Happy Friday Niri! For DADWC, how about #31 from Artifacts of Thedas, for Cullen and Dorian (heh heh): A Satinalia mask
HI DEMA thank you!! This deliciously fit right into my ongoing masquerade side quest fic set in Pravinquisition AU, previous installation here
Also I was an absolute maniac and managed (I hope) to shove five Cullen & Dorian prompts into one scene, so thank you @zenstrike, @rosella-writes, @kiastirling, and @liza011 for these additional prompts:
overdramatic arguments about non-important subjects
All I Do is Wear Cool Outfits, Tell Jokes and Hide My Depression
doing things in sync
'Rule one: Don’t get caught.'
Madness. But perfect for them and I think I got them all
For @dadrunkwriting
WC: 1350
---
Cullen stood sentry in the corner of a marble-pillared room, watching the revelry with distaste. A pair of inebriated Orlesians had taken it upon themselves to climb upon a makeshift stage and butcher the Fereldan tavern song Andraste’s Mabari. He was nominally glad the panther-shaped mask he wore hid his grimace, though the rest of him wanted to wrench the damn thing off his face. It made his forehead itch something awful.
He was grateful to see Dorian stroll into the room and make eye contact. The Tevinter mage looked far more comfortable at this soiree than Cullen knew he would be in a million years. Dorian cut a sharp figure in blues and greens. He wore a black half-mask; it was adorned with feathers and sparkled even in the dim light.
“I hope you’re not grinding your teeth too hard in there, Commander,” Dorian said jovially, sidling up with a goblet of wine in one hand. “You’re like to give yourself a headache.”
Cullen opened his mouth to protest, only to realize how correct the mage was. He worked his jaw, trying to loosen it up. “I didn’t think I’d have to suffer attacks on my homeland when I agreed to come here, that’s all.”
Dorian tilted his head, caught wind of the lyrics, and took a stiff sip of his drink. “I see your point. Perhaps we ought to go somewhere a touch, ah, quieter?”
“Please.”
They ducked down a hallway that spilled out onto a small courtyard. The chill night was a welcome respite from the stuffiness of the Comte de Valette’s estate. The place seemed deserted, so Cullen removed the mask to the feel the relief of open air on his face. Any moment an angry Orlesian noble would probably materialize and command he put it back on — the allure of secrecy and all that — but for the moment he could think unburdened.
“Tut, tut, Commander,” Dorian chided, smirking at his clear hatred of the mask and all it signified, “do you also remove your helm mid-battle?”
“This farce of a party is hardly the battlefield,” Cullen grumbled. “And perhaps if I hadn’t let Fidencio design my entire outfit I’d feel less like a made-up doll.” The whole ensemble had been the bard’s idea. Cullen stood all in black, with a paisley patterned in velvet on his jerkin, gold trim on the sleeves, and a black overcoat. He already felt like a mummer’s idea of a pirate, but then Fidencio had insisted upon the damn mask to complete the look. Because a lion — Cullen’s suggestion — was the official sigil of Orlais and would send the wrong message. “Did the bard pick out your costume as well?”
“Don’t take this the wrong way, Commander, but I’d never need a theatre man to dress me properly.” Dorian smirked into his wine goblet. “I happen to dress this sharply on the regular, as I’m sure you’ve noticed. Why, this was just my Satinalia mask from last year.”
“I bet.” Cullen paid the boasting no mind. “Anything to report?”
“Sadly not. The Inquisitor and I spoke to all the premiere nobles of the Orlesian court — you think they’d want to hide their identities better, but I found them quite easy to identify. They had little and less to say. Nothing but praise for the Comte, but curiously no one can find the man.”
“Strange, do you think?” Cullen asked. “That the Comte should be so aloof?”
“Ah, who knows?” Dorian countered. “I’ve been to galas in Tevinter thrown while the host wasn’t even in the country. He’d do it just to remind everyone he still had more money than the Maker.”
“And Lady Thalia?” Cullen asked, scanning the windows facing the courtyard. In the orange glow of the rooms, the revelers cut ghastly, demon-like shadows. Or maybe that was just how it seemed. The mind could play tricks, and Cullen hadn’t wanted Thalia to accept the Comte’s invitation even before he learned that de Valette was rumored to be some dark mage.
“She was with Fidencio, last I checked. In that room with the enchanted butterflies.”
