Join us in exploring Tranquil characters from the Dragon Age series!
Event Dates: August 25th - August 31st
See our pinned post for participation details & optional prompts!
Join us for a week dedicated to exploring the Tranquil characters from Dragon Age!
To participate, create a fanwork (art, writing, podfic, moodboard, etc.) that features a canon Tranquil character (list here!) or a Tranquil OC. Then post your work here on Tumblr from August 25th - August 31st and tag @tranquilweek so that we can reblog your post.
If you have a question that isn't answered in this post, send us an ask!
Optional Prompts
image description in alt ID || text version of prompts under the cut ⬇️
You are welcome to follow our daily prompts, but it's not required! As long as your creation features a Tranquil character and follows our guidelines, we'll reblog it here.
Submitted creations must adhere to the tagging requirements detailed below and in the post here. Creations that are improperly or inadequately tagged will NOT be promoted on this blog.
This event is not a moral statement about the Rite of Tranquility. Exploring darker or potentially triggering content in fiction is not an endorsement of that content in real life. Tranquility is an element in Dragon Age canon and this event will not pass judgment on how participants choose to explore Tranquility in their works.
That being said, this event will not tolerate or promote:
Harassment of fans or moderators, including unkind or needless criticism of individual players' choices
Character hate or bashing, including blanket hate or bashing of Tranquility, the Chantry, Templars, Mages, the Circle, or other elements of Dragon Age. Criticism and critique of these elements are allowed as long as they are presented in a respectful manner.
Callouts or intentionally inflammatory language
Hate speech or bigotry against any particular group of people (minority & majority groups alike)
Art, writing, or other works created using generative AI, such as ChatGPT or Midjourney
Remember: don't like, don't read; ship & let ship; your kink is not my kink - and that is okay! If you cannot agree to these terms and participate in good faith, this may not be the event for you.
Required Tagging
See the full post about required tagging here
Dragon Age specific content tags:
chantry critical
anti-templar
anti-mage
pro-chantry
pro-templar
pro-mage
[character] critical
General content tags:
nsfw (including, but not limited to, explicit sexual content)
major character death
drugs, alcohol abuse, or addiction
eating disorders, fatphobia, or dysphoria
graphic medical descriptions or bodily fluids (esp. blood, vomit, or birth)
guns (anything to do with them)
harm to a child
fantasy hate speech, slurs, or racism
pregnancy, miscarriage, or abortion
racism, homophobia, transphobia, ableism, etc.
self-harm, suicide, or suicidal thoughts
sexual violence, referenced or explicit
stalking or harassment
violence toward animals
Prompts
Use of prompts is optional! Mix and match, switch the days, don't follow our prompts, or don't use prompts at all, as you prefer.
Any form or level of human-made art is allowed! Drabbles, sketches, fiber art, podfic - if you made it, it counts.
Sun 25: Enchanting || Rite of Tranquility || Skyhold
Mo 26: Focus || Mage Rebellion || Kinloch Hold
Tu 27: Logic || The Breach || Wonders of Thedas
We 28: Free Will || Oculara || The Gallows
Th 29: Research || Cure for Tranquility || Haven
Fr 30: Dreams || The Harrowing || Ostagar
Sat 31: Lyrium || The Conclave || Redcliffe Village
Alternate Prompts: A once fond memory || The Fade || Spirits & Demons || The Gull & Lantern || A friend they knew before
✨We hope you'll join us in August and we're excited to see what everyone creates!✨
I fell behind yesterday, but I'm back with part 6 of the Avexis-as-Cole AU for @tranquilweek! As Haven falls and the Inquisition makes their escape, both Cadash and Avexis make sacrifices to save those they love.
read it on ao3 here!
Avexis & Female Cadash | Rated T | 2260 words | cw: self-sacrifice, canon-typical violence, minor fantasy racism
-
“Forces approaching! To arms!”
Alarm bells rang out over Haven, giving Avexis such a fright that she spilled her half-drunk ale out onto the snow. The pleasant buzz it had given her faded away as she and Varric stared out beyond the wall in horror. She could just barely see the tiny specks that must be the attackers—but she did not need to see them to feel their agony through the Fade. A horribly familiar agony.
It’s them.
“Who would—“ Varric started.
“The Templars,” Avexis cut him off, grabbing her staff and standing to run. “It’s the Templars we couldn’t save.”
Cadash was already at the gate when they arrived, listening to the commander’s assessment.
“Under what banner?”
“None—“
“It’s the Templars,” Avexis interrupted, breathless. “It’s the Templars we couldn’t save at Therinfall.”
“How could you possibly know that?” Cullen asked the question with anger, but Avexis saw the grief and fear that it disguised. She pressed her palm to her chest.
“I know,” she said, answering his question, but looking imploringly at Cadash. “Trust me.”
Cadash nodded. “I do. Cullen, give me a plan.”
“Haven is no fortress…”
Avexis stared at the village gate. The song was stronger, sickly sweet and singing its siren call. At Therinfall, she’d been able to see it as a sickness, to follow the growth of it within and pull it out by the roots. Now, as the Templars crested over the hill, their presence in the Fade was indistinguishable from the red lyrium in their veins.
They're lost , she thought, regret and despair choking her throat. Well, maybe not. Maybe if—
“Avexis, go with Blackwall—“
She snapped back to attention. “No! Please—if you’re going out there, I want to go too.”
Despite the care she had for her companions, Cadash was a pragmatic leader, and she knew how to make hard decisions. Her face was like stone, now. “No. It’s dangerous, and you’re still recovering. We can’t be carrying you.”
“You won’t be,” Avexis insisted. “I can hear their pain—it’s overwhelming. Let me help.”
“We’re not going out there to help them.” Cadash’s words were blunt, but it was a tired hand that ran down the short length of her braid. “If that’s what you’re thinking—“
“It’s not, not like that. I know you’re going to kill them—but the lyrium is rooted so deep, at this point a quick death is the only help they’ll get.”
“Maker’s breath,” swore Cullen, “That’s—Herald, we don’t have time for this. You must decide.”
Cadash studied Avexis’ determined face for just another breath. “Fine. You’re with me—Sera, with Blackwall, get people to the Chantry. And Avexis—“ she added, tossing the words over her shoulder as she turned. “If I tell you to run, to leave, you do it. Heard?”
Heart beating frantically against her ribcage, Avexis withdrew her dagger and nodded. “Heard.”
-
The dragon’s breath was still hot on the back of their necks as they ran through the gates. Haven was burning. Her people were dying.
“We have to help them,” Cadash shouted, running to a cabin nearly engulfed in flames. “Dorian—“
A well placed bolt cleared the debris, and Seggrit fled to safety as they faced a wave of red Templars that had broken through the outer wall. Bull broke through the tavern door and they rushed in to help Flissa—but Avexis froze. She cocked her head and caught the faintest, sobbing cry. She knew that voice.
“Minaeve,” she whispered. Fear gripped her, and she bolted, ignoring Cadash’s shout as she took the steps to the apothecary’s cabin two at a time.
Both the researcher and Adan were laid out prone, too injured to stand under their own power. In the middle of the clearing sat a number of clay pots that Avexis immediately recognized—explosives, ostensibly for Haven’s defense.
“The pots—“ Adan wheezed.
“I know,” Avexis knelt by Minaeve and pulled her arm over her shoulders so that they could stand. “But as long as—“
As long as there’s no active fire, she was about to say. But before she could get the words out, the dragon swooped above them with a vicious screech and with one horrible breath, set the cabins aflame.
“Andraste’s bloody tits,” Avexis hissed. Minaeve pushed at her shoulder.
“Leave me! You have to get to Adan, he’s too close to the pots, he’ll die!”
Avexis shook her head, clinging stubbornly to Minaeve’s hip and shuffling them closer to the Chantry. “I’m not leaving you. You—you—“
How could she explain? They were hardly the closest of friends—Avexis’ magic was too volatile for Minaeve to really trust her. But the researcher had done something no one else had bothered to do.
