did the protag handwriting thing (literally handwritten with pen and scanned so these might be slightly ass). pretty sure this trend was kicked off by @/fellamorte
Qalan Tabris (yes I did two for him)
2. Connor Hawke
3. Lena Hawke
4. Rella Lavellan
5. Anaan (Mercar, but whenever possible she doesn't use her last name)
6. Issala Laidir
Descriptions -
Qalan - 1. Journal entry, across from which were pressed clovers and a rose. 2. Letter to Shianni. Even in something fast and only intended to be seen by himself, his writing is still clear and obviously well practiced, though with a tendency to underline things for emphasis and draw in the margins - both of which he tries to avoid in correspondence with others.
Connor - Crumpled first draft of a letter. Is this even writing? No but really, without putting in a lot of effort to make it legible, his writing is the worst. Rapid chicken scratch with words frequently crossed out, letters overlapping or sometimes missing. It's a good thing that he could eventually pay Bodahn to transcribe all but his most personal correspondence.
Lena - Excerpt of a letter to Bethany. I once said this woman hasn't relaxed since she was thirteen years old, and it definitely shows in her writing, though it's at least more recognizable as actual words.
Rella - Until the events of DA:I, she was illiterate, and only signed her name on correspondence transcribed by Josephine - often with enough pressure to tear the paper. Even once she could write on her own (frankly, relying on others was too irritating for her to NOT learn how), her writing retained a sharp, slow appearance and she always held her pen in a death grip.
Anaan - Excerpt of a letter to her eldest son. Open, cheerful and fast writing, fitting for her personality even if some people think it looks strangely juvenile.
Issala - Waterlogged scrap of a note, found in Llomeryn. Unable to read or write until he was nearly an adult, his writing always looked (and usually was) rushed and simple, with all capital letters to keep things quick and uncomplicated.
WIp Wednesday but it's just my Hawke and my Inquisitior talking in the middle of the night. 1105 words.
Deathbed Confession
Skyhold was never truly quiet, but at night it came close. Rella rolled over in the bed, tossing the blanket off again. It was too damn soft, and someone had closed the window again anyway. She flung the wall of glass aside, leaned over the balcony and rubbed her eyes, careful as always to touch them only with her right hand. Crickets chirped and nightingales whistled in the trees, and from far below two voices drifted, loud but not yet intelligible. She closed her eyes and let the scents of lilac and embrium in the cool air wrap around her. Whoever was awake, they’d come to her later if their concerns mattered - or if they didn’t.
“No. I don’t want… this. Keep it.”
Her ears perked up. It was Varric, sounding - for him at least - unusually incensed.
“No. You’ll deliver this to him yourself, when you get back to him.”
“Would you just-”
“You should get some sleep, Killer.”
“You know I don’t- Varric? Get back here! I wasn’t- Agh!”
Rella sighed and shook her head. For all that Varric called the human a friend, he didn't seem to like him much.
Uneven footsteps approached, punctuated with the rap of a cane on wood. She took the dagger from her nightstand, sheathed it on her thigh and smoothed her dress over it - hardly a maul, but better than nothing. There was a series of loud, fast knocks.
“Yes?”
“Inquisitior, I need to speak with you. In private.”
“Can't it wait?”
“No.”
“Yes, it can.”she said, and returned to the balcony. The knocking continued. She tried to tune it out. The knob turned.
“Oh, fenhedis. Fine.” She opened the door. It slammed against the wall.
“Good.” The human stepped inside, and before she could say or do anything else he'd sat on her bed, cane across his lap. He absently tapped it, half muted flesh and half steel scratching on polished wood.
“Well,” She stood in front of him, one hand on her hip and the other on her dagger. “what is it,” She bit her lip, pretending to search her mind for his name. “Hawke?”
He was silent. The tip of his metal thumb was filed down on one side like a knife. It dug into the other, a red line down his left hand and under his sleeve. A moment later, with a flick of his wrist, every candle in the room lit. From her nightstand, the chandelier and sconces on the walls, orange light fell over them.
“Well, that's answered, then.”
“What? Oh.” He wiped the blood off on his coat. “I suppose it is.”