“Maybe I should check on her. No offense to Fidencio, but I’ve seen him in the sparring ring. He’s more of a lover than a fighter.”
Dorian snorted. “That he is, for certain.”
Cullen waited for a snide remark about Fidencio’s swordplay in alternative arenas, but Dorian merely smirked. It seemed he was too polite to grasp for the low-hanging fruit. That was fine with Cullen, who had uncovered a strange sense of foreboding he couldn’t shake. He replaced the asinine mask on his face and headed back inside with Dorian matching his stride.
Dorian led the way to the butterfly room, which was full of the flitting insect lanterns and simpering party guests, but no Inquisitor or the headwear-loving bard. Cullen’s bad feeling worsened.
“Well, they were just here,” Dorian added unhelpfully.
Cullen walked brusquely from room to room, checking with his stationed soldiers along the way, but none had seen the Lady Thalia. Even Blackwall confessed they’d only crossed paths before she’d met up with Fidencio.
Dorian kept pace, cracking bad jokes along the way, until Cullen finally snapped, “Are you incapable of taking anything seriously?”
Dorian sobered. “Ah, yes, the humor is just my dominant coping mechanism, I’m afraid. I’m actually a bit nervous myself.”
Cullen let out a slow breath. “Any idea where they could have gone?”
“No, but I think we must employ process of elimination here, Commander.” He leaned against the wall in a small, winding corridor and crossed his arms. “Thus far the masquerade has been confined to the ground floor of the chateau and surrounding environs. As Inquisition soldiers have been stationed in both places, I think it’s safe to assume they’re not there.”
“So that leaves, what, upstairs? In the guest chambers? ” Cullen did not like to think about what might be transpiring up there. One heard tell of what transpired at certain Orlesian parties. “I hope Fidencio would not be fool enough to let Thalia near any sort of—” Could he even say it?
“I think it’s unlikely Fidencio would have led her to an orgy,” Dorian said blithely. “Unless she asked to go— which is also unlikely,” he added before Cullen’s pulse could spike too much. “Goodness, you have met the girl, haven’t you? She can barely handle one man, let alone a whole gaggle.”
Cullen chose not to dignify any of that with a response. “So then, where else?”
A silent beat passed between the two men, and they spoke in unison: “The cellar.”
“There must be one,” Dorian said. “This is a castle. What’s a castle without a wine cellar?”
“And a dungeon,” Cullen said darkly. What if the Comte de Valette had made an appearance after all, and now Thalia was his captive?
“Commander, your imagination is at times alarming,” Dorian said lightly.
“I’m in charge of an army. I’m paid to think about the worst case scenario.”
“Be that as it may.” Dorian paced back and forth in the corridor, and raised a finger in the air. “I think I might know a way in.”
“Oh?” Cullen asked.
“A little staircase I came across when I took a wrong turn earlier in the evening. A pageboy assured me it was just the servant stairwell and steered me back to the party.”
Cullen drew the mask from his face, wiping the perspiration from his brow. “Do you think you can find it again?”
Dorian stroked the end of his mustache. “I’m fairly certain, yes.”
“Though I suppose we’ll have to think of a fine excuse, to allow ourselves entry,” Cullen mused. “Unless we want the entire chateau alerted to our movements.”
“Spoken like someone who never snuck around much in his youth.” Dorian flashed him a mischievous grin.
Cullen sighed. “What do you want me to say? The Templar barracks were well-monitored.”
“Oh, don’t misunderstand me; that was not meant to be a slight. I only mean, Commander, you’ve not yet learned rule number one in subterfuge: don’t get caught.”
HI FAM, for Talk to Me Tuesday - give me some headcanons about Pravin relating to Orlesian theatre culture! What's all of that like for him?
HELLO I have an entire document called ~theater stuff~ for thissss
To start off--broadly, there are three ways of being an actor in Orlais:
Traveling troupe system: joining a troupe of other actors, who go around the country performing at different locales, such as at community events like festivals and market days, as well as in intimate settings like taverns, inns and private homes.
Patronage system: a wealthy patron puts together a troupe of actors and hosts them at one or more venues. Actors contract with the patron for a period of time--such as for a social season--and are paid in accordance with the contract.
Audition system: actors audition for roles in a particular production. This system is used by several high-demand venues, such as the Grande Royeaux, to acquire performers especially fit for a given part.