“You saved them,” Avexis managed, panting as her muscles groaned under Minaeve’s weight. “Saw them, when no one else did. Someone should save you, this time.”
Minaeve’s eyes flitted to the brand that still marred Avexis’ forehead, though it no longer kept her from the Fade. “I—thank you.”
“We’re far enough, I think,” Avexis said after a few more paces. She lowered Minaeve into a snowbank and looked back. Adan was still struggling, trying fruitlessly to move his broken legs and escape the blast radius.
“He’ll never make it—“ Minaeve began, but Avexis was already gone. She ignored the protest of her lungs as she sprinted back to Adan. But where it had been easy to support Minaeve, Adan was broader and heavier than both of the elves. To boot, he could offer no assistance with his legs as they were. The fire was spreading perilously close to the explosive barrels.
“Get out, girl,” Adan snapped. “Don’t both of us need to die!”
“No, no, we can make it—“
“We can’t—“
Their bickering had given the flames just enough time. Time that seemed to slow as Avexis watched in horror, unable to close her eyes the way Adan had. The trail of fire licked at the open lid of the nearest pot—
And extinguished with a hiss. An arrow, shot into the ground, sprayed up snow that doused the flame. Avexis blinked, mind not quite caught up to her eyes. She looked up and saw Cadash at the top of the stairs, bow at her side and murder in her eyes.
The fire was still coming, though—they needed to move. The dwarf came ‘round to Adan’s other side and between the two of them they carried the apothecary toward Minaeve.
“If we’re both alive in a few hours,” Cadash grunted, taking Adan’s full weight so that Avexis could help Minaeve the rest of the way to the Chantry, “we will have words.”
The mood inside the Chantry was dark, but so powerful was the holy atmosphere that everyone’s terror took on hushed tones. By the time Avexis saw Minaeve to the healers and returned, Cadash and the commander were locked in an irate stare. Then, Cadash caught sight of Avexis, who winced.
“That was the stupidest thing you could have done—“
“It was for a good reason!”
“It was still stupid,” Cadash scowled. “And it’s only the lack of time that’s keeping me from ripping you a new one.”
That was as good as forgiven, Avexis knew, though she couldn’t quite summon a smile. “What’s the plan?”
Cadash’s gaze darted to the commander and Avexis nearly missed the barest shake of her head. Cullen’s frown deepened.
“Roderick knows a way out,” Cadash said, gesturing to the brother who had been such a pest. There was a sister with him, wiping his clammy brow, but his skin was pale as only a dying man’s was. “He’s hurt, but he’s the only one who knows. I need you—” she caught Avexis firmly by the elbows “—to go with him. Help him lead the way. It’s the only chance anyone has of surviving this.”
Avexis nodded, already moving to take the sister’s place at Roderick’s side. “And what about you?”
Torchlight glinted off Cadash’s silver tooth as she grinned. “Don’t worry about me,” she said. “Just go.”
The pilgrimage path was meant to be walked in the summer for a reason, and it was hard going. But Roderick’s eye was keen, even as his life drained away with each step. He pointed out the landmarks, leaning heavily on Avexis as they went. She held out a potion—it would do little more than ease his pain, but the less pain he felt, the farther he could go before his body gave up completely.
Eventually, the last of the refugees—for what else could they be called, now—were out of the Chantry. Roderick, Avexis, and the advance group of scouts were high up on the mountainside when the call came from the commander.
“We’re clear! Fire the signal!”
An archer drew back his bow and a mage set the tip of his arrow ablaze. As it streaked up into the inky blackness, Avexis caught the commander’s eye.
“Where is she?” she asked, adjusting her grip around Roderick. Cullen just stared at her with pity, and grief, and shame. Realization sank cold over Avexis.
“No—no—“ she cried. She struggled for her tenuous control, biting hard on her tongue to keep her mind her own. But the Fade around them bent beneath her anguish—her anger—and she knew that she would not be able to hold on. Blood-spattered gauntlets caught her by the shoulders.
“She didn’t want to—but it was the only way,” Cullen said grimly, and Avexis appreciated the attempt at soothing, even as it failed to work. “I’m sorry.”
There was a whistling in the air, growing louder, and then a giant boulder struck the mountainside below them. The Frostbacks rumbled and belched forth an avalanche; snow and ice and rocks thundered down to bury Haven.
To bury Cadash.
“No!” Avexis cried again. Her cheeks were wet with tears, and she was undoubtedly jarring Roderick’s injury with her sobs, but she couldn’t help it. “She can’t—“
“Maker,” Cullen murmured. “Seat her by Your side in death.”
She wouldn’t want that, Avexis thought, bitter through her sorrow. Cadash would have wanted to be returned to the Stone. But the Chantry didn’t care about that. The Inquisition didn’t care about that. They didn’t care about her.
They never had.
“We need to move!” The commander was saying, striding forward decisively. “Clear these rocks, cut back that brush! We can’t stay here.”
“I’m sorry, child.” Roderick coughed, ragged and wet from the blood in his lungs. “She was…well. Her heart was true, and whoever sent her to us knew exactly what we needed.”
Avexis ground her teeth together. It had been Cadash’s last wish for her to keep Roderick alive long enough to save everyone else. That meant she absolutely could not stab him for his asinine comforts.
She stared down at the snow-covered village. What if she had survived? Cadash had stupid luck—if anyone could live through an avalanche, it was her. But she would be injured, surely, and alone. Alone, she would die as surely as if she’d been buried like Haven.
Avexis closed her eyes.
When they weren’t in the Fade, she couldn’t talk to Cole directly. She felt his presence in her soul, or around her heart, particularly when stress and emotion overtook her mind. But she knew that he could hear her, in a way, or at least understand her intention.
You could go to her, help her.
Hesitation, but no denial. And Avexis knew what gave him pause.
You would have to go as you. You would have to leave me.
Affirmation seeped through her. Avexis took a long, slow breath.
The cure for Tranquility was still shrouded in mystery; they knew so little about the specifics of Pharamond’s ritual, or how to apply it safely. But what they did know was that the spirit wasn’t meant to stay with the mage once Tranquility was reversed. In theory, they would touch the mage’s mind, and with the spirit healer’s help, their connection to the Fade would be restored, and the spirit returned to their realm.
Whatever Cole had done, whatever Regalyan had done, it had been off the cuff. Not wrong, really, but not quite right, either. And it meant that Cole had to stay with her for it to stick.
Avexis swallowed. There was no choice, really. Cadash had been prepared to give her life to make sure they survived. She deserved at least one person who was willing to do the same.
Go to her.
The warm comfort that was Cole fretted within her, but Avexis doubled down, thinking her stern determination at him.
Go. To. Her. Find her, and save her. We’re already safe—she needs you now more than I do. So go.
He knew she was right, but his apology was sorrow that lingered in her chest as he slipped through whatever avenue of the Fade only spirits could navigate.
And then it was gone.
She blinked, wiping away the tears on her cheeks, lest they give her a chill and set sickness in her bones. It would be impractical to fall ill when they all needed their strength to survive the mountains. The scouts had cleared the path as Roderick indicated, and Avexis straightened, adjusting her grip on his side for more security.
“Let us go, Chancellor,” she said flatly, voice utterly devoid of the agony from only a moment ago. His brow furrowed, confused. “We must see these people to safety.”
I learned about Tranquil Week this year, and it sounded like it was right up my alley (I love Tranquil characters, and exploring Tranquility as a worldbuilding element of Thedas), so I decided to work on a scene that's been sitting unfinished for a while between a Tranquil OC of mine, and a Chantry Sister OC of mine. I hope to do more with this, but for the time being, I really wanted to just write something from a Tranquil's POV, and this is what I have!
------------------------
Hana was not usual for a Tranquil.
She remembered electing to become Tranquil instead of taking her Harrowing, and she remembered the moment she first experienced the world as this different version of herself.
It had felt like taking a breath after days of a stuffy nose. Instant and complete relief.
Of course, many and most non-Tranquil did not see things this way. And, in fact, several of Hana’s fellow Tranquil would have disagreed as well. No matter what non-Tranquil said, there was never complete agreement among the Tranquil regarding whether or not Tranquility was a benefit. There never had been.
