Posts Tagged 'trevelyan'

quinnlocke:

chibi commission done by @fenris-sexual, look at the awesomeness

Alyx Trevelyan belongs to @broodywolf, Iris Trevelyan belongs to me, and Emma Trevelyan belongs to @emma-reblogs-shit. Our girls in the modern world, taking on anything that comes their way with a smile and raised pinky.

broodywolf:

We March As One

by @emma-trevelyan, @quinnlocke, and broodywolf

Main pairings: DorianPavus/Xander Trevelyan, Cullen Rutherford/Iris Trevelyan, Sebastian Vael/Emma Trevelyan, Alyx Trevelyan/OC

Xander Trevelyan finds himself thrust into the middle of the new
Inquisition after he is the sole survivor of the Divine’s Conclave. One
by one, members of his family he’d feared were lost when the Circles
fell find their way to the Inquisition. While they may not have the same
ideas for how to save the world, one thing is for certain; they must
learn to march as one.

***NEW*** Chapter 6

Plans are in place for Therinfal and Redcliffe; now it’s just a question of waiting and last-minute preparations. While Xander remains conflicted over his mother’s lie, Iris approaches him for unknown reasons, and Alyx and Emma take the first steps toward understanding one another.

broodywolf:

The Trevelyan family, as featured in We March As One. Xander and Emma belong to @emma-trevelyan​,  Iris belongs to @quinnlocke​, and Alyx and Zane are mine.

broodywolf:

Another giveaway prize! Bran Trevelyan for @coryphenis 🙂

solasromance:

ohsoang:

Commissioned artwork of my Irulan Trevelyan with Iron Bull and Lea Lavellan with Solas! Art by @liaamari17!

They’re so cute and I love the whole scene going on here. 😀 

These are mine, ohsoang is me. I’m so excited. 

afearreservedfordragons:

I’m playing my first human Inquisitor playthrough and while I was talking with Josephine, she mentions that you two might have attended the same parties as children given your status. 

Here is my question? Why has no one written that fic?

Seriously. Here we have an epic meet cute and no one has used it here? How? On one hand we have one of the noble children of Trevelyan, on the other we have Josephine. Picture it. Kids meet at party. Become friends and run around the castle. Exchange letters for a while afterwards. Lose touch eventually due to either Trevelyan being taken to the Circle (which I prefer) or another reason. Then, years later, they meet again, this time Trevelyan with a glowing hand and Josephine as the advisor to their cause.

This is the Josephine romance au we all need an deserve.

Think about it guys. (Mostly @secretlystephaniebrown)

I read one with a similar premise a while ago that I quite liked!

The Four Times Josephine Met Trevelyan for the first time by 

greyassassin24

Warriors Such As: Chapter 14

Things are looking grim in Ath Velanis. Fenris has been captured, and it’s up to Metis to save him…

Word count: 4302
Rating: PG for lyrium ritual…
Fenris/F!Hawke
Summary: Licinius intends to use Fenris’ markings as a template for his next red lyrium warrior…and so the ritual begins…

Read it here or on:  DA  |  AO3  |  FF.net

Comments and reblogs are always appreciated! I love seeing what you think of each chapter, what parts you liked or want to respond to, or even just a note if you enjoyed it! Also, this chapter’s extra angsty, so hugs to all readers in advance… 😦

Hawkquisition
Part 4: Warriors Such As
Chapter 14
Wherein the magister
refines his ritual

“Our objectives,” Thayer ticked them off on his fingers, pacing
before the Fog Warriors arrayed for battle, their eyes intense bursts of color
in contrast to the white paint with which they had covered their skin and
clothing: “Stop the magister. Take him into custody or kill him if he can’t be
taken alive, but our priority remains putting an end to his experiments, and we
accomplish that quickest by removing him from play. Second, rescue our friends.
Fenris and Metis are more than capable. I refuse to believe they’re not still
holding their own against whatever the Venatori can throw at them, but the
sooner we get to them, the better their odds. And finally, neutralize any
remaining Red Lyrium Warriors that Licinius has already created and free any
slaves or captives he intended to put through the ritual.”

Varric coughed and added, just loud enough for the Inquisitor to
hear, “And then maybe we can leave this fortress in ruins so we don’t have to
keep coming back here every few years.” That won a smirk from the Inquisitor.
Varric considered it a small victory.