Each approach has its own pros and cons--troupes tend to have the most freedom in terms of what plays they choose to put on, for instance, but the most unreliable pay because they're doing gig work; patronage is good in terms of job stability but you don't have as much input in terms of who you're working with and what you're working on, and auditioning is a high-barrier-to-entry approach that nevertheless tends to be super financially lucrative--provided you get picked, of course. In practice most actors start out in a troupe and shift around between the three modalities over the course of their career.
Pravin fucked off to Orlais in the middle of the Blight, so probably sometime in 9:30, and it took him a bit over a year, maybe two, to get in with a troupe that he really gelled with and have his first big break (playing a Sexy Antivan Pirate). He got a patron out of that and spent some time in that system in Val Chevin, but wound up being typecast and underpaid and had to do gigs on the side; he actually got into bard work through Gaubert asking for help in getting that patron's husband arrested, lol. Alongside his general mistrust of authority that came out of his experiences in the Blight, that whole thing really turned Pravin off from patronage, period (as did, you know, the difficult political situation of being a professional bard), so since then he's alternated between actually touring with a troupe, various one-off gigs, and auditioning for parts.
He's really proud of getting roles at the Grande Royeaux precisely because it's competitive as hell and really signifies being at the peak of his craft--you don't get in unless you're really good, and you sure as fuck don't get a leading role unless you're one of the best in the country. It's something that carries a huge amount of clout within the theater community, and needless to say, is especially impressive for a foreigner.
Coming back around to culture: I think one of the things Pravin's spent much of his career doing is proving himself worthy of the country he's made his home. Orlais is this beacon of culture in Southern Thedas, and while I imagine there's some cross-pollination of Orlesian practices into Antivan theater culture (and standards around what constitutes good musicianship are pretty uniform, given dissemination through the Chantry), there's still significant differences, such as the visual language of masks. Pravin had some skill transfer from his musical training and the acting he did while he was at university in Antiva, and speaking Orlesian fluently and without an accent helped substantially, but when he came into the Orlesian scene he still had to familiarize himself with a multitude of cultural minutiae, and while the Orlesian theater community itself is welcoming by default--the Orlesian public? Not so much. His fellow actors quickly dubbed him their beloved Denci; his audiences would take one look at his skin tone and nevertheless see him as an outsider, with all the expectations of inferiority that went along with that. So when he did secure that leading role at the Grande Royeaux, it not only meant that he was an extremely talented actor and musician, but that he was an excellent Orlesian actor. Not some token Antivan good at imitating the form, but actually Orlesian.
(And that's part of why at the beginning of Inquisition's events he's kind of hitting a point where he doesn't know what to do with himself. He's made it. He's gotten to the top. He should be content with his life, then...right?)
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapter 2: The Mask
Summary: At the mysterious masquerade, Thalia and Pravin encounter something they cannot explain.
Chapters: 2/?
Fandom: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Female Inquisitor/Cullen Rutherford, Cullen Rutherford/Female Trevelyan, Female Trevelyan & Male Trevelyan (Dragon Age), Female Trevelyan & Original Male Character, Dorian Pavus & Cullen Rutherford, Minor Blackwall/Female Trevelyan
Characters: Thalia Trevelyan, Pravin Talavera, Cullen Rutherford, Josephine Montilyet, Leliana (Dragon Age), Blackwall (Dragon Age), Dorian Pavus, Original Orlesian Characters
Additional Tags: Horror, Spooky, Mystery, Side Quests, Orlais (Dragon Age), an excuse to put my faves in cool costumes, Action/Adventure, Orlesians, Post-Dragon Age: Inquisition Quest - Here Lies the Abyss, Pre-Dragon Age: Inquisition Quest - Wicked Eyes and Wicked Hearts, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Series: Part 8 of The Pravinquisition
Summary:
Inquisitor Thalia Trevelyan has been invited to a masquerade by a mysterious Orlesian comte. The Inquisition sends an envoy to his isolated country estate, led by their bard in residence, Fidencio Frye — who also happens to be Thalia's cousin in disguise.
What strange wonders and eldritch horrors may await them there? And will the events of the night finally compel Commander Cullen to make a move on the Lady Thalia?
△ for DA Pravin: how likely would he be to remove Thalia from the Inquisition if he had a legit chance of doing so?
For SWTOR Pravin: what would it take for him to sleep with Lana???
DA Pravin:
Lol he'd probably rate that like a 7/10. Do not perceive him.