For Hana’s own part, things worked out well.
She was assigned a role, as all Tranquil were. But when she received it, she disputed it. Aide to one of the lesser Sisters of Val Royeaux. Carrying books, delivering messages, ensuring the appropriate vestments were adorned for the appropriate occasions.
In such a role as this, Hana’s skills would be wasted, and therefore she would be without sufficient purpose. The Chantry, as well, would not benefit nearly so much as they could.
Hana told them as much. As a resource, she should be used properly. As a being possessed of a sense of self-autonomy, she would ensure that none used her to any lesser extent.
Silence met her pronouncement, telling of their shock, and Hana was unsurprised to find the delegation process stalled.
It had not, after all, been intended to be a conversation.
One of the elder Sisters – Sister Flore – recovered herself and turned urgently to the others in attendance, “Are we sure the rite was successful!?” She made no effort to soften her tone, nor quiet her voice. Nevertheless, Hana politely said nothing, as the words had not been directed at her.
“Yes, Sister, the rite was performed appropriately, and there was no misconduct,” another, Sister Camille, replied firmly. “She is… as she should be.” Sister Camille waved a hand, as though brushing her companion aside, and locked a steady scrutinizing gaze upon Hana.
She had been one of the attending Sisters at Hana’s undergoing of the rite. Hana remembered her for her rather inflated sense of self-importance. Her confidence, if Hana recalled correctly, outstripped her competence.
Sister Flore—there really was no better word for this particular motion than “fluttered.” Her hands shook and she waved them again at Hana.
“But this—she shouldn’t be—how—!”
It was then that the third Sister in attendance – Sister Mary – stepped forward. Her features were smooth, her expression unruffled, and she spoke with a calm and unassuming cadence.
“Revered Mother, if I may,” she began, bowing slightly and waiting for the Revered Mother to allow her interruption. “Perhaps it would be well to assign her to me?” She looked around the room, head inclined with what Hana supposed should have been respectful deference. The Sisters, seeming not to think so, fell to discontent grumbling, but the Revered Mother listened in silence.
Sister Mary continued.
“As a scholar, I believe it would be a great benefit to have an aide on my travels, and one with a firm temperament besides.” The Sister smiled, polite. “She could keep my research focused, and help ensure that I’m quick to gather necessary resources. Of course…” Her smile grew politer still. “If the Chantry wishes to put her to better use elsewhere, that is entirely its prerogative.”
There was tension to the silence that followed, and Hana took the opportunity to consider the possibility.
It would suit her skills better, she thought, to be always applying her mind actively. To be an aide to a traveling scholar of the Chantry would most certainly allow her to do so.
The traveling itself would keep her active as well, and ensure her exposure to those things of which she was ignorant, allowing her to expand her knowledge and experience.
A much more suitable purpose to her skills than being an errand girl.
“Revered Mother, this proposal is agreeable to me, if I may offer my input,” Hana offered into the silence. Sister Flore’s eyes widened. Sister Camille’s narrowed. The Revered Mother said nothing, gaze moving first over Hana, then over Sister Mary. When she took in a breath to speak, all eyes snapped to her.
“You believe having a Tranquil with you wouldn’t hinder you, Sister, nor affect your travel adversely?”
Sister Mary inclined her head in the negative.
“Not at all, Revered Mother. Anything she doesn’t know which she needs to know we can teach her.”
At this, the Revered Mother raised an elegant eyebrow.
“You are neither templar nor chevalier, Sister,” she said harshly. “What makes you think you can defend her in moments of peril, should she be transferred to your charge?”
The Sister bowed again at the waist—easy deference, likely for the sake of earning capitulation, Hana suspected. “I can defend her well enough, Revered Mother.”
No. This was the wrong answer. Again, Hana turned to her masters.
“I can be taught to defend myself,” she posited. “I have some familiarity with bows from before my time in the Circle. I am confident in my ability to relearn and build upon this skill.”
There was another heavy pause. Sister Mary, listening politely as Hana spoke, turned once she had finished to face the Revered Mother. Her head tilted slightly, and she gestured with an easy smile. There was a subtle pointedness to her movements. Hana found herself mildly intrigued.
The quirks and expressions of non-Tranquil were undeniably fascinating in this new light.
The Revered Mother released a sigh, her eyes narrowing as she considered. Though not hopeful – for, of course, she could no longer feel such a potent emotion – Hana found herself thinking, this is the correct course of action. Take it. A useless instinct, given that none could hear her thoughts, nor were any in this room inclined to listen, even if they could. But Hana was not bothered, and continued to wait.
Sister Flore shook her head and turned to the Revered Mother, “Your Reverence, I believe—”
“Very well.”
The ringing tone of the Revered Mother silenced Sister Flore like the crack of a whip, resounding and final.
“I thank you most sincerely, Your Reverence,” she exclaimed. Hana noted silently the change in address.
The Revered Mother raised her chin, looking over first Sister Mary, then Hana, with guarded and cold eyes. Her gaze lingered on Hana, and the silence was prolonged.
After several more moments, she spoke, “It will be your responsibility to adequately prepare her for your travels.”
Sister Mary bowed her head, “Of course.”
“You will, of course, have the continued use of your current accommodations in the chantry whilst you ready yourselves to depart.”
“I am grateful, Your Reverence.”
The Revered Mother stood abruptly to her feet, pulling herself to her full height. The Sisters bowed reverently, and this time, Hana moved with them. She knew well this cue.
“Remember, Sister Mary,” the Revered Mother declared, her voice a booming echo as it washed over them all. “This Tranquil is a resource belonging to the Chantry, and I will not see her damaged needlessly. If you are unable to do as you have promised and keep her protected – or if we find that there are better uses for her – we will take appropriate action.”
There was a character to the different kinds of silence Hana had observed in this conversation, she found. For this, she was put in mind of the heavy weighted quiet following the crack of thunder.
Sister Mary, however, was not perturbed.
“I understand, Your Reverence,” she vowed, her voice pitched low. Solemn.
“Then, you are dismissed,” the Revered Mother waved her hand in a regal gesture. “Prepare as you need, and depart when you are ready. I look forward to your… discoveries.” She resumed her seat, her face still and controlled. “Maker go with you. And your new aide.”
Her eyes slid to Hana, and narrowed ever so slightly.
“As for you, Tranquil Hana, you are now a servant of the Chantry. You obey the will of the Maker and the will of His servants. Do as you are bid by your new handler, but remember that hers is not the final word.”
Hana inclined her head. “Your Reverence.”
Satisfied, the Revered Mother repeated her earlier gesture, and said no more.
Seemingly oblivious – more likely uncaring – to the tension remaining in the room, Sister Mary turned to Hana and dipped her head. The courteous smile she had worn throughout the entire exchange remained fixed on her face, and though her muscles seemed relaxed, her eyes were alert and sharp.
“Well then,” she began lightly. “Shall we?” Hana inclined her head and followed the Sister from the room, ignoring the disgruntled stares that followed them.
Avexis tilts her head, staring at this Mother Giselle. The person with the glowing hand is now being called the Herald of Andraste. Avexis wishes almost she was the Herald... would she have been save then from possession and gotten her talents back completely..? She felt like herself once more, more awake than ever, when the Herald passed by her briefly. She has been cautious to be near them since then. Not wishing to be possessed... And now this Mother asks her if she'd ever want to be cured of Tranquility... what an odd question... she shakes her head, frightened at the thought, "I do not think it will be wise as the number of demons would leave me vulnerable to possession... I might experience feelings of discomfort over events that have occurred while I was Tranquil. I believe I can survive in this fashion but might not if I was made whole again." she whispers in a small voice.. careful to sound hopeful. She misses Galyan, she would have been able to confide in him... Cassandra is being so distant...