“We don’t have the manpower for a frontal assault,” Thayer
continued, nodding to the Fog Warrior archer who had guided them to the tunnel
for the previous night’s reconnaisance, “so Varric has identified a few
possible infiltration points. Caligo, you’ll lead a team from the south. Varric
and I will enter from the north with the second team. Get in as quickly and
quietly as you can, and remember the objectives: magister, allies, prisoners.
If things go to pieces, get out of there. If they don’t, we’ll meet somewhere
in the middle.”

A shout interrupted the briefing, and they looked up to see one of
the Inquisition scouts approaching from the raven cages. “Reply from Harding,
ser,” the man said, offering up a small scroll.

Thayer hurried to open it; scanning the words there, he smiled and
nodded to Varric. “The ships are on their way.”

“It’ll take them most of the day to sail around the coast,” Varric
pointed out. “Do we wait?”

Thayer considered the timing with narrowed eyes, then shook his
head. “We use that time to do this right. Licinius has probably realized that
some of us made it out of the fortress last night. He’ll be preparing
reinforcements. We need to approach Ath Velanis cautiously, but if we wait too
long…”

“We’ll face more of his reinforcements,” Varric nodded. “Okay
then, Your Heraldicness. Let’s go scale that fortress wall.”

~*~

It was cold. Perhaps, some part of Fenris mused as he gradually
regained consciousness, it was the cold that finally brought him back to his
senses. At least by the cold he knew that he was awake; it never seemed this
cold in dreams. In the Fade. There was a pounding in his head, besides, and the
ozone smell of magic.

Magic. In a panic his eyes
snapped open and he tried to sit up, thrashing against the shackles that now
revealed themselves at his sudden movements.

“Ah, welcome back, little wolf,” he heard Licinius’ bemused voice
somewhere behind him. Panting as he tried to turn, Fenris took stock of his
situation. He had thought he was lying down, but as the swimming world righted
itself while his vision caught up to it, he found himself secured by metal
cuffs at his wrists and ankles to a table of sorts, likewise of metal, cold
against his bare skin, propping him up at an angle somewhere between standing
and reclining.

The metal shouldn’t be able to hold him like this. I am a free
man.
He willed his lyrium to light, to let him phase through the bonds, but
the markings remained white and inert.

He stilled, catching his breath while his hands balled into fists.
The cuffs kept his arms stretched wide enough to limit his range of motion, but
he could still turn his head. To one side he saw a wall lined with shelves of
potions, and between them a single door, guarded by Venatori. To the other, a
table like the one to which he was bound, at an angle that seemed to match his;
stretched out on it, likewise stripped and shackled, a dark haired elf. Traces
of white paint still clung to his hair, but from the redness of his skin Fenris
guessed that more of the paint had been freshly scrubbed from his body.

Facing forward again, Fenris saw a sight out of his nightmares,
with one difference: the lyrium in the bottles was red, not blue. In all other
regards, it seemed that even without Danarius’ notes, Licinius had come to many
of the same conclusions about the process of bonding lyrium to the skin.
Fenris’ earliest memories – before his time with Hawke had begun to stir the
older memories locked behind the wall of torment that in all his years as a
slave he had not been able to breach – had overwhelmingly featured the pain of
the process and less so the specific details of what Danarius and his
assistants were doing throughout it, but he recognized the rod, even now
heating over glowing coals, that would be used to etch on the skin the burning
brands to which the lyrium would fuse. His pulse raced, his breath came short
and ragged as he realized that this must be the magister’s laboratory, where
his lyrium-marked warriors had been created – and to all appearances, soon
would be created again.

Then what was he, already the product of such a ritual, doing
trussed up on a table like this?

“What,” he finally rasped, willing to his voice the veneer of calm
that had often been his shield in Danarius’ house, “do you intend to do with
me?” Despite the cold, sweat dripped into his eyes and he shook his head to
scatter it.