(Setting this about where my published fics are--)
"A decade ago, I had a chance to remake my life. And while it wasn't easy, I came to understand that freedom is everything. If you tie yourself to a cause, an authority, an institution--it may give you influence in the short term, but it's a terrible bargain. Someday, they always come to collect.
Thalia thinks she has mastery of all this, but she's young and naive and...she hasn't seen what I've seen. She thinks they're all good people, but--blight it, they've let the poor girl become a legend. If I could do it without Nightingale leaving me dead on a roadside for my trouble, then I--I just don't want them make her a martyr, too."
SWTOR Pravin:
Hahaha 9/10
"Well, you have to consider the whole matter of my former colleague who I have a, uh... [vague hand motion] ...something with, and how I'm certain she'd object, and there's the fact that Beniko is Sith and could crush my throat with her mind, and--this sort of thing never ends well, really. There's copious examples. Sith are like that, they're socialized like--
--I mean, I suppose if there was something I really wanted from her, and she was open to it, I could offer the option as a bargaining tool. That's technically work. It's not like I haven't done as much on assignment before.
And she's not hard on the eyes, either. Maybe a touch charming in a bookish, managerial sort of way. It could be an interesting experience--
hi I am obviously going to ask you for Thalia & Pravin, from the horror prompts: "At a costume party, you see someone whose mask looks a little too real." (interpret as you like!)
omg ok this one marinated in the old brainpan for AWHILE.
Also I confess I ended up writing a long preamble to hammer out the parameters of the mission the blorbos are on in this scene, which I'm not gonna post here but it will end up on ao3 eventually when I put this together as some sort of larger masquerade-themed side quest fic.
For @dadrunkwriting
WC: 1985
Also featuring a little Thalia/Blackwall AND Thalia/Cullen
---
Thalia flitted from room to room, taking stock of the Comte de Valette’s so-called cottage: high ceilings, ornate furniture, grand floor-to-ceiling windows with balconies that overlooked Lake Celestine. Dusk was falling, and the myriad colors of the setting sun reflected in the calm lake waters, a contrast to the atmosphere inside.
Upon gaining entrance to de Valette’s estate, Thalia knew the evening would be anything but dull. The chateau had three stories, and the marble entry where she and her retinue announced their presence spilled into a half a dozen rooms. These in turn opened into nooks, hallways, staircases, and courtyards of all sizes and shapes, creating a veritable labyrinth. The seneschal who took her cloak encouraged “creative exploration” of the chateau and its grounds. No, the Comte could not at this moment greet her in person, but rest assured he would meet her before the night was through.
The lights were down low, the mood up high. Every room Thalia stepped into had at least one musician playing. In one, a lone woman sat by a winding staircase and plucked a high harp; her full face mask, as well as her hat, sleeves and skirts were decorated with bright, fake flowers. In another, a man in the widest pantaloons Thalia had ever seen stood beneath a flickering chandelier and played a bawdy tune while party-goers danced around him. His pantaloons, as well as his ridiculously puffy sleeves, glowed in pastels complementary to his get-up. Some minor practical enchantment he could have had done cheaply, Thalia gauged, or else the fool had stuffed himself with deep mushrooms.
Activities, as far as Thalia could see, ranged from imbibing alcohol — one courtyard sported a bar, from which bare-faced servants hurriedly poured wine, ale, and stronger spirits into goblets — to smoking in a private perfumery, to mummery on a dozen improvised stages. It was difficult to tell whether the performers were all strictly hired for the party — everyone was costumed and masked, and for every professional grade performance, another stumbling drunk took the stage at the insistence of another, to spout lyrics off-key or half-remembered lines from popular plays.
Yet for a night that promised to be both wondrous and strange, Thalia had seen little more than the mundane. Oh, to be sure, the costumes were a sight to behold. She couldn’t go more than a few steps without bumping into a woman with a miniature ship replica sailing out of the stacks of her headdress, or a man so elaborately masked, with painted lips and full black eyes, that one mask evidently was not enough, and he carried another with an even more intricate pattern in his hand. In case he lost the first, Thalia wondered? And the costumes: the miles and miles of fabric, the ostentatious flourishes, the feathers, the tiny gemstones sparkling from hemlines, the veils and the bows and the capes…
It made her feel a little dizzy, and woefully underdressed, but none of it seemed to Thalia to be magic. She’d only seen one display that looked authentic, though the mage in question stuck to minor parlor tricks any acolyte out of single digits could manage. The crowd oohed and aahed all the same, but Thalia wondered if party magicians were difficult to come by now that they were free to charge any fee they wished.
