In my canon, my Brosca and Zevran are happily married and living somewhere sunny and beautiful with their 12 kids. Vidar built their first house with his bare hands, but when they needed to expand, they moved into a well-decorated mansion overlooking the sea. Their kids play in the garden while Zev sharpens his daggers on the terrace. Vi leans over and kisses him on the cheek, leaving a bouquet of pink roses in his husband's lap. They watch the sunset together every night.
Vidar Brosca - Dwarf of Distinction™. Lumberjack who scrapbooks, gardens, and lives in a log cabin in Ferelden with his elf boyfriend and their 12 adopted kids which he built himself with his bare hands. Full of love! ~🐑
Mithra is the Dalish elf from Origins who stops you when you get to the Brecilian forest looking for the Dalish clan. I didn’t manage to work her name into this b/c it’s Faren’s POV but... oh well. Enjoy.
The pretty elf sighted down the arrow she had notched in her bow, the lines of her tattoo folding together as her brow furrowed. “Don’t even blink.”
Faren and Alistair both help their hands up in a gesture of surrender, and Faren didn’t look behind him but hoped Leliana and Wynne had the sense to follow suit. He shot his most winning smile at the elf. “Don’t worry—I would hate to lose sight of the vision of your beauty for even the fraction of a second that a blink would take.”
The elf’s eyes went wide and her cheeks turned pink as she glanced at the elf on her right. “That’s… enough of that,” she said, her frown returning. She pointed with her chin at the dwarf and the other humans. “If you’re really Grey Wardens, Zathrian will know. Just keep your hands where we can see them.” She stepped aside and gestured with the bow, making it clear she wanted them to walk in front of her so she could keep her arrow trained on them.
“Maker preserve me, you’re going to get us both killed,” Alistair hissed under his breath.
“What? You don’t think that was good? I thought that was pretty good.”
“And stop talking!” the Dalish elf snapped from behind them.
Alistair kept his gaze trained ahead of him, but said in a whisper that Faren barely heard, “You blinked like three times when you said it.”
Faren’s chuckling brought another reprimand from the stern elf trailing them. Sheesh. The Dalish have no sense of humor at all, do they?
Faren had never expected to have a child, for many reasons. One, he was casteless; he couldn't risk having a son. Not that he would love him any less, but the fear that the family would keep the baby from him regardless terrified him. Two, he was a Warden. Alistair had mentioned it was notoriously difficult for Wardens to have children.
And now that Morrigan had given birth, well...
Faren didn't regret it, though. While Morrigan slept after the first night, he stayed up and took care of Kieran. The babe hadn't cried at all; he'd squirmed a lot, in the beginning, but now he was mostly peaceful and barely raised a fuss. From all he'd heard of children - especially those with human blood - Faren expected him to be fussier. Messier. Louder. But he was a peaceful baby.
"He has your eyes," Faren said to the witch one morning, "and your hair. And your nose, and chin, and mouth." He frowned, tilting his head to the side as he looked at the baby. "He hardly has anything of me."
Morrigan smiled, wrapping her arms around him from behind and looking down at the child. He knew she refused to believe it, but she'd become gentler since he was born. Softer. Still fierce and clever and quick, but something in her had changed. "Oh, he has a little of him in you. Your blood. Your short, stubby legs. Your belly."
"I like my belly," Faren groused.
"Tis a soft stomach." Morrigan pushed her hands against it, laughing when he grunted, then kissed his shoulder. "He has yet to grow. Things about him may change. His eyes, his chin, his teeth, even."
No Origins-screenshot, because I hate how he ended up looking like there. Inquisition-Shep is better, altough he's older there, and healthier-looking. But his neck, man, his neck.
I s2g I can only make him in dollmakers.
Archer rogue casteless dwarf. Socially completely awkward, prone to blushing, but he was a carta thug, so he can be sometimes intimidating. And when the intimidated person runs off, he stays there, trembling like "shit shit shit I can't believe it worked."
Romanced Zevran. Also used to be in love with Leske. Yeah. Guess how he was handling that.
I've got very little on M!Brosca thus far, just that he hates Osric on the basis that she's Aeducan and a spoiled brat, calls her 'princess' with a sneer, and is definitely gonna have an awesome beard.
It was going to be a chilly night. Zevran’s breath misted when he exhaled and the darkening sky was a hard, steely grey. The first few flakes of snow flew, settling in the elf’s eyelashes. The tall pines that surrounded the camp rustled in the heightening wind. Zevran lifted one hand, bidding a silent goodnight to Leliana and Salroka, who were on watch, sitting close to the fire in the center of camp. Leliana nodded. Salroka gave Zevran a big doggy grin, tongue lolling.
Zevran ducked into the tent he shared with Ormi. Upon seeing his lover, a low chuckle sounded in his throat. The dwarf was wrapped in what appeared to be every cloak, scarf, and blanket that he and Zevran owned; only his bearded face was visible. Too little too late, the group realized that Ormi, used to living in Dust Town where the lava flow sometimes rose high enough to make everyone nervous, had likely never been cold in his life and had definitely never seen snow. The dwarf was still not used to the harsh weather of the surface.
“Cold, amour?” the elf’s lips curved in a sensuous smirk.
“Freezing,” Ormi grumbled from within the depths of his pile. “Everything is freezing, specially that… fluffy… white shit. Colder than an imp’s grip.”
“A what?” Zevran asked, raising a quizzical eyebrow.
“Oh, uh, an imp,” Ormi replied. “Kalah used to tell us stories of creatures that lived in the deepest mines. It’s said that the imps live in underground lakes, and that their grip is so cold it burns, blisters the skin as surely… as a brand does.” The man unconsciously rubbed his cheek, the one bearing the casteless brand, against one of the many scarves that encircled his head.
Zevran unlaced his boots, shook them off, and began to remove the rest of his armor. “You know, there are good things that come with this bitter weather…”
Ormi’s eyebrows lifted, his expression was sceptical. “Hmn? Like what?”
“Like getting warm together,” the elf purred.
Now stripped to his underclothes, Zevran approached his lover. The dwarf-pile shuffled away from him.
“Yer cold…” Ormi said, almost accusingly.
Zevran stifled a laugh. Thrusting his lower lip out in a pout, he gave an exaggerated little shiver. “Yes, my dear Ormi, very cold indeed. Would you see me freeze?”
The dwarf’s moustache twitched, “No… ‘course not. Get in here.”
After much untangling and unwrapping, Zevran was able to slip into the warmth of the pile, sliding himself neatly into Ormi’s lap. He sighed happily, helping the dwarf re-wrap the bundle of clothes and blankets around them.
“Cold…” Ormi muttered, his hands nevertheless finding the small of Zevran’s back, pulling the elf more firmly against him.
“And you are so very warm.” Zevran purred, nuzzling Ormi’s temple, lips teasing the shell of the dwarf’s ear, wiggling his hips a little.
Ormi grunted, a smile curving his lips as he burrowed against Zevran, hands stealing down to cup the elf’s ass.
“You see?” Zevran chuckled. “This weather is not so bad after all.”
Alistair keeps saying "my love?" when I switch to him, even though my warden is a male dwarf. Now I don't want to leave the area in case he stops; I miss romancing him so much I'M NEVER PLAYING A MALE WARDEN AGAIN