“Quite simply,” came Licinius’ voice again from behind him, “you
are to serve as a template. The ritual I have recreated works; at least,
we have succeeded time and time again in creating markings like yours. But my
subjects have not been able to make use of their markings as you do, which
rather defeats the purpose.” He appeared suddenly at Fenris’ side, smiling
widely. Fenris clenched his fists in an effort not to flinch away from the
magister’s nearness, glaring at him with furrowed brows as Licinius continued,
“I theorize that the actual layout of the markings is of greater importance
than I had originally presumed. It is as if we were inscribing runes of
enchantment upon the flesh, after all. Perhaps I have been leaving out some
vital branching or,” he cast a critical eye over Fenris’ skin, running a
too-warm finger over the lines curving around his arm, “filigree. Now
that we have your markings to refer to, we can either confirm my theory or at
least rule it out by making an exact copy of these patterns on my next
warrior. If they do not work on him, we must look elsewhere for the flaw in the
process.”

“And merely to see my markings,” Fenris growled, “you find
it necessary to restrain me so?” He nodded toward his bound wrists.

Licinius chuckled as he moved toward the table where the apparatus
of the ritual was laid out, lifting the branding rod and holding a finger an
inch from it to confirm the heat now radiating from the metal. “As you may
recall, since we met I have been extending the offer of cooperation. I truly
mean you no harm. Alas, given the hostility you have shown to my men in your
time here, I can only assume that you cannot be trusted to cooperate.”

“You cannot do this,” Fenris insisted with no attempt to swallow
the hostility Licinius had already observed. “This ritual is…it is a curse.
Danarius died by the very markings he etched on my hand. Do not think you will
escape.”

“Tell me, little wolf,” Licinius drawled, inspecting one of the
lyrium bottles, “just how deadly are those markings of yours right now?”

~*~

Naturally, the crawlspaces did not quite match up to the hallways
through which Licinius and his brutes had dragged Fenris back to his
laboratory. Metis kept as close to them as he could at first, but every
intersection meant a detour, either to find another route through the
fortress’s ventilation, or to wait till the coast was clear to drop down from
one grating and summon vines at another so he could resume crawling through
another dusty shaft. Eventually, he dropped from a grating, looked around, and
realized he had no way of knowing which direction the magister had gone from
this intersection.

With a sigh, he lowered himself to the floor, listening. Even to
elven ears, the fortress was silent. He had fallen too far behind already. Licinius
was beyond his reach; he couldn’t even say for sure that the magister had
passed through this intersection. Somewhere in this place, his son was in the
clutches of Metis’ old master, a man who could not even imagine the concept of
mercy unless it were sweetened with more mercenary motivations. And once again,
Metis was too late.

“No,” he whispered, brushing aside the first frustrated tear and
forbidding its fellows to fall. “Not this time. He won’t be taken from me
again.”

It was a large fortress. But with Fenris he had already explored a
good part of it, and the laboratory could not be too far; the last time he had
crossed an intersection from one grating to the next, he had certainly seen his
son being dragged away down that hallway. So he was starting from the right
point, at least. He’d just have to explore a bit more, carefully, and be
on the alert for the magebane that would render him useless again. He brushed
the dust of the crawlspaces from his robes and picked a hallway to begin.

~*~

There was little enough room to thrash in the restraints. From the
silence of his markings, Fenris guessed that Licinius had kept him drugged with
the quieting potion. Ropes might have eventually loosened if he worked at them
long enough, but the metal cuffs were inflexible. No matter how he squirmed and
tried to make his hands and feet smaller to slip through them, his position
scarcely changed.

Licinius ignored his every move, evidently confident that the
restraints could keep the markings still enough to copy. Grudgingly, Fenris
conceded that escape, for the moment, was beyond him. He lay still, except for
his eyes, narrowed as they followed the movements of the magister and his
assistants preparing for the ritual.

Two Venatori mages were present to assist Licinius – perhaps
more, behind the table and out of sight, Fenris considered. Two warriors stood
guard at the door to Fenris’ right; whether the laboratory had any other
entrance beyond his range of sight was difficult to tell. In front of him, a
Tranquil in Venatori robes bent over the lyrium flasks, preparing a pipette
with which the fluid would be transferred to the lines soon to be branded on
the Fog Warrior’s skin.

The Fog Warrior himself seemed to be unconscious. Remembering the
pain of the ritual even after so many years, Fenris envied him that. It
occurred to him that perhaps the subject’s consciousness was a necessary
ingredient in making the ritual successful; otherwise, could not Danarius have
created his markings on a Leto who need not feel every burn, every cut,
every searing pain of the lyrium bonding with his flesh? Or perhaps the pain
itself would bring the Fog Warrior back to a consciousness he would gladly
abandon again. Either way, Fenris was not about to suggest to the magister that
keeping the unfortunate man awake might be necessary to making the markings
work. Let him rest while he might.