Thalia turned a corner into a dark corridor, and nearly plowed into a wall of solid black. She reared, grasping for an apology, when she saw the beaked griffon mask over a long forked beard, and her heart skipped a beat.
“Warden Blackwall,” she said. “Forgive me. I didn’t see you there.”
“My lady,” Blackwall grunted, unmoving.
Thalia stared up at him. The mask obscured most of his face, ending in an array of brown feathers framing his temples — a piece he had literally scoffed at when presented to him, but he’d donned all the same. She could barely see the hard scowl under his beard, the one it seemed he’d been wearing ever since the night he kissed her.
Thalia swallowed and lowered her voice, determined not to let their troubled history jeopardize this mission. “Have you seen anything suspicious?”
“Not as of yet. Loads of privileged nobles, pissed out of their minds. But what did you expect with this lot?” Disdain dripped from every word.
Thalia pressed her lips together, trying to think of a delicate response. Had Blackwall’s hatred for the aristocracy always been so apparent, or did he hold special enmity for the Orlesians? She thought of reminding him that she herself was highborn — but he couldn’t have forgotten that, not with his impeccable courtesies. Is that why he treats me so coldly? Did something between us remind him of the difference in our stations, and his pride won’t allow him to pursue a lady?
It was no use speculating. She lifted her chin and opened her mouth, but words failed her. She caught the barest glint of his grey eyes from behind the holes in his mask, and realized the intensity with which he’d been watching her, from the light filigreed half-mask to the neckline of her dusky scarlet gown, accentuated by the velvet green bodice that drew up under her bosom to — well. “Flattering proportions” had been Vivienne’s term for it, but she was always chiding Thalia for not properly taking advantage of her Maker-given assets.
Thalia felt herself blush down to her toes.
“I — ought to be going,” she blurted, and side-stepped the Grey Warden with as much grace as she could manage.
She cursed internally with every stride; at her own childishness and stupidity, at never knowing what to say to Blackwall to get him to open up, at the fluttering in her stomach and the certainty that he still desired her while somehow simultaneously loathing every inch of her.
She stepped out of the dark corridor and into a room where light trickled down strangely from the ceiling. Thalia looked up; dozens of tiny butterfly-shaped lanterns floated above her head, radiating purple and blue and pink. Perhaps another enchantment, or just excellent craftsmanship — in Orlais, who knew?
Thalia was relieved to see Pravin standing against a pillar below this display, half-hidden by shadows. He saw her and slid in beside her in an instant. Her cousin fully embodied his stage persona of Fidencio Frye this evening, wearing a doublet so purple it glowed black, hemmed with silver thread. The green half-mask of the Orlesian theatre obscured his eyes beneath the wide-brimmed hat.
“How is it going?” he asked low in her ear, taking her gently by the elbow; to any observer he might be an admirer, appealing to the masked-but-not-quite-masked-enough-to-be-anonymous Inquisitor. This was by design; she was intended to be the mouthpiece for this evening, though the company thus far had been abysmal.
“I’m starting to worry this is a waste of time,” Thalia replied, stifling a sigh. She tried to banish the encounter with Blackwall from her mind. “No eyes on de Valette, I take it?”
“None yet. No way he’s been missed, either; my agents are quite thorough.”
“Leliana’s agents,” Thalia correctly primly.
With his face cast in darkness from his hat, she could sense, rather than see, his smirk. “They are answering to me, so tonight they are mine.” He paused, looking down at his hand on her arm. “Are you all right?”
He must feel how tense she was. Thalia pulled away, straightening. “Fine.”
Pravin cocked his head, but said no more. Thalia suppressed a shiver. She could not understand how he’d lived in Orlais all these years, with everyone hiding their faces behind cold, dead masks. The guests in the room with them, tittering about the butterfly lights and whispering gossip to each other, all had the telltale white porcelain that froze their faces, making it impossible to guess who might be underneath.
“Have you seen the others?” Thalia had been making the rounds earlier with Dorian, the two of them laying the charm on thick with the guests, but after awhile had decided they would cover more ground if they split up.
“The sartorial delight that is Lord Pavus was just here,” Pravin replied, nodding in the direction Dorian had gone. “And I believe the Commander is two rooms adjacent, clutching the hilt of his sword and hoping a fight might break out so he can be useful.” He stroked his chin beard and added, “You should go say hi.”
