Bold of you to think I'm organized enough to have a WIP folder @hoochieblues.
Rules: Post the names of all the files in your WIP folder, regardless of how non-descriptive or ridiculous. Let people send you an ask with the title that most intrigues them, and then post a little snippet or tell them something about it! Then tag as many people as you have WIPs.
I'm adapting these to brief descriptions. If there are any ongoing files in my GDrive I'll include the title/first line, but those are temp then everything moves to Scrivener.
Tagging: @atypicalacademic @motherofqups @niffty24, @ankoku-jin and @hollyand-writes
Here's what we have going on right now:
(In addition to the super fun work of writing my own bloody geometry textbook because the major publishers can't be bothered to do it decently/even vaguely in line with the current academic standards.)
Thrift Shop Vikings continues. It is cringe, it is dark, it is... hopefully actually decent. It has also grown from, "eh, think I can make the Nanowrimo draft into a decent short novel" to "yeah... this is going to be three genre length novels." I want to say I'm 80% of the way to beta-reader ready draft of Act 1, but I'm scared of jinxing myself. (That said, if anyone is interested in not quite Game of Thrones level dark fantasy, with yours truly treating crack [omegaverse] seriously, HMU. This is... not for everyone, and much darker than the fic I've written.)
Once Sindre had recovered enough to not feel that he needed to sleep until the end of days and the final battle, he began waking with the sun.
Misery barely described...
There's an idiom: as useless as nipples on a man
Where the Elfroot Grows is not dead. It is just percolating. In fact, recently Jeanne has been very loud about being the POV character for the arrival back at Skyhold. Also, the fish out of water appeal of forcing Rhys though Halamshiral is just too damn much. Also, I feel entirely empowered to make up my own canon now.
Jeanne became one of Rhys's primary minders
Scene: Getting Hawke moving
Rhys wakes to a kiss pressed to the back of his neck
Adrian's arm remains extended
R&D Ocean
On that note, I'm not really filing the serial numbers off WTEG per se, because I think I've backed far enough up to basic fantasy tropes. Or maybe I'm filing the serial numbers off, IDK and IDC. Either way, I'm at the world-building, occasional scene writing, creating lore, boning up on history and anarchist theory stage of taking the elements I particularly like and running with them, while paying more attention to consistent characterization and general coherence in terms of theory and theology. Currently has more of a steampunk vibe, as I can't quite pull off the level of 'sweeping social change more than mage rebellion' with a thoroughly medieval world-build. I would get into my Xnity, but to the left, meanderings here, but it would turn into a thesis. Anyway, both this and Thrift Shop Vikings are engaged with the idea that anyone who believes god is on their side is as dangerous as hell, just in very different directions.
And @hollyand-writes I really do have enough of an outline for Gatsby meets Kirkwall to get somewhere with it. Just maybe not until the school year is over. Every time I drive past the road named for the local moonshiners I'm reminded/start thinking on it.
Hawke slumps against Anders, giving in, letting the vigilance which shadows him like a second body rest for a moment. Anders chest vibrates as he laughs at the jokes flying between Varric, Bull, and Dorian – generally at the expense of each other – but he’s yet to put more than the barest of dents in his second pint. (Or had Hawke consumed that finger or two of dark ale himself?) Justice being a grump about drunken frivolity again? Who can say? At least the spirit had let Anders have a cup of wine with dinner.
He keeps one hand in near constant contact with him, resting on his knee or drawing patterns over his back trying to ignore just how distinctly he can feel each of Anders’ ribs. He must not have been eating enough – even before the Taint caught up with him and the Templars got to him. Hawke hadn’t been paying enough attention.
An hour or so past the end of dinner, Rhys joins them, yawning loudly as he drops down onto a bench beside Dorian. He rubs his temples and shakes out his hair. Cassandra had allowed him to eat before pulling him aside to review messages they’d received from Skyhold and whatever other Inquisitorial tasks had come up throughout the day. The poor bastard has been holed up with her for the past hour. Maybe longer. Maker. And she’s been hunting Hawke down for that thankless job.
Iron Bull chuckles, pours a pint of dark beer, and slides it across the table to Rhys. “There you go, Boss.”
“Thanks.”
“Looking a little tired there, Lucky.” Varric wiggles an eyebrow at them. “Early morning activities cutting into sleep time.”
“Or maybe it was late night.”
Dorian’s clears his throat and glares. Rhys just tilts his head to the side and blinks at Varric in a manner that very much reminds Hawke of Merrill. And like Merrill, it isn’t clear with Rhys how much is genuinely missing some subtext and how much is a matter of having figured out the ways in which people assume he’ll miss a subtext can be useful.
Tagged by @hoochieblues! Tagging: @ankoku-jin, @motherofqups, @cumbiazevran, @pinkfacewhispers, @atypicalacademic
For some context, Josie and Leliana, being wise, decide to host a little soiree of their own in Halamshiral prior to the Empress's ball as a sort of test run for Rhys.
