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fellas is it gay to emerge half dead from the wreckage of haven in the arms of the man that hates(?) you enough that he won't let you die quietly. something something in your heart shall burn

#dazen talks dragon age #dragon age #oc tag #dazed n confused #cillian trevelyan #friend ocs #lysander lavellan #cilliander #dragon age inquisition #inquisitor lavellan #inquisitor trevelyan

Did I recreate my Inquisitor five times unsuccessfully in my previous playthroughs until I decided to turn him into Rook and then proceeded to get him spot on? Perchance.

10 years later. More prominent freckles, longer hair, no vallaslin, and the same judgmental look on his face.

(we're ignoring the change in scars lol)

#lysander lavellan #listen #before veilguard i rarely ever made blond characters #lysander was my only one #and now i have several #something about opposite tropes get to me #the princely-looking character being the unhinged one and the tall broody one being the sweetheart??? (kagan)#i love it #so here's another crazy blond man for your dash #datv #dragon age #dragon age the veilguard #rae rambles

wip whenever

i was tagged by @dreadfutures, so i'll tag @lamiahypnosia, @noire-pandora, and also @dumbassentity because we may need some fluff after this angst train. i've been working on lysander's nightmare, and i've actually finished the nightmare portion of it so far. this is but a small portion of it.

It takes some effort, but he pushes himself to his feet, steadying himself even as the world begins to tilt. There’s a wetness at his brow, dripping down his cheek, but he dares not check if it’s blood or sweat. It doesn’t matter anyway as he stumbles, nearly falls, and he realises that he recognises the body at his feet.

Blood splatters wide across the sunburst symbol on the front of her breastplate, her shield flung a few feet away as if it were knocked from her grasp. She still holds her sword, but it’s useless now, her hollow gaze a void even as the remnant of a scowl graces her features. She is fierce, even in death, a warrior to the very end. It still seems unreal, impossible, that the mighty Seeker even fell at all. Lysander’s eyes grow wide as the realisation hits … she was close to him, practically touching him, and though she can longer tell her tale, he knows she gave her last breath protecting him, protecting the Inquisitor. Her Inquisitor. If that is indeed the case, it seems she fell last, dying as she saw the end of the Inquisition, and Lysander’s heart twists at the thought.

His breath catches as he casts his gaze around, a sudden urge to find his friends settling in, though alongside it is a thrill of dread at what he will find. But he must do this, that much he knows, and so he steadfastly puts one foot in front of the other.

A flash of white catches at his periphery, and he sees Vivienne, run through with a spear, standing only by virtue of her attacker, who still holds onto it even in death. They stand as well, frozen in place, as if she got her spell off but only just too late. Her Orlesian Hennin still sits atop her head as if it were a crown and he swallows hard. He remembers well the ferocious debates they had over magic and mages, but despite their differences, she has laid down her life for him as well. They had never seen eye to eye, but he’d never wished ill upon her, and he almost falls to his knees. The only thing that saves him from standing rooted to the spot is the urge to find the others. Surely they could not all be dead … right? Yet even in his heart he knows, just as he hears the vultures circling and crying out overhead, the only noise other than his footsteps that breaks through the silence around him.

He needs only travel a few feet before he finds more. This time it’s Cullen and Blackwall, fallen side by side as if they stood next to each other. Blackwall’s helmet has been knocked askew and Cullen’s mantle has been shredded as if by precise strikes from an assassin’s blades. It figures, with the defence and the fight they would have put up, only a skilled assassin would have the chance to slip between them and finish them off.

Just several feet away is Varric, fingers still clenching Bianca, blood smeared across the wood as if he staunched a wound before shooting once more. There are so many of them, wounds that is, Lysander cannot tell which dealt the fatal blow, or even if it was quick or slow. Near him lies Hawke, her broken staff at her feet. Her one arm stretches out, out toward Varric, and he can’t help but wonder who died first. He shudders, bile rising in the back of his throat as he pulls out his bow on instinct.

you think this is bad? it gets even worse from here ...