“Please.” The last thing Thalia wanted right now was another awkward encounter with a man. Cullen had been staunchly avoiding eye contact with her since the carriage ride here — perhaps also because of her flattering proportions? Thalia resisted the urge to cross her arms over her chest. “I think we’ve bigger concerns here than your matchmaking attempts.”
“He was very keen on accompanying you here tonight, you know, despite his protestations.”
Thalia wanted to smack the grin off Pravin’s face, but such behavior hadn’t done her any favors as a child, either. She averted her gaze, staring out the balcony door and into a terrace covered with ivy. A woman in a glittering gold dress stood amid the foliage, staring directly at Thalia. At first she thought the woman shrouded in darkness, and that was why Thalia could not make out her face. But upon closer inspection, the woman wore a full face mask of purest black. No features were visible, just a deep, dark, inescapable void. Thalia felt herself being pulled forward, entranced. As she stared, the din around her faded away, and all that seemed to exist was the woman and her facelessness, the eyes boring out, shining out, beckoning her—
A tendril of darkness snaked outward from the mask, reaching through the air toward Thalia, intent to wrap around her wrist and pull gently, ever so gently…
A hand took her shoulder, and Thalia jumped, jolting herself free of whatever had taken hold. Pravin turned her to face him, concern seeping through his own masked visage. “Thalia? Are you all right?”
“Did you see that woman?” Thalia asked, pointing to the terrace. A wisp of gold skirts slipped under the hanging ivy, disappearing from view.
“I think— perhaps—” Pravin started, interrupted by Thalia as she lurched through the balcony door. “Hey!” Pravin ran to catch up, keeping pace beside her. Thalia stalked toward the wall of ivy, her heart hammering. “Are you going to tell me what this is about?”
“Her mask, Pra— Fidencio. It was… too real.” Thalia stared him in the eye, her voice a fierce whisper. “Powerful illusion magic, I think. She was using it to call to me.”
Pravin was frowning deeply, glancing this way and that. The courtyard was deserted, the stars above them bright and cold. “And you think it is a good idea to follow her?”
Thalia ducked under the hanging ivy. The space beneath was empty; it was simply an awning where the courtyard buttressed the stone exterior of the chateau. In the far wall, however, stood a door, behind which glowed a soft golden light.
“I think she went this way,” Thalia breathed.
“I repeat my question,” Pravin huffed, disentangling ivy from the feather in his hat.
“Experimenting with the dark arts, isn’t that what Leliana said the Comte de Valette was known for?”
“And? I don’t see what that has to do with chasing a sorceress through hidden doors. I’ll send some agents in, and then we—”
“It will be too late if we wait,” Thalia argued, her hand reaching for the knob. “Turn back if you like. If I hurry I can still catch her.”
“Wait.” Pravin snatched her wrist, leaning in close. With his free hand he produced his stiletto blade from the hidden sheath strapped to his thigh. “There is absolutely no chance, from here to the Fade itself, that I am letting you go alone.”
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 1/?
Fandom: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Female Inquisitor/Cullen Rutherford, Cullen Rutherford/Female Trevelyan, Female Trevelyan & Male Trevelyan (Dragon Age), Female Trevelyan & Original Male Character, Dorian Pavus & Cullen Rutherford, Minor Blackwall/Female Trevelyan
Characters: Thalia Trevelyan, Pravin Talavera, Cullen Rutherford, Josephine Montilyet, Leliana (Dragon Age), Blackwall (Dragon Age), Dorian Pavus, Original Orlesian Characters
Additional Tags: Horror, Spooky, Mystery, Side Quests, Orlais (Dragon Age), an excuse to put my faves in cool costumes, Action/Adventure, Orlesians, Post-Dragon Age: Inquisition Quest - Here Lies the Abyss, Pre-Dragon Age: Inquisition Quest - Wicked Eyes and Wicked Hearts, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Series: Part 8 of The Pravinquisition
Summary:
Inquisitor Thalia Trevelyan has been invited to a masquerade by a mysterious Orlesian comte. The Inquisition sends an envoy to his isolated country estate, led by their bard in residence, Fidencio Frye — who also happens to be Thalia's cousin in disguise.
What strange wonders and eldritch horrors may await them there? And will the events of the night finally compel Commander Cullen to make a move on the Lady Thalia?
