#scharoux

[scharoux]

Guess who got everything to make her own Funko POP characters?!

I'm so excited to get started, but also nervous as hell 😬

[buttsonthebeach]

“Take My Hand”

It’s been 84 years since I wrote anything, largely thanks to Smol Beach, but when @scharoux asked me to do a commission for the 14 Days of DA Lovers event, I couldn’t resist this delicious, angsty prompt.

Thank you as always for trusting me with Rhaella, Sacha, and everyone check out all the lovely art and writing for the event!

*************

Pairing: Rhaella Lavellan x Solas

Rating: G

Rhaella was over the edge of the cliff before she knew what had happened.

One moment - frost at her fingertips as she cast a glyph to freeze the Red Templar barrelling towards her - the next - nothing but iron-grey sky and her stomach hollowing out as she fell. She was too shocked to be afraid, to do anything but fall. Her right side hurt. Why did it hurt so terribly?

She shouldn’t be falling.

She needed to stop falling.

“Rhaella!”

The voice broke through. She reached out blindly, all animal instinct, caught hold of the edge of one of the basalt pillars that marked the Storm Coast, scrabbled to hold onto it. Processed finally that the ache in her side was an arrow. She must have been shot by a different templar as she cast the glyph.

She was slipping.

“Rhaella!”

The ocean roared below her. It would be easy, she thought, to let go. To fall. She knew she needed to hold on though. The Anchor crackled in her hand, pain lancing up her left arm as it did. She needed to hold on.

“Rhaella!”

There was a loud crack on the cliff above her, a concussive wave of force. A spell. The magic from it rushed through her own aura, made her flinch at its power.

She was slipping. She was slipping. She was going to fall. She was going to fall.

And then there was Solas above her, his hand outstretched.

“Rhaella, take my hand!”

She did it without hesitating. He pulled her up. It was as easy as falling had been. Trusting all her weight to him. He had her. He had her. 

Even through their armored gloves she could feel the strength of his hand and his arm. She could feel how he hauled her close to him as she cleared the edge of the cliff, kicking and pulling her way along to help him. She could feel his warmth, how heavily he was breathing.

He had her.

She looked at him - at the raindrops on his cheekbones, his eyelashes - at the way his pupils were blown wide, his full lips parted like he was about to say something. Like he was about to kiss her. She melted against him, willing him to.

And then she remembered.

Crestwood.

The pale blue light that wreathed his hands as he burned her vallaslin away.

Solas stepped away from her then, as he had that night.

“The boss okay?”

Bull was hefting his axe out of the body of the archer who’d shot her. The wet crunch shocked the last of the reverie from Rhaella’s system. Her wet armor clung to her and her lungs burned from screaming or panting or both. She’d nearly fallen and died in the midst of a battle. The Anchor buzzed and flickered. How could she have been so careless? Who would have sealed the rifts and defeated Corypheus if she was gone?

And how did she lose sight of all of that as she fell, as he rescued her? How did her mind circle endlessly back to him when he'd rejected her? Harden your heart, he'd said. She started to -

“I believe so,” Solas called back to Bull.

And then his hand was on her right side, where the arrow was, and Rhaella was lost again.

“I can -” she began, though the words seemed to come from somewhere outside herself as she focused on that point of contact.

“Let me -” he said, his words tripping over hers.

Rhaella let him.

Rhaella let him examine the wound even though she already knew it was more bruising than anything else, something she could easily have tended herself, because it had been only a fortnight since Crestwood (would she ever look at that name on a map again without her heart cracking open?) and that fortnight had felt like falling, freewheeling, untethered, as she replayed the scene over and over again. Standing there, his hand on her side as he examined the wound, felt like solid ground again.

Why? She wanted to ask him, even though she knew it was pointless. He hadn’t given her an answer that night or any night since then. But the terror in his voice as he called her name - as he begged for her to take his hand -

In another world. Why not this world? If you are that afraid to lose me -

“It did not pierce your armor,” he said. “But I would imagine you are quite sore from the impact. I could ease your pain if you...”

He looked away as his words trailed off. Perhaps what she was thinking was written plainly on her face.

Yes. You could ease my pain. You could tell me why.

Harden your heart, Rhaella.

“That won’t be necessary.”

Rhaella wondered if she sounded hollow to anyone who could hear her, or if it was another aftereffect of the fall. If the wind was still rushing in her ears.

Solas moved away from her. Only an inch or so, but it was enough. Boundary lines were redrawn.

"Inquisitor," he said, soft, polite, distant as the moon.

Rhaella did not heal the wound. Not right away. The ache was a reminder to stay focused on her duty, to not be so careless next time. To fix things herself, because she was alone again. Solas had made that perfectly clear.

Except -

That night, as the camp prepared to settle in, the Inquisition soldiers buzzing around them like fireflies as they worked through their last orders of the day -

Rhaella watched as Bull asked Solas if he wanted to play a game of chess with a real board this time. She saw Solas as he hesitated to answer, his own words needing to travel a great distance before he spoke them, the way her own words did (no thank you, Bull. Not tonight). She saw from the corner of her eye how he looked at her just a moment too long - just long enough that she thought she could see cracks around his mask -

And then all she wanted to do was cross the distance between him and say take my hand and pull them both back to shore.

[briarfox13]

Rhaella for the lovely @scharoux <3 Thank you for always being so nice! and supportive <3

I hope she looks okay!!!