Soon enough, the Venatori gathered around the ritual table.
Licinius nodded to one mage and the man carefully collected the branding rod
from the brazier and approached the victim, while the Tranquil stood ready with
the first flask and pipette of red lyrium.

Licinius frowned, looking over at Fenris, considering the patterns
of lyrium on his skin once more. “The torso, I believe,” he said over his
shoulder to the branding mage. “Let us begin there.”

The Venatori mage nodded, following Licinius’ gaze to take a
careful look at the lines on Fenris’ chest before he brought the branding rod
to the Fog Warrior’s skin for the first delicate line.

The man’s screams at the first sizzle of his flesh answered one
question. No one would have the luxury of remaining unconscious for this
ritual.

~*~

Screams from a hallway he had just passed brought Metis up short.
He held his breath for a panicky moment, wondering if he would even be able to
tell Fenris’ screams from another man’s. To be sure, his son had not as yet
provided much of an example to go by in their brief acquaintance; Metis had
known many taught by servitude to keep their emotions well guarded, but even in
combat Fenris was quiet. Perhaps, in an ordinary life, Metis would have once
sought the patience to outlast a stage of teenaged tantrums, but it was too
late to even guess if Fenris had ever been the sort of child to rage against
parental boundaries.

Then a sharp, curt shout rose above the screams, and Metis would
know that voice anywhere. He turned to follow, keeping to shadows since he saw
no convenient gratings in this hallway.

~*~

“It will never work,” Fenris shouted above the Fog Warrior’s
pained screams, goading the magister. “Red lyrium is not the same as what marks
me. You cannot expect the same results.”

“It has already worked,” Licinius finally shouted back, yet
without losing his concentration, as Fenris had hoped. The magister continued
to focus his magic upon the prisoner, fusing the red lyrium into the burns left
by the branding rod even as his assistant mage slowly and carefully piped the
lyrium into its tracks. As Licinius’ hands passed over each flowing line, the
lyrium faded from brilliant red to the purple of an old bruise, forming a
membrane of sorts over the top of its channel that left the lyrium flowing
below, independent of the Fog Warrior’s body and yet now inseparably a part of
it. Apart from its color, it was in every way like the blue-white lines Fenris
knew as well as the rest of his own flesh.

“They will not be able to control it,” Fenris insisted. “It drives
them mad. What good are the markings to you if they cannot make use of them?”

“That is,” Licinius said, sounding more strained for breath than
at any time since they had met him, “the final step. And we are
nearly…nearly…there.”

“It has nothing to do with the shape of the lines!” said Fenris,
wriggling again against the bonds that now chafed his wrists and ankles from
all his prior attempts to escape them. “You cannot make this work with red
lyrium.”

“We shall see,” Licinius brushed him off, resuming his magic
without any further acknowledgement of Fenris’ arguments.

~*~

Of course the door was guarded.

Metis crouched around a corner where he could just see through the
doorway, beyond which the screams of the ritual’s victim continued, now hoarse
between gasps for breath. Venatori Gladiators in their heavy armor stood at the
door, likely to see him each time he peeked around the corner.

No going in that way. Nor did the laboratory seem to have access
to the crawlspaces with which he’d become so familiar today. Odds were good
he’d run into more of the magebane even if he could get any closer to the door
without the guards catching him.

It was a fortunate thing, then, that magic still worked from a
distance.

He could see Fenris, not far from the door, arguing with the
magister despite the metal cuffs binding him to some sort of operating table.
Beyond him, Licinius and his Venatori assistants were intently focused on the
man whose screams had led Metis here.

Intently focused, indeed.

Metis raised his staff cautiously, keeping it out of the guards’
sight around his corner even as he kept his eyes fixed on the laboratory door.
Quickly, in and out and around, through the well-known pattern, and then his
free hand beckoned, calling…

He could barely see it from here, the green vine that suddenly,
quietly, curled around the nearest of Fenris’ restraints.

~*~

“You cannot hold me here forever,” Fenris continued to feint at
the Magister with words so long as his limbs were bound.

“Nor will I,” Licinius finally rose to the bait, but his magic
over the red lyrium lines never faltered. “But my potion will keep you
compliant long enough.”

