all of them u jerk and i really wanna do these i’ll just do ‘em in groups of 10…
1. How does your character think of their father? What do they hate and love about him? What influence - literal or imagined - did the father have?
seeing as how ayla’s dad was a legionnaire who basically peaced the fuck out before she was born, she never really thought much of him as a kid. she didn’t think he was a coward for leaving since he joined the legion and cowards don’t join the legion, at least not in her opinion. also, joining the legion is the equivalent of dying, so ayla’s lived her whole life knowing he’s gone and she’s come to terms with that.
as for influence, he doesn’t affect ayla or define her life. to her, he wasn’t there, he never existed, and she neither loves or hates him for that. she doesn’t really think of herself as having a father, that’s how little influence he had on her lOL.
2. Their mother? How do they think of her? What do they hate? Love? What influence - literal or imagined - did the mother have?
weak. ayla thinks of her mother as weak, which hurts her, because her mother was arguably the only person she ever felt close to. her mother was an incredibly kind and empathetic person, which ayla adored, up until the point it got her killed. that’s when ayla began to hate kindness and compassion, because if you can’t use them to protect yourself or the people you care about, what’s the point?
ayla’s mother - or, more accurately, her murder - was one of the first things that really made ayla believe in strength and brutality above all else. ayla’s mother ended up teaching her the exact opposite of mercy; she ended up teaching her daughter that the world only respects strength.
3. Brothers, sisters? Who do they like? Why? What do they despise about their siblings?
none that she’s aware of.
4. What type of discipline was your character subjected to at home? Strict? Lenient?
pretty lenient, up until ayla’s mom went and got herself killed. after that it was just ayla, and hell if she was going to be strict on herself. she grew up by herself in a place where food was scarce and safety was nonexistent. she was more concerned with staying alive than staying moral.
5. Were they overprotected as a child? Sheltered?
you can’t protect a child from the shit that happens in dust town, so no. ayla’s mother tried her hardest, but ended up failing miserably.
6. Did they feel rejection or affection as a child?
affection when mom was alive, rejection when she wasn’t. ayla’s mother was literally the only person in the history of ever who wanted her or cared if she lived or died; nobody gives a shit about the casteless, let alone a casteless child.
7. What was the economic status of their family?
casteless. with nothing to their name, ayla and her mother were basically a waste of space in the eyes of the dwarves. all that casteless women are good for is reproduction, seeing as how the dwarven birth rates have been dwindling due to the close proximity with the darkspawn.
8. How does your character feel about religion?
she believes in the stone to a certain extent, as the vast majority of dwarves do. it’s kind of to be expected, since she was in the legion of the dead for such a long time. more than anything, violence and battle are her religion, as that’s all she really finds comfort or solace in. as far as other religions go, she’s pretty whatever about it. she’s got better things to worry about than whether or not you prefer andraste or some elven god thing person. she might snicker a bit but she won’t get her panties in a twist about it.
9. What about political beliefs?
fuck politics and fuck rank and fuck social status. she only respects strength. if she can knock your head off your shoulders with a swing of her spear, then you have no right to act like you’re better than her, and she has no reason to listen to you.
10. Is your character street-smart, book-smart, intelligent, intellectual, slow-witted?
street-smart, and fiercely intelligent. she had to be, thanks to growing up in dust town. she’s not very book-smart since she’s actually pretty bad at reading. she doesn’t really see the point in being intellectual and super inquisitive and all that jazz. in her experience, the world doesn’t even respect knowledge that much. the one true power is strength. brutal, straight-up, break-your-nose strength.
Send ∞ for my muse’s reaction to yours gently taking their hand.
"Vishante kaffas! Venedhis! Fasta vass!" Dorian growled, voice growing slightly louder, slightlyless controlled, with each curse. "Festis bei umo canavarum!"
He turned and, in asudden, shocking burst of violence, hurled his goblet into the hearth. Theglass exploded into shards and the dregs of wine within flared up hot andbright as the flames drank them. He stood panting, shoulders heaving, staring at the tinydestruction he had wreaked and craving more.He suddenly wanted to crush something, to watch something beautiful blacken inthe flames, cracking open raw and red.
Red as lyrium, redas the eyes of the man behind him, red as blood spilled on fresh snow.
I did not join the Venatori for this.
His hands slowlytightened into fists at his sides, fire crackling between his clenched fingersand dripping black char onto the stones.
"Pedicabo ego vos et irrumabo," hehissed, opening his hands and casting them forward, a torrent of white-hot flamefountaining forth across the hearth. The andirons glowed cherry red when atlast he subsided, breathing hard, chin falling toward his chest.
Dorian whirled atthe sound of a soft cough behind him. He had forgotten he was not alone! Cullenstill stood there, the damnable man! The Red Templar looked -- not frightened, exactly, but his eyes hadgone quite wide and his lips were slightly parted; he rocked on his toes as ifmoments from retreat.
Those wide, wideeyes, red as molten metal.
