Kiruna Stamell et Barry Atsma dans “The Serpent Queen (Saison 1)” série créée par Justin Haythe (2022) - adaptée de “Catherine de Medicis : Renaissance Queen of France” de Leonie Frieda (2004) - avril 2024.
If you’re constantly hungry for new music, like me, then maybe this will help satisfy. All the new shit I could find on SoundCloud. Additional recommendations are welcome.
UPDATE: Did not realize that in posting this a giant picture of me would appear. Apologies. Also, hello. Also I kind of miss my long hair...
untitled beginning of a fic, temporarily called i hate you so much rn cheese
implied sten/amell kind of if you squint, g~~~ for now cause fuck if i know where this is going
It begins on a quiet night, no darkspawn to kill or bandits to outsmart, when he knocks her staff right out of her hands.
She flinches--it didn't hurt, but she wasn't expecting it, and she's still wary of the Qunari after what he'd told her about what his people would do to mages like her. But she recovers quickly, at least; furrows her brows and gives him a haughty glare.
"And what was that for?"
There is no expression on his face; at least, he doesn't seem angry or desperate. A bit annoyed, perhaps, but that seemed to be the case for most of their interactions in the weeks since she'd opened his cage in Lothering.
"A true warrior would not have lost his grip on his weapon."
His explanation, scant as it is, sours her mood even more. She scoffs quietly and pushes off the rock she'd made her seat, trudging across their campsite to retrieve the staff. Her fingers curl around well-worn wood for only a moment before it's out of her grasp again; not knocked away, but held in his hand. Even one could swallow both of hers, just in his palm.
"And it is light--too light. You cannot do any real damage with it; it cannot even be used as a spear, or a club. A useless...large stick."
"That's why I use it for magic, not for hitting people with it!" Her words are punctuated with fervent attempts to get it back, practically hopping in place, but all he has to do is raise it a foot or so above his head. She keeps trying for a moment or two, fingertips grazing against his biceps at her highest jumps, but eventually she admits defeat and stoops to catch her breath.
Were it not Sten being the perpetrator of the trick, she might have thought he was amused. His mouth seems to turn up into more of a smirk, anyways. She stays hunched over, but raises her head and looks up at him through narrowed eyes.
"What exactly are you trying to prove?"
"That you are far from prepared for dealing with battle, let alone taking up a fight against the archdemon. If you were to face the beast now, you would be killed within seconds. Perhaps a minute, at most."
The comment stings more than it ought to, but she raises herself up to her full height--only up to the lower half of his chest--and upturns her chin.
"We've already had this conversation. I didn't ask for this role, it was not my choice to have the greatest expectations for this blight resting on my shoulders. And I don't need you telling me I'm going to die without a chance, I do that enough on my own, thank you so very much!" Her hand swipes to grab for the staff a final time, but it's a pointless endeavor; he catches her wrist, nearly engulfing it with only his fingers.
"Jeanne." She pauses at the sound of her name and glances at his face suspiciously; it wasn't like him to call her anything but 'Warden' or 'Amell'. He's giving her a stern look, but there's almost a hint of concern to it. "I am not telling you these things for the sake of demotivation. It's merely an observation--one you cannot argue with."
"I'm well aware of just how blunt you can be. What is your point?"
He furrows his brow and carefully turns her hand to face palm-up; the action is surprisingly gentle, even if she does feel like she's standing on her tiptoes. His eyes glance over the marks and minor scars; calluses from where she gripped her staff or held her pens, paper cuts that never fully healed and ink stains that wouldn't go away no matter how hard she scrubbed.
"Your hands are those of a scholar, not a warrior," he muses, so quiet she nearly has to strain to hear him.
"The templars aren't about to give compulsory lessons in how to handle a weapon; they think we're dangerous enough as it is. I've spent my life hunkered down in libraries and ruining my eyes by candlelight. What did you expect?"
The qunari is silent for a long moment, but he still doesn't let go of her arm; she shifts in place a little uncomfortably, wiggles her fingers as if to remind him she's still there. Finally, he lets her wrist slip from his hand and meets her eyes; there is a determination that hadn't been there before.
"There's little to be done for this country's unfortunate decisions in who it decides to place its fate," the words chafe at her, but he continues, "but it does not mean you should continue to echo such unwise decisions. Which is why you will be joining me for training exercises, starting tomorrow evening."
She squints a little, bobs her head down, tilts to the side; as though trying to understand just what he said.
"I...excuse me?"
"Ill prepared as you are, you cannot expect me to fall in line with your commands." Her disbelief at his words doesn't seem to faze him; in fact, it only seems to harden his resolve. "The very least to be done is assuring you have a perfunctory understanding of weaponry and how to fight. Daggers, swords, spears...we will figure out what you're most suited for, but it's important to learn the basics of each."
"But...ah...b..."
"What we will face in this forest on the morrow is unknown, but barring extreme circumstances, I expect you ready at the campfire by sunset." Her staff is finally dropped into her hands, though the shock is great enough that she hardly notices.
"Get your sleep. You will need it for the days to come."
He leaves her there, open-mouthed and wide-eyed in the dark, and she could swear she hears Morrigan's delighted cackling somewhere off in the distance.