Fenris opened his mouth to reply, then twitched at a sudden tickle
against his wrist. Suspecting some new trick of the magister’s, he turned to
see…

Vines.

They grew quickly, as they had when Metis made a ladder of them.
One wrist-cuff was now wholly covered in green, and a glance at his ankles
showed them succumbing to the vines as well. Fenris glanced around, seeing no
grating overhead from which his father might be calling these vines.

There were plenty of things in this room that Fenris, from his
spot in the limelight, could not see. But it would not do for Licinius to see
what Metis was doing, either. So Fenris kept talking – Licinius had thus far
disdained to even look at his precious lyrium template when he replied; let him
not grow curious now!

“I have to wonder, mage,” he growled, “what use these marked
warriors will be to you if you must always keep them under control with that
potion? How would you even know if they learned to use their markings? And
regardless, if you rely on rendering them powerless in order to keep them from
turning on you, why make them at all?”

“Those that gain control of the markings,” Licinius replied, “will
learn to obey me in time. The potion is for temporary control. It is certainly
not our only option.”

The vines covered each of the cuffs now, pressing uncomfortably
against Fenris’ skin as the space between the metal and his limbs grew ever
more full of plant life. He willed the Venatori not to notice, to keep their
eyes on the Fog Warrior. But then the mage who had been etching the lines on
the man’s skin turned aside to replace the branding rod in its brazier, and
looked up to check his work, comparing the new red markings with the pale lines
on Fenris’ chest.

Fenris tensed as he saw the mage gasp. Licinius looked up at the
Venatori, then followed his line of sight to Fenris, his eyes widening as he
saw the sudden riot of color (even one or two blossoms had come with the
vines).

Then, just as the mage and the magister took a step towards
Fenris’ table, with a loud popping sound all four of his restraints snapped
open, yielding to the unrelenting pressure of Metis’ vines. Fenris rolled off
the table into a crouch, launching himself past the mages, at the brazier where
the brand-wielder had just set the rod down to gather heat again.

It might not be hot enough yet to scorch the flesh for lyrium
bonding, but it would do to keep the Venatori at arm’s length, at least for a
moment. Fenris looked around frantically for a better weapon, even as Licinius
and his pet mages, though clearly drained of mana by their work on the Fog
Warrior, began to gather some spell or other to stop him. His sword was nowhere
to be seen, let alone his armor or even basic clothing. Nor were his own
markings yet recovered enough from the mage’s potion to be of use.

No time like the present, then. Fenris snarled and lashed out at
the nearest mage, interrupting the man’s incipient spell with a thrust of the
branding rod at his eye. He flung the brazier itself at the second mage,
setting the man’s robes on fire and occupying him with putting out the flames.
That left only Licinius, since the Tranquil assistant appeared content to stay
out of the way and await the outcome of the fight, much to Fenris’ relief. Even
as he looked around for something more to fling at the magister, there was a
scuffle at the door. He looked up, expecting to see the Venatori guards joining
the fight.

They were, in a sense. Their weapon was merely the mage held
firmly between them, his spectacles askew on his very dusty face.

Fenris froze as the guards informed Licinius, “Found this one
skulking just down the hall, ser.”

“Well, well, gardener.” Licinius straightened, dropping whatever
spell he had begun, to smirk back at Fenris. “Couldn’t bear to be parted from
this one, could you?”

“Let him go,” Fenris warned in a low growl, crouched and ready to
spring, held back only by the guards’ grip on his father.

“But he so clearly wishes to be a part of the ritual,” Licinius
said, raising one eyebrow as he looked between the two elves. Then he seemed to
make up his mind, and raised his staff to begin a spell.

“No!” Fenris shouted, lunging towards the magister. From the door
he could hear Metis cry out as well. The guards gripped him tighter, making no
move to stop Fenris –

Nor did they need to. Licinius completed his spell, and once more
Fenris saw the lights of a glyph spring up at his feet, felt himself jerked to
a stop, held against his will.

“Licinius!” he heard Metis call, but could not turn his head to
meet his father’s eyes. “Please.

But Fenris certainly saw the magister’s smirk as he turned towards
the doorway again. “You needn’t beg, gardener,” Licinius said. “I would be
happy to include you in the ritual.”

Fenris could imagine the look of shock on Metis’ face when he
heard him reply, “You’re joking. You can’t possibly imagine I would want
to help you mark that poor man.”