Avexis stares at the whimpering, defiled dragon. The same one from her dreams a few nights ago... it curses and screams at the monstrous man sauntering towards the Herald. She was trying to help with the trebuchets, aware and completely overwhelmed by emotions right now as she crawls back, tears streaming down her face. Screaming out her lungs as the avalanche comes down at them all with no mercy for who is below it. The dragon being forced to save this monster -this twisted creature- of a man. The snow crashing down, sending her down into a dark, freezing cave, after the Herald. The Herald clinging to her as they both tumble down deeper with the momentum of the avalanche. And at the touch of the newly unstable Anchor, she feels free. She feels everything at once, too much. And once everything stopped moving, she got up shakily and staggered further down the cave, trembling from the cold and feeling completely undone, no longer herself any more... not alone in her mind...
Nor will she ever be again...
How will Cassandra know...? Will she think Avexis dead - that it will be better off like that for her now?
A short piece for the last day of @tranquilweek! I took inspiration from the prompts Redcliffe Village and A once fond memory.
After lunch, Owain finds an unusual visitor in the storeroom.
Rating: G
WC: ~800
CW: Includes a young child trying to cope with life in the Circle.
The kitchens had served the stale seeded bread again at midday meal. Owain had eaten it without complaint, soaking the slice in the thin broth of his stew, but the gritty texture against his teeth remained uncomfortable. He felt no annoyance or pain at this inconvenience; he only preferred when the bread was plain and did not leave seeds between his teeth for the rest of the afternoon.
His morning in the storeroom had been spent sorting a shipment of dried bloodroot stems. Although the Circle had specifically requested bloodroot harvested from the Korcari Wilds, the supplier had sent a mix of plants from the Korcari Wilds and Brecilian Forest. Owain had noticed the discrepancy as soon as he had opened the first crate. Bloodroot sprouted earlier in the Brecilian Forest, and therefore had darker, thicker stems than the Korcari variety. However, although it looked sturdier, the strength of Brecilian bloodroot was unpredictable; the stalks could turn reliable, tested potions into disasters. Owain had gone to work and had methodically sifted through a quarter of the irregular plants, using tweezers to pluck out the larger stalks, before his grumbling stomach became a distraction. He estimated he would be done with all three crates by nightfall.
Tranquility had rid him of any painful and conflicting emotions, but he was able to acknowledge the strangeness of the sight waiting for him when he returned to the storeroom. A small boy was standing among the crates, hands folded. He was a ward too young to be considered a proper apprentice, instead acting as a page for minor messages and tasks throughout the Circle, and through his errands his face had become familiar to Owain. He had found the boy to be of no particular significance.
Today the boy was different. Today, showing through the yellow curls across his brow, there was a red sunburst.
“Hello, Callahan,” Owain said, recalling how Enchanter Wynne had once introduced the boy. “What is the purpose of this costume?”
The boy kept his face still and answered in a flat echo. “I’m like you.”
“No, you are not,” Owain corrected him. “The Rite of Tranquility is not performed on children. You have put ink on your face.”
The boy’s sunburst was drawn in the same scarlet ink that mages used to correct apprentice’s work. Owain used to be afraid of the bright marks that would come back on his papers, he recalled. His fears had often been illogical.
“Maybe I’m an...anomaly,” the boy said seriously, taking care to enunciate the word while maintaining his monotone impression. Owain had heard mimicry of his speech before, made with what he understood were crude intentions. They did not offend or amuse him, and he was just as unbothered by the boy’s display. It was, however, unusual.
“This is abnormal,” Owain blinked. He decided that the boy was trying to amuse himself as he could within the walls of the Circle. His own childhood joys had been found in the golden fields and stretches of woods surrounding Redcliffe village. The tall grass had snapped around his legs as he ran with his sister up to the meadow to catch fireflies. She had been faster, but she had always let him hold the ones she caught, and he had waited eagerly for the gentle, giggling transfer of light into his plump hands. Watching the glow between his fingers had felt like magic.
Owain could remember he had experienced wonder by his sister’s side, and he could remember that he had felt fear when he was taken away from her, but neither emotion reached him now. He had made the decision to leave them behind, to free himself, like when he’d opened his hands and released the fireflies back into the twilight dark.
“I must concentrate on my work,” Owain said and stepped around the boy. “Please take your distractions elsewhere.”
Disappointment cracked the boy’s thin mask. “I’ll be quiet.”
“It would not be useful for you to stay here.”
“I-” The boy’s eyes dropped to the floor. “Please, can I stay? I like it here.”
Owain considered the request. Now that he had reason to review their encounters, he realized the page had lingered in the storeroom after his deliveries several times. He had been quiet on those occasions, and instead of prodding with clumsy hands and questions like other apprentices, he had only watched Owain work. He had not become a distraction to his work then; if Owain continued this conversation, the boy would likely continue to be a distraction now.
“If you are quiet, you may stay until someone comes to collect you.”
The boy’s round face split into a smile below the ink sunburst, a contradictory sight with even a false brand. However, Owain had picked up his tweezers, and from then noticed him no more than the seeds stuck in his teeth.
Read it on Ao3 Here or find the full text below the cut
Rating: G
Wordcount: 387
CW: none in particular?
@tranquilweek
They said he fought like a golem. Not tireless, he was a man of flesh and blood, but fearless. He did not quail before a hurlock, nor he did not panic when they were ambushed by shrieks. When confronted by an ogre, he gave his commands with a calmness that bolstered his fellow wardens and he peppered his foes with arrows at a measured pace, always striking with the greatest efficacy.
Boranehn was the perfect Grey Warden on all accounts, enough so that it sent waves and rumors through the ranks.
How was a Tranquil mage so highly skilled in the art of war?
Was it truly only his status as Tranquil that made him so unshakable when facing down the darkspawn?
Who had recruited a Tranquil in the first place?
They were answers Bora would dispense easily if any dared ask them.
He was skilled because he was trained. All Dalish children started learning a weapon to prepare them to hunt or protect the clan as they grew older, and that training was expanded upon after he escaped the Circle and was taken in by the Wardens.
It was true that being a Tranquil made him incapable of feeling fear, but it did not rob him of the will to survive. His first encounters with darkspawn were very different affairs; it was experience that made him a force to be reckoned with.
It was Warden Blackwall who found him wandering, who stuck a bow in his hand to ward off Templars who sought to reclaim their lost Tranquil, and who sent him to the Warden outpost in Jader. And it was those Wardens who saw a wiry young elf with a sunburst brand on his forehead and honed him.
But no one would ask Bora. The Warden-Constable lacked the warmth those who retained a connection to the Fade needed in the unsettled ranks, and even the dwarves who lacked such connection looked on his blank face and turned away.
It was fine. He did not need for his men to like him. He needed them to obey when he gave orders on the field, and they did. All else would be handled by those suited to the task as he was to his; to be their beacon and their guide, to anchor their fears and lead.
Elsa stares at her fellow Tranquil quietly.. thinking back to Meredith, the first time she met the kind, broken Templar Commander...
Meredith stares down at Elsa with a sudden softness in her eyes. "What are your duties?" she asks calmly to the Tranquil.
Elsa bows her head, "I take stock, order any necessities and organize any paperwork for the stockroom, Commander." she informs calmly, Meredith humming thoughtfully. "I would like to have you as my personal assistant instead, if you'd like. What's your name?"
Elsa looks up at her in surprise, "It would be an honor. My name is Elsa." she responds, still surprised. "I need only train someone to take my place first." she adds timidly.
"Very well, you can train anyone you deem fit to take your place. I shall be waiting patiently, Elsa." Meredith nods before taking her leave.
Elsa smiles sadly at the fond little memory of her once beloved Commander. Always so patient with her, like a mother or sister. She grits her teeth as she is made to kneel, overlooking a farm. Meredith once told her she was born and raised in a farm before her sister turned into an abomination and Meredith left with Ser Wentworth Knell... She closes her eyes, feeling sudden bursts of pain and magic once more only to scream in pan. A loud voice clawing at her mind and heart, only for it all to mercifully end as quick as it started...
