Ah! Tagged by @dandenbo - many thanks! Let's see, rules:
Post the first sentences of the last ten fics you wrote; if you do not have ten, pick as many firsts as you can!
Tagging...@theoriginalladya (I know you've already been tagged but I also know you have way more than 10 ;) ), @urdnotflexthejedibard @illusivesoul @bluerose5 and uhhh whoever else hasn't been tagged yet and wants to join! No pressure as always!
So I just grabbed the ten most recent:
Stories From Haven (M, Lavellan x Dorian, DAI)
Considering the reputation Haven had, Dorian was expecting something a bit more…reverent.
Respite (T, Lavellan x Dorian, DAI, not my Lavellan)
Words blurred before his eyes, slipping out of focus into a hodge-podge of so much chicken scratch, unintelligible and difficult to track.
Starting Fires (E, m!V x Kerry, Cyberpunk: 2077)
In all her 80-odd years of life, Rogue had come to expect a certain level of…unusual, in the circumstances that sprang up around her.
In Passing (M, Angel, background m!V x Kerry, Cyberpunk: 2077)
It wasn't like he never saw the stranger again.
The Odd Trio (M, m!shepclone x Major Coats; m!shepclone & EDI, m!shepclone & Joker, EDI x Joker, ME)
In the end, he blamed the boxes.
Stealing for Spite (M, m!V x Kerry, Cyberpunk: 2077)
"There a reason you couldn't hire some movers, babe?"
Chasing Storms (M, m!V x Kerry, Cyberpunk: 2077)
Kerry trudged along the line of neatly parked cars, blinking blearily over a cup of coffee.
Bittersweet Symphonies (E, m!V x Kerry, Cyberpunk: 2077)
It was a feeling that hit all too often these days, creeping up and bowling him over when he least expected it.
Where I Want to Be (E, m!Captain x Maximillian deSoto, The Outer Worlds)
"Y'know, Max, I'm starting to think maybe you were a little…jealous."
Something Beautiful (T, Lavellan x Dorian, DAI)
It was snowing again when Dorian left the warmth of the library.
Just gonna collect Quintas's stories in a collection subdivided by location/game beats. I think I posted this first one here before, but here it is officially (and over on AO3)
Considering the reputation Haven had, Dorian was expecting something a bit more…reverent.
A storied past -- or was it checkered? -- and its proximity to the Temple of Sacred Ashes should have, at the very least, lent the place a certain character, an atmosphere of mystique, of hushed whispers and wild tales of things seen in the dark of night.
Mostly it featured the same sort of rough-hewn, slapdash architecture he was beginning to fear was the norm for Ferelden, with an overwhelming stench of wet and dog. Any atmosphere it may have had was overcome with the clash of swords and pitched shouts as the Commander-who-was-definitely-a-Templar tackled the thankless job of turning volunteers into soldiers capable of putting up some degree of a fight.
Probably lost all that mystery once the cult was driven out anyway.
He supposed it could have been worse. Redcliffe had been more robust, better fortified, and the village had offered its fair share of distractions, but it was hard to look at the place and not see all the horrors that had unfolded there -- horrors that very well may still happen, if they didn't put a stop to it.
And that's why Dorian was here: to help stop it. He'd suffer far worse than suspicious glares and vicious rumors against the bleak backdrop of the rustic south if it meant he could do something, anything, that mattered.
"You look awfully lost in thought."
His lips were curling up into a grin even before he turned to spot his guest. A responding smile flashed back at him, and maybe it was a touch tired but if Dorian was half as good at reading people as he thought he was, then he could rest assured that it was sincere. Probably one of the only sincere smiles he'd received in this place.
Not that he needed to be liked; he'd practically cultivated a reputation for being very disliked, and saw no reason for that to change any time soon. Respectability was overrated, anyway.
"I was thinking about cults, actually."
An eyebrow quirked up, one side of the Herald's mouth inching higher in a crooked smile Dorian couldn't help but find charming.