*kicks in ask box door* NIRI TAKING PROMPTS???? HELLO HAPPY FREAKIN FRIDAY I would like to request some Cullen/Thalia w/wingman Pravin (shock of shocks), mayhaps with a dramatic situation prompt: Just, being carried, being held (legs give out, weak, illness, injury, fatigue, fear), or being able to carry someone, to hold someone safe in your arms, to cradle them close PLEASE AND THANK YOU
OKAY so Pravin isn't wingmanning so much here bc it's after the battle of Haven and he's big mad that the Inquisition probably got his cousin killed bUT here's some delicious shippy angst anyway
For @dadrunkwriting
WC: 698
Note: "Fidencio Frye" is Pravin's stage name and Cullen does not yet know his true identity nor relation to Thalia bc dramatic irony is delicious.
---
The wind howls through the night. She’s dead, it whispers in Cullen’s ears. He sent her to die, and die she did.
His tent is flimsy and no one is warm. When they break to make camp for the night, he huddles by the meager campfire, struggling to get the feeling back in his hands. To shake the images of Haven as it fell: the screams of the dying; the look on Thalia’s face, steeling against the reality that she would not make it out. The red flash of the sword in a friend’s hand as he stood beside… whatever that beast was. Cullen recognized him immediately. That is Samson. He gave orders he thought he would never have to give.
Friends are monsters and the Herald is dead.
Supplies are low. The bard Fidencio Frye shares Cullen’s campfire more often than not. Leliana’s mysterious contact has folded in on himself, become grim and taciturn. He sits in silence. Reflections of the flames dance in his chilly green eyes.
“I never should have let her go.”
Cullen didn’t even know Fidencio cared much for Lady Thalia. Nor did Cullen, now that he thinks on it. The void she leaves behind is vaster than he could have imagined.
“You wouldn’t have stopped her,” Cullen murmurs. “She believed in the cause. She wanted to fight.”
“The Maker can fuck your cause all the way to the Black City,” Fidencio snarls. “She was just a kid.”
Cullen does not want to argue. He is so tired, and so hungry. The headache pounds inside him rhythmically, almost like a song. All that lyrium surrounding him in the battle — the bright, putrid red. It was calling to him. Ever since it’s been like those first bleak days all over again: he’s been shaky, feverish. He has one blue bottle hidden, one he promised himself he would never actually drink. All he wants to do is taste the sweet metallic tang and forget the delicate lines of Thalia’s face.
“This is my fault,” Cullen says.
“Damn right it is,” Fidencio retorts. “Haven had terrible fortifications. You all knew it.”
The blizzard has dispersed — a mercy, or they’d all be dead — and the night is the still, blistering cold that shocks one to the core. Cullen used to like nights like this, in his youth; they reminded him he was alive. Now these might be his last days on earth, and he’ll take them quietly, beside a bitter man to remind him how badly he’s failed.
The snow glistens blue in the light of the moon. Somewhere, a wolf howls. Cullen swears he can hear faint, crunching footsteps. He looks up and sees the distant figure, swaying on unsteady feet. A shade of the girl he sent to die: the crown of braids is the same, the darkness rendering her auburn hair black.
She falls to her knees, and Cullen is on his feet, because she hasn’t vanished from his sight, a trick of his guilty mind. “It’s her,” he says, taking off at a run.
She’s shivering, her skin like ice, face smeared with dirt and dried blood. Strands of her hair dangle low in her eyes; one plait by the nape of her neck has all but unraveled. Without thinking, Cullen grabs her and hoists her up, pulling her close. He is desperate to transfer her some warmth. It’s a miracle she’s even alive, a miracle she’s somehow made it all this way, to find them anew.
Thalia lets out a trembling breath and buries her face in his fur collar. “It’s all right,” Cullen whispers, although he is terrified that is a lie. “I’ve got you.”
He turns and there his colleagues stand, expressions alight with shock and disbelief: Josephine, Leliana, and Cassandra. Shoving between them is Fidencio Frye, the ostrich feather on his cavalier hat streaming behind him like an afterthought.
“You’re such a brat,” the strange bard admonishes the half-frozen Herald of Andraste, clutching her hand. “Don’t you ever scare me like that again.”
“Nice to see you too,” Thalia murmurs, and Cullen has the curious sense he’s stepped into a scene of a play having missed the first act.