Hello, hello, @tranquilweek ! More chapters added to Karl Thekla’s tale: Aisles of Memory and Regret! A little snippet from one of the newest posted chapters:
“Do you…” Anders searched his face, worried. “Do you feel the… fog… coming back?”
Karl shook his head. “But I know that I will. We don’t know if this-” he tapped the amulet, “-will work again, or how, or when.”
“If it doesn’t, we’ll try whatever Merrill was working on. Or we’ll come up with something else.” Anders wrapped an arm around his shoulders. “I will bring you back. I will always bring you back.”
“I know you’ll try.” Karl studied the ashes, black powder and flecks, beneath the charred ribs.
Anders frowned. “You’re sure you don’t feel anything…”
“I feel everything,” Karl croaked. He wanted to curl up on the floor and cry- for his mother, for the years he and Anders had lost, for the thousands dead, for the yet more imprisoned. He was useless and broken, a memory box that could only be opened sometimes. He wanted to scream. He wanted to break a chair and wield its legs and beat the world raw and bloody. That he was still here, still alive, and they were wasting the time he had left wondering where Cecily had gone. “I will feel everything until I feel nothing again.”
the Avexis-as-Cole AU continues for @tranquilweek day 5! Cole helps Avexis remember how to control her dreams, and she agrees to help him in turn.
read it on ao3 here!
Avexis & Cole | Rated G | 1200 words | No CW
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The wheat field stretched endlessly around Avexis, swaying gently in the wind. Her imagined breeze was warm and it curled around her ears like a playful spirit. Maybe it was a playful spirit; the thought furrowed her brow and sent a chill down her spine that compassion quickly whisked away.
“You can tell, if you look.” Cole’s back was warm where it pressed against hers. He sat cross-legged, idly twirling a plucked shaft of wheat between his fingers. “They’re friendly.”
Avexis frowned. “If I look at them, I might corrupt them. Aren’t we all a bit safer if I just pretend not to notice?”
“Maybe, might, misguided. They didn’t know better than to teach you wrong. To see a thing and know it is to understand it. It only changes if you make it.”
“What if I make it change on accident? It’s not like I’ve had a lot of practice. Or been tested on it.”
“If you never try, how will you know?”
“I did try,” she muttered. “Sort of.”
“Fear, falling, frightened. Not like that.” She caught the barest glance of blue eyes as Cole cast his wheat aside. “I’ll help you.”
He stood next to her and cupped a hand just behind her ear. When he drew it forward, a little ball of pale green energy bounced happily in his palm, and the wind about Avexis’ face faded away.
“They like you,” Cole said, holding the wisp out like a baby bird. “You’re learning. Like them.”
Hesitantly, Avexis raised her fingers to brush against the wisp’s aura. It buzzed around her skin like bubbly wine and a delightful spark raced up her arm and into her heart.
“Oh,” she whispered, bringing her fingers to press against her lips. They were still hers, and the wisp was still the wisp, and the dream around it rippled with joy as Cole launched it back out into the Fade.
It reminded her of the baby animals the enchanters used to bring her. The injured ones, usually, who needed calming before the mages could heal them. As a child, she’d loved their soft feathers or fur, and they’d seemed to understand that her fumbling fingers against velvet snouts were well-intentioned and full of heart. As if they had seen something within her that she could not put into words.
“You do not have to hurt them,” Cold told her. “It is a choice and you can learn how to choose.”
Avexis nodded, linking her arm through his. The wheat flattened around the pair of them as she pulled them back down into it. “I need time, I think. But thank you for showing me.”
“Time it ticks away, will they change us, will we change things? Things to fix, duty to be done, wasting, wasting, wasting away.”
“The Templars?” Avexis guessed, sighing a little when Cole nodded.
Cadash had taken care of the more rebellious elements in the Hinterlands, but the main contingents were still locked away in Redcliffe and Theirinfall Redoubt. Technically, the Inquisition hadn’t made any final decisions. But that altus had come back with them to Haven, and Avexis suspected that the magister’s pompous attitude had upset Cadash more than the Lord Seeker’s silence.
“It’s not only that,” Cole said. They were laying on their backs, staring up at a half-formed sky. Avexis simply hadn’t spent that much time looking up; the only sky her dreaming mind could conjure was like a painting, smudged and streaked with shades of blue. “She promised. You, and others, change and vengeance go hand in hand.”
The oculara, of course. Part of Avexis was glad—she would see the Venatori burn for what they’d done to the Tranquil. What they would have done to her, given the chance. All grievances against the Templars aside, their abuses were rarely so blatant, or so blatantly cruel. Another thing Regalyan had saved her from.
Thunder rolled lowly through the dream before her train of thought could continue, a dark cloud forming in the far off distance. In a blink, Cole was sitting above her head, stroking soothing fingers through her hair and against the tender skin around her ears.
“Regret within reason, reign it in,” he said. Avexis took a deep breath and hesitantly felt for the woven threads of the dream, then traced the one that ran red with Regalyan’s blood.
“It is part of you too,” Cole murmured. “Not bad, not good, but you control it. It doesn’t control you.”
She felt the nature of the thread, the guilt and anger and sorrow that were always there, an indelible part of her. She found them and separated them and named them in her mind. She exhaled and her breath banished the rising storm from the horizon. When she opened her eyes, there was only the imagined warmth of the sun, and Cole laying back at her side.
“Thank you,” she murmured. He nodded, rocking ever-so-slightly to the rhythm of the world’s sorrows. “You can still hear them hurting?”
“They’re very loud, and very red,” Cole confirmed. “I could help, but it would hurt you if I left. Not the hurt that helps, just hurts.”
“Do you have to be just you to help, or could we do it together?
“We could, but we need to be there.”
“Alright then.” Avexis sat up, brushing crumpled bits of wheat from her robe. “Let’s go. I’m sure I’ve earned enough rapport with the horsemaster now to take one mount for a time. If we go early enough, Cassandra, Cadash, and the Commander will all be in their council meeting until well after we’re gone.”
“Sneaking isn’t safe,” Cole said, his disapproval clear. “They would want to know.”
“And they would stop us if they did. It’s not like Cadash is going to ask me to go back to Redcliffe with her, not with the unpredictable time magic they’re messing with. And if any place is going to be free of demons, it’s a stronghold of Templars.”
She squeezed Cole’s hands. “We have to, if we want to help them, right? And if Cadash doesn’t, and we don’t, who will?”
“They were needed, not noticed, until they left. People were angry, but anger doesn’t make them care.”
“Of course it doesn’t.” Avexis frowned. She was still teasing apart the bits of her that were genuine, and those that felt genuine, but were really just the Chantry’s lies wrapped up in trauma and fear. Most would find her empathy for the Templars appalling—but it didn’t feel false.
“Cautious, caring, outside the cage but caught in the trap, too. Most of them meant to do right, but the right they were given was wrong.”
Avexis nodded, sighing. There were so many things in this Fade-Touched world that had no good answers.
“If you say they need help, I trust you.” Gratitude swelled through the dream as Cole vanished—from sight, at least. A familiar comfort curled in her chest as she dismissed the dream with a wave of her hand.
Thank you for asking, she thought—or thought she thought, as the Fade melted away and she began to wake.
Day 4 of @tranquilweek! As Cadash & Avexis investigate Redcliffe Village, they learn what became of the other Tranquil.
read it on ao3 here!
Avexis & Female Cadash | Rated T | 1139 words | CW: implied/referenced abuse, chantry critical
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Cadash liked picking locks. It made Avexis wonder, as they waited outside the dilapidated shack in Redcliffe, if that was why the dwarf was always carting her places. She was a puzzle, an oddity—she wondered if Cadash simply saw her as a lock that could only be picked over time.
Well, she mused, thumbing the hilt of her dagger, hopefully she figures something out.
Being in Redcliffe made her itch. There were mages everywhere and odd magic on top of the rifts. It set her teeth on edge. The whole place was a disaster waiting to happen. Or maybe it had already happened. It was hard to say.
Their fear was as palpable to Avexis as her own. It hung in the air like a dense fog, coating her throat when she breathed and sitting on her skin like a cold, sticky sweat. Fear of the Templars, fear of the Breach, fear of the Tevinters and what their presence spelled for the mage rebellion.