Dorian paused, tryingto collect himself. He opened his mouth to speak but found himself forestalledas Cullen reached out suddenly, his right hand -- the one still mostfunctional, the one the crystals had not yet begun to take -- coiling awkwardly aboutDorian's own.
Dorian caught asharp breath and held it and then, spasmodically, his fingers clutched atCullen's and clung there, desperate and helpless.
[✉ To: La Reine] babe, are we r eally going to the waldorf Astoria for this party tonight because I don't think my tux from prom is gonna cut it
[✉ to: noodle ] oh please darling[✉ to: noodle ] i doubt you even wore a tux to prom[✉ to: noodle ] wait[✉ to: noodle ] did you not open the package i sent you two weeks ago?
It’s five minutes past 8 when Vivienne’s phone finally displays the message she wants it to: a text from Josephine, letting her know that her date is ready to be picked up. Normally it’s the other way around, but in this case Vivienne’s willing to make an exception. After all, she’s never even met her date, much less heard of him, and the same is true for him. He doesn’t know her—doesn’t even know of her, according to Josie—and he most certainly doesn’t know where she lives. That’s fine with her, since the simple navy gown she plans on wearing doesn’t take long to put on at all. Makeup is minimal as well; her figure in that dress will make more than enough of a statement on its own.
By the time she slides into the black Bentley waiting outside of her apartment, it’s 8:17 and counting. She doesn’t even need to say a word; Dennet shifts the Bentley into gear and they’re off. He’s driven Vivienne around enough times to pick up when she wishes to talk and when she doesn’t. Most times—now included—she wishes to be left alone, and so the drive is completely silent except for the slight, muted hum of New York City right outside of her tinted windows.
Josephine’s apartment isn’t too far from her own place, making the ride comfortably short. Dennet opens the door for her and she steps out wearing the regality of a queen like a cloak. She nods once to him before entering Josephine’s apartment building. She’s been there enough times that she doesn’t need Josie to greet her; instead she just calmly makes her way to Josephine’s apartment and lets herself inside, not even bothering to knock. The place is expensively furnished and just messy enough to feel lived in—a stark contrast to Vivienne’s own apartment, which is so neat and tidy one wouldn’t even think someone resided there.
Vivienne pushes the uncomfortable thought away and tilts her head as Josie’s voice echoes through the apartment, lovely and lilting and rather exasperated. Her voice is joined by another one—an unfamiliar one—much deeper, masculine, rugged. That one no doubt belongs to Carl (or was it Cody?), her date. For a brief moment anxiety threatens to rear its ugly head, but Vivienne double-checks her reflection in the mirror next to the front door, takes a deep breath, and heads in the direction of the voices.
She finds the two of them in Josephine’s bedroom, surrounded by various articles of clothing that are thrown about the room. It looks as though two tailors went to battle and left behind a flurry of silken shirts and ties and belts everywhere. Vivienne glances around the room at all of the scattered pieces of clothing before at last her eyes land on Josephine—beautiful and immaculate as always, even with her hair up in a messy bun and dressed in sweatpants; she’s clearly not going to accompany them to the party.
But Vivienne’s attention is immediately drawn to the man—the rather tall, well-built man—standing right next to Josephine, who’s so busy focusing on slapping Josie’s hands away from his tie that he doesn’t even notice Vivienne walk in. That suits her just fine; she takes the opportunity to steal a rather long glance at him, surveying him up and down. He’s built like a fighter, and the navy suit he’s wearing only enhances those broad shoulders and defined muscles. A surge of attraction—the sensation so foreign it momentarily alarms her—rushes through her body, and all she can think is that this was not what she had in mind when Josephine mentioned a friend of hers who was the perfect “chump.”
Josephine doesn’t notice Vivienne at first either. She’s too busy trying to shove a bowtie in the oddly attractive man’s face. “Cullen, you have to put this on, before she—”
“No, I’ll look like a waiter!” He hugs his black silk tie protectively.
At that, Vivienne can’t help but let out a snort, though she quickly disguises it as a cough, as though she’s merely trying to get their attention. They both whirl and their expressions change dramatically when they catch sight of her. Josephine looks delighted, but Carl—no, Cullen—adopts an expression that’s a cross between surprise and horror. Vivienne offers him a small smile, stepping into the room as she says smoothly, “My dear, I doubt you could pass for a waiter even if you wanted to.” She tilts her head and does another quick once-over of him before turning to Josephine. “The black tie looks fine, Josie. Really, I’m impressed; you’ve outdone yourself.”
Vivienne takes another delicate step forward, making sure to avoid one of the many silk shirts lying on the floor, and she extends a hand in Cullen’s direction for him to shake. Her eyes meet his squarely as she says in a tone as light and playful as a butterfly, “It’s so good to finally meet you, darling. Josephine’s told me such wonderful things about you. My name is Vivienne, and if it pleases you, I will be your date this evening.”
Alistair blinked at him slowly. Opened his mouth to reply, paused, and then closed his mouth once more with a click of teeth. “Why don’t you send Dorian over here to explain that one to me?” he finally managed. “And if he tries to use you as a messenger, I’ll have no choice but to call him Ser Milksop.”