All of Quintas Lavellan was surprisingly charming, he was discovering -- had been discovering, really, ever since their wild adventure through time. Gossip had reached him before meeting the elf in person, but those whispers hadn't done him justice. He was quiet, but it was the sort of quiet that hid a sharp wit and a dry sense of humor. He was dashing, but in a skills-honed-over-time sort of way. He was decidedly not haughty, and was, quite possibly, one of the most down-to-earth people Dorian had ever met. But then, the rumors had been fueled by humans, and humans didn’t exactly have the best gauge on things elf -- particularly when it came to the Dalish. He imagined a fair amount of them had probably never even met a Dalish elf before in their lives.
"Any specific cult?"
"You're aware of the history of this place, no?"
Quintas shook his head, settling on the bench beside him. "More familiar with Free Marcher history, if I'm honest."
"Oh, right, you're from…"
"Near Ostwick," the elf supplied. "Much farther north." He cocked his head, pursing his lips in thought. Dorian took the opportunity to glance at him sidelong, admire his strong profile. A straight nose defined it, cheekbones a touch on the high side, his gently rounded chin helping to soften it all somewhat. Eyes a pale blue under thick, expressive eyebrows, all capped by auburn hair that perpetually looked like he kept running his fingers through it.
Dorian bit back another smile as he watched the Herald do exactly that, long, slender fingers winding through his dark locks before he turned toward him again.
"Was it some Andrastian off-shoot, this cult?" he asked. "I gathered this place was rather important to the Chantry."
"You gathered correctly," Dorian replied with a smile. With Quintas facing him it was easier to see the vallaslin that curled about his left eye, inked in delicate green. "Though they believed they were Andraste's true followers, of course."
"Of course."
"'The Disciples of Andraste,' revering their beloved prophet more than even the Maker, believed she had been reborn to them in the form of a dragon."
Quintas's eyebrows shot up again, a grin teasing at the corners of his lips.
"You're full of it."
"No, they really did! Word has it the Hero of Ferelden was responsible for…well. I imagine they didn't exactly survive their encounter with him."
"I think I did hear something about the Urn," Quintas mused. "When we were in Redcliffe, Connor mentioned something about it curing his father?"
"The Ashes were said to have healing and restorative properties," Dorian agreed. "Fascinating. Would've loved to have seen that myself."
"And the cult?"
"Maybe not up close and personal," Dorian admitted with a laugh. "But to read Brother Genitivi's writings firsthand would have been worth the risk of coming South, although maybe not during the Blight..."
"Hmm, that's another name I've heard mentioned."
"Genitivi? Very prominent scholar and writer." Dorian glanced over at him again, cocking his head. "How much do you know of the Chantry?"
At that Quintas shrugged. "A few things, I suppose. Enough to know not all of the Chantry's followers are in agreement, but then that whole civil war and Conclave thing kind of tipped me off." He slid his gaze to Dorian, a sly smile tugging at his lips. "Why?" he went on, dropping his voice to a low rumble of a whisper. "Do you think it unbecoming of her Herald to know so little about Andraste?"
Dorian couldn't help it -- the shift in pitch, the glint in his eyes and the way he widened them culminating in the desired effect of making the mage laugh. An honest, unabashed sort of laughter Dorian hadn't thought he'd had in him after all these years. But that was just another facet of Quintas, he was discovering: he caught people off-guard.
"It may land you in some hot water," he replied, shaking his head. "Well, hotter water."
"Positively boiling," Quintas agreed sagely, leaning back against the rough wooden wall of the truly humble abode that served Dorian as shelter in this place. "If I'm not careful I might inspire some cults of my own."
"Is that not sacrilegious amongst the Dalish, then?"
He'd meant it as a joke, but Quintas merely shrugged, giving it actual thought.
"I'm sure they wouldn't like it."
"…'they?'"
"Well, we. The Dalish as a collective group. I wouldn't like it, personally, but not in terms of blasphemy."
"Oh?"
"Not wild about the attention."
Dorian snorted at that, leaning back himself. "I have some very bad news for you, then."
Another slow, small smile, and he wondered what was on the elf's mind, where his thoughts drifted when he gazed up at the sky like he was now. He followed his line of sight, picking out the constellations in the cloudless heavens. What did the stars say to him? Mean to him? What stories did they hold, and how different were they from his own?