Cadash grunted and the door clicked open, creaking ominously. Within, the cabin’s dirt floor was dappled with sunlight through the rotting roof.
“Why was it even locked?” Varric huffed.
They found out soon enough. Over a dozen skulls watched them from makeshift shelves, their empty eye sockets gleaming with Fade-touched crystals. Pointed stumps with odd runes etched into their ends were stacked against the wall and tipped over on the floor. When Avexis brushed her fingers across the runes, they flared a bright green.
For the briefest moment, she saw a face—square jaw, blank, gray eyes, freckles that sprayed up to the sunburst brand that marred his brow. Before she could dig up a name, or even where she knew him from, the vision was gone; the part of her mind that she knew was Cole slipped between her and the magic and whatever it meant.
And that meant only one thing. “Something's not right,” she murmured, skittering back a few steps. Cole was matching her rising panic with soothing comfort, but it was a cycle—the more he soothed her, the more she feared what, exactly, she needed soothing for.
She flinched at the too-loud crunch of parchment in Cadash’s fist. “That is fucked,” the dwarf hissed.
“I had noticed their disappearance, but imagined nothing like this.” Avexis could hear Cassandra’s scowl and that defensive mix of guilt and shame that the Seeker usually directed at her. A horrible realization was coming to her, sinking in her mind like boots in cold swamp mud. As if in a trance, she paced back to the shelf of skulls.
Varric coughed pointedly; she could feel his gaze boring into her. “Maybe we shouldn’t—“ he began loudly.
“It’s them, isn’t it?” she whispered. One hand cupped the smooth arch of a skull, thumb tracing the sharp edge of the dormant crystal. “We found the Tranquil.”
No one answered, not that it mattered. Their silence was all the confirmation she needed.
“Avexis—“
“Don’t,” she choked. Before she’d even taken a breath, her eyes glossed over with tears. She made no move to stem their tide. Her grief fell in heavy drops, each one sending poofs of dust up where it landed on the earthen floor.
Her other hand clasped the same skull and she stared into its empty sockets as though she could divine their identity that way. Who were you? she thought desperately. Did I know you? Is anyone missing you?
Of course not. No one missed the Tranquil. That was how this had happened; how the evidence of it existed right under the noses of the mage rebellion, and yet no one cared enough to know, or even ask.
Avexis trembled, an inappropriate laugh bubbling from her lips as anger ripped through her like an earthquake.
That should be me. Then, out loud: “I shouldn’t have— that should be me, too.”
“No.” Cassandra’s voice was closer than she’d expected and Avexis flinched. Her gloved hands caught the skull where Avexis’ grip left it bare and she slid it gently out of the mage’s grasp. Setting it back on the shelf, the Seeker put herself directly in front of Avexis instead.
“It should not have been you, and it should not have been them either.”
“Why don’t we mean anything to anyone?”Avexis whispered. She clenched her fists. “Why doesn’t anyone care?”
“Hey, we care.” That was Varric, and Cadash, coming closer as well but—thankfully—leaving the path to the door wide open. “We’re here, we see you. We care.”
“You see me,” she repeated, shaking her head. “As I am now. Would you still see me if I remained Tranquil? Would you have noticed that I was gone? Because apparently no one—” she gestured angrily to the shelves “—noticed them.”
Cadash caught Avexis’ fist in her roughened palm. “Hey. You’re right.”
“I—what?”
“You’re right,” Cadash said again. “The Circles used the Tranquil because they were conveniently controlled. Because the comfort of those in power was more important than those lives. Because they could.”
Her voice was steady and grounding. Though Avexis' sorrow remained heavy, the tension wound in her relaxed. She pressed her palm flat against Cadash’s and curled her fingers down over the dwarf’s blunted nails. As she searched her eyes for answers and assurances, the filtered sunlight shifted and caught the casteless brand burned into her cheek.
“But the Circles are gone,” Cadash said firmly. At her back, Cassandra scowled, but wisely bit her tongue. “We’re not putting them back unless we’re sure they can do better. For the mages, the Templars, and the Tranquil.”
Avexis exhaled slowly. She knew that was what Cadash thought, but it was good to hear her say it anyway. And yet—
“They’re still gone, though,” she whispered, nudging her chin toward the shelf of skulls. “They still died like that. Were murdered like that. It’s not something we can fix.”
“They were. And it’s not.”
“That hurts,” Avexis whimpered. She ground her teeth together. “It hurts, and I want it to stop hurting. How do I make it stop if I can’t fix it?”
“Sometimes, you can’t.” It was Varric who answered, but Cadash nodded. “Sometimes you just have to sit with it. It might never go away, but you’ll go on. And eventually, you’ll grow around it, instead.”
“That bloody sucks.”
Cadash snorted. “Yeah. It does.”
“Can we…” Swiping at her eyes, Avexis took a shaky breath. “I don’t want to leave them here. Not like this.”
“There is a Sister up the hill—“
“No.” Cadash cut Cassandra off. “We have time, and they deserve better than the Chantry’s biases. We’ll take care of them ourselves.”
Relief flooded Avexis where she hadn’t realized she’d grown tense. “Thank you,” she murmured, ducking her head. Cadash laced their fingers together and squeezed.
After Gereon Alexius was made Tranquil by the Inquisitor, Dorian visits him, bearing news of Felix's death.
Read it on Ao3 Here or find the full text below the cut!
Rating: T
Wordcount: 920
CWs: mentioned character death
@tranquilweek
Gereon looked up from his work table when the door to his cell was opened. Dorian Pavus stood in the entry. Gereon had known the mage for a long time, and to his eye Dorian looked fatigued.
“I just received word,” Dorian said. He did not move from the doorway. “Felix has passed away.”
“He was sick for a long time,” Gereon intoned. “It was inevitable that this would happen soon.”
“You don’t care at all, do you?” Dorian’s voice cracked beneath the weight of his words, a weight that weighed on Gereon no longer.
“I do care. Felix was my son and it was my duty to care for him. But I am no longer able to feel what you believe I should. I did many things in an effort to prevent his death.”
A flare of magic made the candles about them stand tall, their flames burning hot. Wet streaks reflected the orange light on Dorian’s cheeks; he was upset. Gereon would have been upset too, he knew, under different circumstances.
But there were no different circumstances since the Inquisitor gave his sentence.
“Magister Gereon Alexius.” His voice had filled the grand hall of Skyhold, reverberating off broken stained glass and crumbled stone.
Gereon’s trial had been made a priority once the Inquisition found its new home, his transfer from the Redcliffe dungeons orchestrated in haste. His knees ached where he was forced to kneel on the stone. The magebane he’d been forced to ingest left him powerless and feeble. Shamed before all who attended.
“I have been advised,” the Inquisitor continued, “that the knowledge you hold is too valuable to the Inquisition to kill you. I have likewise been advised that it is too dangerous to leave you unleashed. And I have seen first hand precisely the folly you are prone to when left to your own devices.”
Whispers. Rumors. Gereon had been told little of what transpired when he attempted to erase the Inquisitor from time. Hints. Snarls. The Elder One reneged on his promises, that Gereon knew. What he had done bore no fruit.
“I sentence you with the authority of the Free Mages you indentured and with the approval of the King of Ferelden whose kin you sought to usurp. I sentence you with the consent of the Archon of the Tevinter Imperium you claimed to serve.”
In truth, he had always known that the Imperium would not appreciate his work. If he ever believed in the Venatori’s course in truth, Gereon didn’t now. They had been a means to an end.
This end, it seemed.
“Gereon Alexius has been stripped of his title as Magister. He is stripped of his assets, which will be conveyed to his son and heir Felix Alexius who rendered aid to the Inquisition; Felix has already rendered that right to his friend and brother in his heart, Dorian Pavus. Gereon Alexius is sentenced to serve the term of indenture he presented the Free Mages in service to the Inquisition. He is to deliver all knowledge he possesses that may be of use in the fight against Corypheus into our hands. He is to aid in research.”