“Oh, you mistake me,” Licinius chuckled. “Although it appears I
will have to replace my current assistants, nonetheless. You,” he shot a
glance back at Fenris, “seem to have well earned the wolf part of your
name. No, my old gardener, it occurs to me that I have not yet tried bestowing
the markings upon a mage. Perhaps the magic in your blood would draw a greater
response from the lyrium. How would you like to be my next red lyrium warrior?”

“No!” Fenris shouted again, straining against the paralysis glyph.
“Do…not…do this!” It was easier this time, fighting against the magic’s
hold on him. He managed to turn his head enough to see his father gaping at
Licinius as he took in what the magister had said.

Metis finally collected himself, shaking his head slowly. “No,
magister,” he said, “I think you mistake me. I would make a
terrible warrior, no matter what markings you put on me. I wish no part at all
in your ritual. I wish only to take Fenris and go.”

“You know I cannot grant that,” Licinius laughed. “There is so
much I can learn from his markings. Why, if simply copying them onto my next warrior
does not work…” He glanced back at Fenris with a smirk, folding his hands
thoughtfully beneath his chin, “we can always cut him open and find out what
makes them work from the inside.”

“What?” Metis froze, then shook his head frantically, struggling
to break away from the Venatori guards. “No. No, no, no, Licinius, I will not
permit you to harm him!”

“Will you not? How interesting,” Licinius stepped closer to Metis,
crooking a finger to raise the elf’s trembling chin. “You know, gardener, you
are stronger than you look, but have you the strength to deny me?”

“You will not have him,” Metis whispered through clenched teeth.

“Such single minded focus!” Licinius smiled. “Such willpower! Your
magic shows strength of mind as well. And I recall,” the magister flicked a
finger at the scars just showing on Metis’ arms where his sleeves had twisted
up in his struggles against the guards’ grip, “you always did have a high
tolerance for pain. You bore those cuts so stoically.”

“Not willingly,” Metis hissed.

“Yes, that’s a good point. You see, I have noticed that this
ritual of mine turns out better for the subjects who willingly submit
themselves to it. The more they struggle, the more it seems to break their
minds in the end.”

Metis stared at him. “You…want me to agree to this.”

“It would be better for all of us. A willing subject and the
proper pattern of markings. That is the alchemy I have been searching
for. Do this, and I will have no need to dissect my template.”

“You mean,” Metis said slowly, “you will have my willing
participation, or you will kill him.”

“Metis,” Fenris gasped, “don’t! You…do not know…what he is
asking…of you.”

Metis’ sad eyes met his son’s, holding them even as he spoke to
the magister: “You will release him, Licinius. When this is over, no matter
whether or not your ritual succeeds, no matter what becomes of me, you will let
him go, unharmed. No dissections.”

“I assure you, there will be no need,” Licinius began, but Metis
turned to glare at him, and the magister threw up his hands. “Unharmed.
Regardless. You have my word.”

Metis nodded. “Then you have mine.”


Question mark for replies?

Warriors Such As: Chapter 7

rannadylin:

Starting off Thanksgiving break with a story update! And hoping to keep the momentum going this week while I have time to write when I’m not exhausted from teaching/writing tests/grading tests…

Word count: 3073
Rating: PG for battle scene
Fenris/F!Hawke
Summary: The trek through the jungle begins; meanwhile, interesting developments are occurring at Skyhold… 

Read it here or on:  DA  |  AO3  |  FF.net

Comments and reblogs (and comments in the reblog tags too, or in replies when they finally return, or in the IMs until they do) are always appreciated! I love seeing what you think of each chapter, what parts you liked or want to respond to, or even just a note if you enjoyed it!

Hawkquisition Part 4: Warriors Such As
Chapter 7
Wherein the forest is welcoming

“Of course I’m not worried,” Hawke grumbled to herself as she read
over the letter for the third time, heart pounding every time she saw the word Qunari,
knowing how many dead enemies, how many horned giants wanting to kill her
husband and her friends
, were implied in the word.

“After all,” she sighed, “they’re the dead ones and you’re the one
alive to write to me. This is as it should be, my wolf.” And he needed, oh how
he would need it after such a battle, to think of her safe, smiling, scolding.
It mattered little enough that Malcolm was in no need of scolding for the
moment, giggling as he crawled between Merrill and his uncle Carver as they
took it in turns to call to him from different corners of the garden. Malcolm
was exuberantly delighted with this game, bursting into peals of laughter every
time one of them disappeared from his path so that the other could call him
from another side. Hawke smiled and set her worries aside, reaching for fresh
parchment to write her reply.