[darth-salem-emperor-of-earth]

I got this beauteous sketch commission from @scharoux for my OC, Jessamine Honeycutter, from the Choice of Games: Heart of the House, an interactive text game. The amount of precise, intricate detail in this sketch, from the hair to the rosebuds, and her facial features is simply incredible and done so deftly! Jessamine looks so divine and serene here, I love the little gleam of emotion in her eyes or how delicate her eyelashes look here. The way some of her tresses curl up in front of her ear or how that lovely braid on top is styled adds such a great touch to this commission. Thank you for bringing my OC to life, @scharoux! <3 :D <3

[oftachancer]

@scharoux drew this incredible portrait of my cocky, youthful Aran Trevelyan. I am so, so happy!!! He’s trouble, and she captured his trouble!! How! It is a mystery!!! But there he is!

[first-hunter]

Chilled, for one word prompts 😊

[tessa1972]

Endless thanks to @scharoux (prompts idea) and @sanzosin (art) ❣❣

[beaubartley]

For @scharoux ‘s @14daysofdalovers prompts

Day 11 - Love Potion

Pairing - Post Trespasser Solavellan

—————

He heard footsteps approaching, light and quick, two sets.

“Report,” Solas said, voice firm and carrying. He didn’t bother turning away from the desk and papers before him.

His scouts saluted briefly before kneeling in some strange form of deference that he had never demanded of them. It made them comfortable to revere him in this way and Solas strategically did nothing to change that.

“The caches are clear, Fen’Harel. We made contact with the informant.”

“Very good.” He nodded once, standing to his full height. The weight of his armour pulled at his shoulders as he squared them. “Anything else?”

He saw them shift a glance between themselves from his periphery before the shorter one spoke.

“We found...uhm, offerings sir, a-at several of your statues on our way there and back. We left them for the moment and informed our commander, however it was very strange.”

“In what way?” Solas asked.

The other spoke this time. “They were all the same. Vials filled with some unidentified liquid. And attached were notes…”

“Notes?” He prompted.

“Yes, they were sealed, we left them alone.”

“I see. Thank you.” The dismissal was obvious. The two stood, turned, and left.

Vials and notes? Solas caught the hum in his throat before he could vocalize it.

He sent a small dispatch to go and collect the offerings en masse in the early morning hours. When Solas awoke the next day— chest hollowed and mind sharp after a night of watching Lavellan from the outskirts of the Fade— they were already on his desk. Meticulously organized vials that almost glowed an opalescent pink. The glasses that contained the unassuming potion were intricately made, all sloping curves and smooth grooves, each sealed with a wax dipped cork and shimmering ribbon. Afixed to each ribbon was a small roll of parchment the same colored wax as the cork and a tiny red thread smooshed into the center of a numbered seal—presumably to make opening easier.

His instincts told him he already knew who was behind this, but his curiosity still managed to get the better of him.

Surely there could be no great harm. They were given as an offering to him, so it would be rude to ignore them. That’s what he told himself to dissuade any guilt as he took the vial labeled with a waxed stamped ‘1’ in hand.

He inspected it carefully, turning it over with his fingers. He felt no great thrall coming from the liquid inside, and he sent out a brief brush of mana to see if it would respond in any way. It did not. The color was quite beautiful, regardless.

Solas moved on to the tiny scroll, slowly unraveling the ribbon that held it fast to the impotent potion, pulling the thread through the wax and unrolling it to reveal the contents inside.

In perfect, neat pen was a message:

“Made you look. Enjoy the rest.”

It was unmistakably the Inquisitor's hand. Solas went for the next vial, giving it the same amount of caution and care as the first.

Another message:

“Have you sampled the love potion yet? Us Dalish are well known for them and it is an easy way to make a pretty copper off of a lovestruck fool. I do believe we inherited this deceptive trait from somewhere, although the source alludes me at the moment.”

He was already opening the third message, and then the fourth and so on and so on. Her words filled his head as if she were there, whispering them besides him.

“Fear not, they are only poisonous if you have an allergy to berry blossoms, fish scales, or mint… and if you are allergic to any of the above then this is far more hostile than intended and I apologize.”

“Usually, we’ll attach little bits of romanticism to these. Sometimes, even a bit or eroticism. That always costs more, of course. I will be sending a very large bill ℅ Fen’Harel.”

“Here is an example: ‘Tis that a sword in its sheath or are thou happy to see me?’ ...It was not very romantic, nor compelling. I do doubt the lady was lucky that night, but I will never forget her forwardness.”

“It is in that spirit of forwardness that I forward these sentiments to you. I do suggest you sit down. And before you ask yourself ‘Surely, this must be the work of the great Master Tethras’, no Varric did not help me with these. Could you imagine how much worse they’d be? You may well soon find out, already I am running out of trite cliches.”

Solas shook his head, doing as the note suggested and settling in. With a bit of unconscious mirth he read the next message:

“May I compare thee to a summer’s wind, you hot old fart.”

And Solas laughed, actually laughed. He had not done so since dawning Fen’Harel again completely and something in his chest loosened significantly.

She was so absurd, so ridiculous. So very very wonderful. Never let it be said that the Inquisitor wasn’t effective.

Her love potions had worked and he had not even consumed a single drop.

Solas reached for another.