Dorian or Felix must have begged for leniency. Advocated for his use.
Gereon would rather die. He was sentenced to outlive his son, to watch him burn.
“He is sentenced to be submitted to the Rite of Tranquility.”
In the moment, Gereon had labeled what he felt as despair, desperation, and doubt. He felt dread pool in his stomach. But the lyrium pressed to his forehead stripped it away.
Now he was Tranquil. And he knew the uselessness of those emotions, how they had clouded his reason. Had he been Tranquil before this all occurred, he would not have torn reality apart in a fruitless venture.
But he did not regret it, categorically. It was illogical, but he lacked the capacity to regret, only to use hindsight and render judgment.
“The Inquisitor dismissed my petition for you to attend the pyre,” Dorian spoke again when he had mastered himself and the fires around them returned to their previous state. The lower light hid the streaks on his cheeks. “I… told him first.”
“It is his decision to make, as my jailer,” Gereon said.
That upset Dorian again, but the candles did not flare. Instead he approached Gereon and hugged him.
Gereon had never noticed how physically uncomfortable a hug was, something he supposed emotions had once masked. Dorian had pinned his arms to his sides with the embrace and buried his face in Gereon’s shoulders while his own shook. He was stuck in this position and had little recourse to free himself.
It was not the first time Dorian had embraced him so. It was to his master Dorian had run when his father turned to blood, when his father tried to fix him. Back then Gereon had taken Dorian in his arms and calmed him as he had done many times during Felix’s childhood.
What had he felt then? Gereon did not recall. He had not put words to it, and he could not summon its echo disconnected as he was from the Fade.
He knew what was expected of him. It was uncomfortable to move his lower arms to return the embrace, but Gereon did it anyway. Though he did not feel the way Dorian did, it did not give him the right to deny his apprentice the comfort he sought, diminished though it may be in quality.
And! another addition to my small @tranquilweek fic for a slightly late day 3! Things are starting to get weird.
wc: 450
When the Breach opened, Avexis found herself screaming.
The world shook green and fierce, the air laden with fear and death as the eerie glow of the Fade streaked across the sky, its light cast across Haven.
Minaeve was at her side immediately, shushing her, but the words were lost. She couldn’t hear anything past the frantic confusion, the shouts around them as people rushed to the gates—all of it drowned out by the cries of the druffalo in the nearby glade as instinct took over and they charged across the landscape.
Their roars were ones of frenzied panic. The sky was torn open, strange beasts would come through.
They would die.
Their shrieks were gone almost as soon as they started, the noise reduced to the pulse of a headache behind Avexis’s eyes.
“I apologize. I did not mean to concern you,” she said. Minaeve simply stared at her, slack-jawed.
“I had… there were rumors… but what?” the elf muttered in shock. Avexis simply brushed off her robes and looked into the the haze, at the rising cloud of smoke in the mountains. She didn’t know what had occured, but it had taken her back to that day in Val Royeaux, when dragons rained down upon the city.
Had she screamed then, too? She was too young to remember. It was when she was still could still speak to animals—when she was still a liability and a threat. It was so long ago.
“Are… you okay?” Minaeve finally asked, grasping her by the arms, checking her over. Her brows were knitted in concern, but the disbelief was still clear in the downturn of her mouth.
Avexis nodded. “Yes. Nothing happened that could have caused me harm, but I believe I may have experienced a moment of emotional distress. I do not know how.”
Minaeve turned her gaze to the swirling hole in the clouds, and then back to her. “Do you… feel anything now?”
“No. Not anymore,” she shook her head, “but something bad has happened.”
“The Veil has been torn open,” a taller mage said beside them, seemingly out of nowhere. Another elf, composed despite the chaos. He passed his staff from one hand to another before regarding them carefully. His eyes locked onto the brand that marked Avexis Tranquil, and his expression flickered from disgust to pity to indifference. “You should find somewhere to take shelter.”
“Come on,” Minaeve urged, tugging Avexis along by the arm towards the chantry. “We should stay out of the way.”
She let herself be dragged along for the comfort of her companion, but she knew there was no point.
“I heard the druffalo,” Avexis shook her head. “They said we are going to die.”
A tranquil who works in the Wonders of Thedas engages in some minor workplace rebellion. (Nestor is not a canonical tranquil character)
Read it on Ao3 Here or find the full text below the cut
Rating: G
Wordcount: 703
C/w: retail
@tranquilweek
The Wonders of Thedas was loud.
Not in volume. Its patrons generally kept to quietly appreciative commentary or salacious whispers for some of the more specialized merchandise, and its proprietors were likewise unlikely to raise their voices.
Though the Wonders of Thedas run largely by the Tranquil who enchanted its artifacts, it was not they who decided its decor and public image, nor was it determined by the Chantry. Some decades past, when Orlais ruled over Ferelden, its nobles took offense to the drab nature of the Tranquil and the shop they ran, and while the shop continued its functions the overseer of Denerim commissioned artisans to update and formalize its appearance.
The Wonders of Thedas was one of few buildings in Denerim to still display Orlesian architectural influence after the successful rebellion that saw King Maric set upon the throne, and though the Orlesian nobles who had overseen it were long since ousted, those who took up the duty in their absence continued the trend.
Nestor had been Tranquil for 3 years now, and he had no feelings as all Tranquil did, but that did not mean he lacked opinions. And he was of the opinion that the Wonders of Thedas’ design was loud.
When he voiced this, his fellows did not understand, though he did not expect them to. He had been particular as a mage, too.
The graceful swooping and brilliant colors of Orlesian design had never suited his tastes when he had feelings, and it was his now objective opinion that he had always been correct. The contrasting colors made it difficult for his eyes to focus on certain parts of the store, something that was undesirable when their goal was to showcase and sell the work of the enchanting Tranquil and fund the Circle.
Nevermind the dust that collected in each ill-advised nook and cranny. The amount of time spent dusting each crevice was excessive, time that could be better spent on any other task. By Nestor’s estimation, they could have one more Tranquil working on enchanting for at least four hours a day if there were less extraneous cleaning to be done.
He brought his observations to the mage and templar who oversaw the Wonders, including his sketches of how to remodel the building to suit Fereldan architecture, built to withstand the weather and without the proclivity to collect dust and dirt in all manner of places, but Nestor was dismissed quickly and told to continue servicing the customers. This was not his job.
Nestor disagreed. Optimizing the Wonders was precisely his job, and interacting with the clientele was apt to dissuade them from making a purchase given how the average Fereldan viewed mages and the Tranquil especially. But he knew that his words held no sway.
So Nestor no longer used words in his effort to fix the Wonders.
It started small. One night, when he was left alone to finish closing the shop, Nestor found a knife, and he used it. He started by carving the many nooks and making them less sharp and easier to clean. When no one commented for days afterward, he decided to take it to mean that his corrections were unnoticed or else were tacitly approved.
So he acquired better tools from the workshop and he smoothed all the filigree and flattened each surface that collected dust in their grooves, and still no one commented on it. As if he were the only one who ever noticed those bits of decor at all.
Nestor thought that boldness was considered among the things a Tranquil could not have; not an emotion per se but something under the purview of Valor perhaps.
And yet he grew bolder all the same.
He grew more skilled in his renovations by the day, and never was he taken off the closing shift of the night. It was only when he acquired paint and covered the colors that had hurt his eyes so that anyone seemed to take notice at all.
The mage proprietor blamed the templar. The templar blamed the mage. Both stewed, but never took their arguments above a whisper.
Nestor found the new Wonders of Thedas was not so loud at all now.
For @tranquilweek day 3: As Cassandra fights through the carnage wrought by the Breach, she searches for a sign that Regalyan survived.
read it on ao3 here!
Avexis & Cassandra, Minor Cassandra/Regalyan, Minor Cassandra & Cullen | Rated T | 1637 words | CW: minor character death
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Cassandra’s attention, which should have been solely on the demons pouring from the sky, was inescapably divided. Slash, parry, block—and search. She could not stop herself from hoping for a glimpse of unburned flesh amidst the wreckage.