My dear, beloved Fenris, alive and unharmed,

Would it help if I concentrate on my smaller worries? I have
been somewhat worried about whether you were eating right on that long sea
voyage, but if you had the strength to fight off a sudden Qunari attack I will
take comfort in the likelihood that you have not fallen prone to scurvy.

You did pack plenty of bandages, I hope? And a
change of clean clothes?

Oh Maker, I sound like the mother I am becoming. Perhaps I’m out
of practice at being a fierce Champion. The worst thing I have to fight here is
Malcolm’s tantrums when he does not like his dinner and his pitiful cries when
nappies need changing and the odds that I will not get to sleep through the
night until he is at least in his teens…

You know, I am smiling even as I write of such things. I don’t
think I was ever really prepared to enjoy the battles of parenting so much, but
Fenris, I do. Oh, I do. This child is ridiculous and impossible and so very ours.
Merrill says he has my nose, and I suppose she may be right, but he still
crinkles that nose just the way that you do when he’s upset and I think I love
that best of all. (Carver accuses me of teasing the child relentlessly to wring
that look from him, but he is his father’s son and really it does not take that
much teasing. You may be happily thinking of me scolding Malcolm, but most of
the time I think he is secretly scolding his mother. That look of infantile
disapproval is so precious, I could just eat it up. I can hear you sighing all
the way from Seheron now. I suppose Malcolm’s disapproving glares do not work
on me any more than yours do, unless his intent actually is [as I assume yours
often is] to draw kisses and giggles from me.)

Well, here are all my kisses and giggles for you, then. Kisses, at
least. I cannot summon laughter when I think of you all attacked as soon as you
set foot on the island. Just go on about your business there, then, and let me
worry.

All my love,

Hawke

~*~

The mage’s scrutiny was making Fenris itch.

They had been hiking west through the jungle for a day and a half
now, following a route that the forward scouts had recommended as the least
thick with hostile patrols. Fenris had dutifully tried to answer Metis’
questions the first day, while the man eagerly pressed him for information
about his markings. This was, after all, the reason Fenris was here, in jungles
that evoked his most wretched memories, rather than at Hawke’s side. If Metis
was to be of any use to them in this endeavor, he needed information about the
lyrium tattoos, and so Fenris tried to answer, to be of use himself. But the
mage’s rather academic enthusiasm for the matter soon irked Fenris, reminding
him too much of every magister who had ever looked at him as a curiosity, a successful
experiment, rather than a person, from Danarius on down to the rivals he
had used Fenris to intimidate. So after hours of Metis first peppering him with
questions, then falling silent in thought until Fenris began to hope he had
finished, then piping up again suddenly when a new line of inquiry occurred to
him, Fenris finally snapped and shouted at him, something about minding his own
business, then stormed off to march at the front of the group till he cooled
down.

So now Metis was only watching him quietly and carefully, shrewd
eyes on what was visible of his tattoos, forming whatever hypotheses he could
from Fenris’ every move. Somehow this was even more annoying than the direct
questions. Fenris kept his distance from the mage (and by extension, from the
others, because Metis was generally a likeable person and Thayer and Varric
took to him readily enough) until it felt awkward to return, even when he had
admitted to himself that he needed to cooperate.

Keep reading

My first Inquisitor, Linett Trevelyan. Archer Rogue, practical and not quite as patient as Lisbet Hawke. (She may or may not have had a bit of a crush on Solas when he was so polite and pleasant at their first meeting, but that went nowhere so she dated Blackwall a bit but got fed up with his waffling, cut him loose, and finally went for Cullen. Worked out well in the end!)

Also featuring the Inquisition version of my first Hawke, Linett Hawke. (Guess what my favorite name for a character in a new game is…I did not know when I started DA:I that the Hawke from your world state would make an appearance or I’d have either named this inquisitor differently or…well not used a different Hawke for the world state, I had no other Hawkes at that point.) Hm, now if I could find pics of Linett Hawke…must’ve done that playthrough on an older computer. 😦

Warriors Such As: Chapter 4

Word count: 1512
Rating: T for implications
Fenris/F!Hawke
Summary: Hawke bids Fenris farewell as the Inquisition’s expedition to Seheron sets out.