---
Dorian glances across the room. Rhys is rubbing the hem of his coat between his fingers, rapidly moving toward panicking if he hasn't already leapt past that point. Kaffas. Dorian excuses himself from the twittering conversation he's been idly engaged in and strides across the room. Being at least somewhat incognito gets in the way of an easy excuse to pull Rhys aside, and they are both clearly with the Inquisition, so it's not unreasonable they'd have some business to attend to that doesn't involve revealing Rhys's identity.
"Pardon me." Dorian takes Rhys's arm, feeling the slight relief rush through him. "I need to borrow the young gentleman for a few moments."
Rhys's fingers weave through his tightly as he maneuvers them through the ballroom and into one of the small salons on the side. He throws the bolt behind them, relieved that the room is already empty.
Rhys has stripped off his mask and collapsed onto a sofa, holding his head in his hands before Dorian can turn back around.
"You're okay, Lark. Just breathe." Dorian sits down next to him and sets a hand on his shoulder. Rhys's inhales and exhales are distressingly stuttering. "Breathe in, darling. Then out." With coaching, the pattern of Rhys's inhales and exhales slowly evens out. Dorian gently strokes the side of Rhys's jaw with his thumb. "There you go, good boy."
With the soft praise, Dorian feels some of the tension leave Rhys's body. Some not-so-small part of Rhys is still a nine-year-old boy, confused about why he'd been taken away from his home and struggling to figure out what he'd done that had been so very, very wrong. And even more confused by the world he'd been tossed into with no warning.
"I can't do it." Rhys murmurs. "I think I've already insulted two chevaliers. And apparently stated an opinion on a land dispute between two dukes I've never heard of, and I don't know how I did that -" The place and pitch of his speech are both riding rapidly. "And I didn't manage to keep my tone even when someone brought up the Circles, and there are too many lights from different directions..."
Dorian is relieved by the stream of words. Anxious as they may be, it's better than Rhys stressed to the point of going nonverbal.
The warm light spreads across Cassandra’s face, softening the hard lines. “Thank you.” She sets the candle down on the table, murmurs a silent prayer, and returns her attention to him. “We were looking for Hawke. We thought he might be the leader we needed.”
“You were looking for the hero of Varric’s novel.” If her goal had been to rope Adrian in, involving Rutherford was a mistake. Adrian didn’t even consider him the most tolerable of the Kirkwall Templars, just preferable to Meredith if he had to deal with someone of high rank. “You realize, by now, that Hawke doesn’t exist.” Adrian isn’t the Champion with a steel skin who somehow walks away from every fight without a scratch on him. Anders knows that very well. Varric knows it too, but the little ‘project’ he had started in an attempt to tease Adrian back into some semblance of good humor while he was still trying to get back on his feet after the events with the Arishok had grown a bit out of control. It’s not that Adrian wouldn’t be the capable leader Varric’s tale suggested. He’d probably pull off leading the Inquisition – or whatever it is – and pull it off well, but it would destroy him.
“Hmm, in some ways. He seems as honorable as I imagined. As passionate.” She smiles. “Although, not nearly so tall as I had thought.”
Anders snorts. Isabela had contributed quite a few notes about how Varric should describe ‘Hawke’. If he remembers correctly, her key word was ‘beefcake.’
“Varric lies.” Not about things which really matter, of course, but he’ll happily confabulate for the purpose of drama – or if needed, protection. He steps away from the table and sits down on one of the last intact pews. Lie or not, Hawke might just destroy Adrian anyway. Not just ‘Hawke the lie’, no. Anders has contributed enough to breaking Adrian apart on his own.
Who got to write something that doesn't relate to math? Me!!!
tagging: @atypicalacademic, @motherofqups, @pinkfadespirit, @barkspawn-says-mage-rights, @niffty24, and @hollyand-writes if you would like to share any goodies from the week.
The hinges of the doors groan again, interrupting Anders’ musings, and he glances up. Cassandra meets his gaze with her steady one and pauses, holding a pillar candle in her hand. Anders is puzzled by her behavior, until he realizes she’s waiting for a sign from him to enter or to leave and cede the room to him. A Seeker asking him for permission to enter a room? Suddenly, the notion of a dead prophet whispering in his ear seems like the lesser absurdity.
When he nods, she steps into the chapel proper. “I did not expect to find you here.”
“Seeker.” Anders straightens up and turns away from the side table slowly, keeping his hands slightly raised, palms visible. He’s never understood why that posture tended to placate Templars, given that experienced mages rarely needed hand gestures for the majority of spells, but it often did. He grins wryly, mostly to himself, at the old habit, then decides to add a touch of drama for old time’s sake and sketches a half bow. “You’ve found me.”
Will Where the Elfroot Grows get another chapter before I turn a year older? Maybe.
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