Worse, she wasn’t even looking for the Divine. Or at least, not the Divine alone. The Maker and Andraste forgive her, but she wanted nothing more than to see Regalyan’s face, unconscious, perhaps, but alive, Maker please, if anyone is alive—
She slammed her shield against a shade’s hooded face and it dissipated back into the rift above. Not that it mattered. It would return, or another in its place. It was only a matter of time.
Still, they had to take the respites when they could. But as they broke to sit and rest their weary limbs, something brushed against the far edge of Cassandra’s awareness.
Something familiar.
“Galyan,” she breathed. The magic’s signature was unmistakable—she knew it well as the back of her own hand. Without a word, she leapt over a crumbling stone wall and sprinted toward it.
“Seeker?”
“Seeker!”
Her companions’ shouts were lost to the wind. Hooking her shield to her back as she ran, she focused her senses on the magic, Regalyan’s magic, letting it guide her up the hill, closer to the center of the temple. It grew and sharpened and clarified in her awareness, until finally it overwhelmed her and she skidded to a stop in what might have been the Temple’s foyer. She saw only corpses when she looked around, burned to a crisp as every one they’d found—
There.
Nearly invisible against the snow was an opaque semi-circle of magic. To Cassandra’s eyes alone, it pulsed and drew her in, the taste of bitter elfroot and a threatening storm on her tongue.
Regalyan had cast this spell, that much she knew for certain. She could only pray that he was the one beneath it, rather than one of the corpses littered around it.
“Seeker, what’s going on?” Varric, the apostate, and the Commander finally caught up to her, panting to various degrees. She heard the shink of Cullen’s sword as he, too, immediately saw why she had stopped.
“Wait,” she said, holding out a hand. “I know the mage who cast this. It is a shield. There is likely someone—or something—beneath it.”
“A survivor,” Cullen breathed. “Your mage?”
“Maker willing.” Taking a deep breath, Cassandra stepped within reach. “I will dispel the magic. If it is demons—“
“We stand ready, Seeker.”
Cassandra nodded. She reached for that place of peace and certainty within her, the font from which she drew her skills. Her gloved fingers brushed against the misty exterior of the shield and she pushed against its construction in the Fade.
It collapsed.
The entire party cringed as a scream of utter anguish cut through the momentarily quiet air. It reverberated within Cassandra as she realized that it was not Regalyan within the shield, but a woman. Biting back grief and anger, even as she understood what he had done, Cassandra fell to her knees and clasped the woman’s shoulders.
“Avexis,” she said, struggling to comfort the girl. What little instinct she had for this sort of thing was rusty from disuse. “Avexis, please. It is okay. You’re safe.”
“I’m not,” she cried. “He kept me that way, but he’s gone! He told me not to lose him, but I lost him, I messed up. Of course I did, of course I did—“
“You did not—“
That was the wrong thing to say. Avexis struggled against Cassandra’s grip. Around them, the Fade pulsed dangerously under the force of emotions she was failing to control. The air crackled and behind Cassandra a loud crack echoed as Avexis’ terror made itself know. If they did not act soon, her tenuous control would give way, and the Veil here was in no state to bear that kind of assault.
“Avexis, you must calm yourself,” Cassandra urged.
“I can’t,” she sobbed. “I don’t know how.”
“You do. Galyan was teaching you—”
Mentioning Regalyan was a mistake, as well. As soon as his name fell from her lips, a fresh wave of sobs overcame Avexis and Cassandra felt the Fade bow dangerously at her back. Then, that hiss and spark that was becoming all too familiar.
“Seeker, we must calm her!” Cullen snapped, the tension of days without sleep wearing through his patience. “If not by words, then by force—we cannot have more rifts opening!”
By force. Purge her, he meant. But as Cassandra stared down at the brand that no longer sequestered Avexis from the Fade, as she remembered Regalyan’s grief over the girl’s fate, years ago, she froze.
Demons spawned from the new rift; their talons clattered against the ice and screeching hisses split the air. Solas’ staff and Varric’s bolts whistled by with deadly accuracy, but there was only so much they could do. As Cullen said, they could not have more rifts opening while they had no way to close them.
A Silence was at the tips of her fingers. But Cassandra could not find the strength needed to call it forth.
She had so many doubts.
“Seeker!” Cullen’s boots crunched on the snow, closer now. If he recognized what ailed her, he did not berate her for it. His Purge took hold and reality reinforced its existence, tight and sharp around them.
Avexis’ sobs quieted, gentle hiccups through the tears still streaming down her face. It did not hurt her, Cassandra knew, not the way it did when called with intention. But somehow that did not soothe her conscience as it should have.
Cullen’s gauntlet fell briefly on her shoulder. “Take her back to Haven,” he said gruffly. “We will deal with the demons as best we can. Just get her out of here before it wears off.”
Cassandra scooped Avexis into her arms, and this time she gave no resistance. Just sobbed quietly, her tears streaking through the ichor and blood on Cassandra’s armor. She seemed unharmed, physically at least, but her psyche teetered precariously.
As they descended off the mountain, Cassandra’s exhaustion and grief coalesced into anger. Galyan had had enough time to throw up a shield, yet he used it to save Avexis, not himself. He was the healer—if he yet lived, they could save countless others. Many more than a single, unpredictable mage. His control was not so unstable that it would open yet more rifts, and allow yet more demons into the world.
If he had saved himself—oh, who was she fooling? All she could think was that if he had saved himself instead, her heart would be just a bit less broken. As it was, it beat a steady ache, weeping grief into her chest behind the stoicism that the people needed to see.
“I’m sorry,” Avexis mumbled. Her tears had slowed and though she spoke, she cast her eyes aside. “It should have been me.”
It was her own thought, reflected back at her, but shame immediately crashed over Cassandra. Of course Regalyan had saved her—hadn’t that been what he was after all along?
We failed her when we left her, Cassandra. I failed her. There has to be a way to make that right.
“He would not have wanted that,” she said. “He would never have been able to live with himself if he lost you again.”
“What good can I do?” Avexis sniffled. “I’m less than useful—I’m a danger.”
It might not even matter, Cassandra thought, looking up at the Breach. Justinia was dead, the sky torn open, the balance of the Fade and reality rent asunder. In all likelihood, they would be overrun with demons in a matter of weeks, and dead long before then.
“You do not have to be useful,” she said, belatedly, climbing the wide steps to the healer’s cabin. “You can simply be. What the future holds beyond that…well, the Maker knows, and you will find out.”
She stopped short of telling Avexis they would keep her safe. A promise she knew Regalyan had made—but that guarantee had died along with him. But it was not a function of who, or what, she was. They could no more keep Avexis safe than anyone else in Haven.
As she laid the woman down on one of Adan’s empty cots, a breathless messenger burst through the door.
“Lady Cassandra, Lady Cassandra, urgent word from the commander—“
She caught the messenger, by the shoulder, holding him upright as he swayed. He was a boy of few summers, swimming in a hood several sizes too big. “Slow down and breathe. What has happened?”
“A woman—there was a woman in the Temple! A dwarf! She fell out of a rift! And her hand—”
“Fell out of a rift…” Cassandra’s eyes widened. “A survivor? A dwarf? And what is this about her hand?”
“It’s magic like—“ the messenger gestured upward, where the cabin roof hid the Breach from sight. “All—green, and going crazy!”
Cassandra’s hand flew to her sword. “Back up the mountain,” she ordered. “Fetch the apostate, Solas. I want him in the Chantry at once.”
He pressed a fist to his chest and vanished, slipping and stumbling in his oversized boots. She started to follow him out, then remembered why she was here, and looked back at Avexis’ frightened, but curious face.
“Stay here,” she said, trying and mostly failing to soften her voice. “Rest.”
She took off for the Chantry, tamping down the hope that wanted to leap in her chest. If this survivor had any information, any explanation—
Maybe they would be able to save these people after all. Maybe, just maybe, if the Maker was merciful, Galyan hadn’t died in vain.
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