"Definitely not great for avoiding attention, is it?" he whispered after a moment, drawing Dorian back down to earth. The mage hummed, turning, and saw the elf had drawn a leg up, foot braced on the bench, arm resting on his knee so he could better see his hand and the mark it bore. It crackled slightly and Quintas shook his hand out, as if discharging some of that built-up energy.
"I'm afraid not." His eyes were drawn to it, squinting a little past the glow and just making out the delicate runes engraved in the elf's hand. "But at least it's useful in some capacity."
"Some," Quintas agreed, gently curling his fingers into a fist. He tilted his head back, but his gaze was drawn to Dorian this time. "I wish I could remember how I got it." And maybe it was the moonlight and the way it fell all around him, maybe it was the pleasant deepness of his voice, but Dorian was struck, suddenly, with how beautiful he was. He'd thought it before, had noticed his finer qualities back at Redcliffe and on the trek here, but he hadn't known him as well then. An acknowledgement of attraction with no substance, but now…
Dorian cleared his throat, pulling his gaze away from that blue intensity. "Well, if that's a thinly veiled request to go gallivanting through time again, I'm afraid it's out of the question."
Quintas chuckled, and Dorian glanced over in time to see the elf get to his feet. He stretched, and Dorian did his best not to follow the lines of his body, lithe and more muscled than one would have expected, shoulders broadened from years of archery, but it was a futile effort. He was reasonably sure Quintas didn't notice.
The Herald turned, flashing him another crooked smile.
Reasonably.
"Well you're no fun," he teased, eyes glinting, mischievous, and Dorian scoffed.
"I am plenty fun, I assure you," he retorted, and that smirk widened.
"Guess you'll just have to prove that to me one of these days, hm?" and Dorian felt himself grow flustered, like some delicate flower, and Quintas had no business lowering the pitch of his voice so effectively. Dorian was no wilting wallflower; he wasn't one to blush, to get hot and bothered, especially since the bulk of their conversation this evening had been about cults.
Get a grip, man.
Quintas, the shameless rogue, merely winked before slipping away as quietly as he'd come.
@theoriginalladya this is technically not a WIP so much as it’s character testing, haha.
Some DAI work between my Lavellan Inquisitor and Dorian, whose voice I’m still not super sure I’ve got but I’m working on it haha
"So you're technically nobility, right?"
The question caught Dorian unawares and he grunted as the branch he'd been trying to avoid smacked into his shoulder. A quiet laugh drew his attention to the left, to where Quintas was watching him in amusement. The pair weren't far from Haven, having slipped into the neighboring woods about mid-morning. Dorian because he could only tolerate the herbalist for so long and Quintas for his own reasons.
"Didn't I mention?"
"You said a lot of words about a house and a scion, I think."
"Well, there you have it."
Quintas rolled his eyes, but his smile was good-natured.
"Do humans always need to come up with unique titles for everything?" he asked, musing, moving ahead again. No tree branches snagging on his clothing, Dorian noted with a scowl.
Then again, this was more Quintas's area of expertise.
"The titles do mean different things, you know."
Quintas hummed. "The difference of who owns more than everyone else?"
"…basically."
"So how rich are you?"
"My family is well off," Dorian replied, swatting at another branch. "Assuming I'm allowed back once this happy quest is settled, I suppose I'd be rich again. Why?"
"Wondering if it's worth the bother of robbing you."
"Hilarious."
But the conversation didn't come from nowhere, Dorian knew. One thing he'd noted about the Herald was a tendency to come at certain subjects from an unexpected angle, a means of testing the waters. Recognizable enough, seeing as Dorian employed much the same tactic when his back was to the wall, politically speaking. Something had prompted this line of questioning; he just wasn't sure what.
"I'll tell Sera you're destitute, never fear."
"Sera is planning on robbing me?"
"Something about being unnecessarily haughty over breakfast this morning."
"I was barely awake!"
"Mm, still. I'd keep an eye on your breeches if I were you."
Still not it, Dorian thought, lips pursed. He stole glances at his companion every so often as they trudged through the snow, noting the tension around his eyes, the slight tightening of his mouth. Agitated, but he wasn't sure by what.