“Lovely.” She stepped back and leaned against the wall, fingers wrapped around the handle of her maul propped up by the door. “Funny, last time a blood mage barged into my quarters-”
“I'm sure you made quick work of him.” The human’s gaze traced the scars on her face as if following rivers. Messy red curls fell over his own. “And good on you for that.” He smiled, crooked, closed mouthed and razor thin. “But I just wanted to talk.”
“You have been.” She did not let go, or tell him that was not the day she'd remembered. “Get to-”
He reached into his pocket and set a thin silver box on the bed beside him. “We’re traveling to Crestwood tomorrow.”
“Yes, for this Warden of yours, then promptly to Adamant. What of it?”
He held the box up to the light, inspecting the edge. “I… worry that not all of us will return.”
She let go of the hammer. “You mean yourself.”
“Is it that obvious?” He shrugged. “Regardless, I…. You have messengers, agents in the Free Marches, correct?”
She nodded.
“Can you…?” He breathed in deep, still looking down at the box as if it would spring open and bite him. “If I….”
“If you die.” She crossed her arms.
He rubbed his eye. “Yes.”he said. “If I die, can you have this delivered to a home near Wycome?” Head bowed, he held up the box. SIlver scraped on a steel palm.
“A last will, huh?” She took it, a sheet of cold metal in her hand. A single delicate clasp held it shut. “Too good for a simple letter?”
“No, it- Oh, don’t-”
His warning came a second too late. She pressed the clasp. A needle poked out and dug into her hand. From under the lid came a stifled grinding sound.
“I should have expected that.”
“I tried to warn you.”he said. “It’ll only open for one person, and only if I'm dead.”
“So it's a confession.” She tossed the box back onto the bed, hand above her dagger again. The human was silent. She unsheathed the blade. Candlelight wavered off of it, collecting in the terrible green well in her palm. He'd cut down scores of his own in Kirkwall, to say nothing of clan Sabrae - both choices he still defended - and had never quite said the accusations that had gotten him run out of the city after mere months as viscount were actually false. Varric had said he'd never go that far. She was less sure.
“So, will you?” The question was short and quiet, but lingered in the air like dust over rubble.
She poked the blade tip against the anchor, just over the edge. It didn't hurt. She wished it would. She tried to imagine what was so terrible that it could only be revealed from the grave, and only to the one man who'd stayed with him through it all.
“Inquisitior?”
She shuddered and gritted her teeth. “Cullen is sending soldiers to Wycome. A messenger can accompany them.”
The man stood and leaned on his cane. There still seemed to be a weight on his shoulders. “Good. I'll give you the precise location in the morning, Inquisitior.”
She nodded. Hinges creeked in the quiet.
“Hawke.”
He stopped, the door half open. “Yes?”
“Whatever your… misdeeds,” She pointed at the box with her dagger. “confessing will not undo them.” She looked up, met his empty gaze for a moment before he turned away. “I doubt it will even ease your regrets.”
“I…” He pulled at his hair, over the scars and the empty eye socket above them. “...don’t know if I regret it.”
“All the same….”
He nodded. “But it must be worth something. We were good to each other, so... I can hope...” He tapped his staff, stained wood fastened to his belt and topped with a halo of steel hooks. “...that he remembers his time with me well, despite this.”
“That's out of your hands.”
The man sighed but said nothing more. The door clicked shut behind him.
And like no coherent thoughts but something something both Sera and Rella feeling like Outsiders in their respective cultures and one dealing with it disdain and one with extreme pride.
On the one hand I desperately want to write something that properly addresses the well of sorrows in vg (really though if there's an explanation I missed that would tell me why it never seemed to come up please tell me?) because like. Rella was basically plunging into it during wphw. That and her still proudly wearing the elgarnan vallaslin (mentally recontextuallized because... yeah). I know it's not the inquisitors story but I feel like she'd be having Quite The Situation right about then.
A bit harder to think of terrible fanon for Rella but I think people would either make her way softer or way more of a bitch, she'd get the aggressive dom top treatment in smut (lol. lmao even), be portrayed as a worse mother than she was, and there'd definitely be posts about her relationship with Sera being like. predatory because age gap lesbians.