Read it here or on: DA  |  AO3  |  FF.net

If you missed Chapter 1, it’s here and Chapter 2 is here and Chapter 3 is here!   Or check out my Fic Masterpost if you haven’t read the previous installments in Hawkquisition and want to catch up (for answers to pressing questions like why are hawke and fenris in the inquisition? and how did they get back together after she left him behind in da:i and all anyway? and what’s this about a baby?!)

Hawkquisition Part 4:
Warriors Such As
Chapter 4
Wherein farewells and firsts are spoken

That day approached sooner than
either of them would have wished. Within the week, ravens had gone back and
forth between Skyhold and the magister’s agent in Seheron to make arrangements,
bags had been packed, and a ship had been secured to take the Inquisitor’s
advance party as well as a detachment of soldiers to back them up once the
scouting was done.

The morning of departure dawned in
silence. Waking earlier than usual, Hawke lay still, first in darkness and then
as the pale sunlight slowly slanted into the room, watching Fenris sleep,
watching him slowly come awake, tracing with her eyes every line of lyrium, so
detestable and so beloved, as if she had not long since memorized them all. She
stored up the sight of him in the depth of her heart until at last his lashes
fluttered and eyes flicked open to complete the image with that smoldering
green gaze that still set her heart alight after all these years.

Even if, this morning, it was not
so much smoldering as bleary and just a bit dazed. Hawke supposed
she was to blame for that, after her brilliant plan to have Malcolm stay with
his Uncle Carver overnight so she and Fenris could have the chamber to
themselves for their last night together before months of separation. “Morning,
handsome,” Hawke whispered, brushing back tousled hair from his forehead to
plant a kiss there. At first his only answer was a grunt, and Hawke wondered if
she should have let him get more sleep before setting out on such a journey,
but then with a sudden rush of breath into his lungs he was awake,
and drawing her into a kiss that tasted of desperation.

Hawke,” he whispered
when they pulled apart, brows furrowed as he studied her now as intently as she
had just been watching him.

“Tell me,” Hawke said, “it isn’t
morning yet. Tell me that’s just the moons shining especially bright tonight,
and we have hours yet before…” She swallowed, tangling her fingers deeper into
his hair.

Fenris glanced toward the window,
appraising the slanting light with a frown. “Hours I cannot promise, Lisbet,”
he answered after a pause, reaching out to trace a finger along her cheek, “but
the morning is yet young. One hour, I think, no one will begrudge us.”

“One hour. Let’s make the most of
it, then,” Hawke said, rolling over to straddle him even as he smiled and
reached up for her. “An hour to remember until we’re together again – however
long it takes.”


Somewhat more than an hour later,
they stood at Skyhold’s gates as scouts and soldiers loaded gear into the carts
that would carry it to the waiting ship. Merrill and Carver had come to see
them off, with little Malcolm flailing in glee from atop his uncle’s broad
shoulders, babbling enthusiastically in the secret language of infants. “Ow!”
Carver grunted when tiny fists caught at his hair once too often, but he
grinned as he lifted the boy down.

“My big boy!” Hawke enthused as
Carver held him out to her. “How did your first sleepover go? Were you good for
Uncle?” She started to reach for the baby, but Fenris halted her with a hand on
her arm.

She glanced up to see his cheeks
tightening with emotion, and she stepped back, nudging him forward. “Go on,
then, darling. I’ll have plenty of time to hold him after…” She swallowed,
nudged him again.

Fenris took the boy from Carver and
balanced him on his hip, laying a kiss atop his curly head and then gazing down
on him as if to fix this too in his memory. “Be a good boy, Malcolm,” he
finally said. “Look after your mother.”

“Yes, do,” Hawke teased. “It’d be
nice if he started doing his fair share of the looking after, instead of me
always chasing after him.” Malcolm babbled some clearly heartfelt response to
her words and she reached around Fenris to muss his hair.

“I wonder what he’s trying to say,”
Merrill mused.

“Telling you off, Liz, no doubt,”
Carver grinned.

“Something he learned from his
uncle, I presume,” Hawke retorted, but her smile was fond and Carver only
rolled his eyes at her teasing.

“But if Malcolm is to look after
Hawke,” Merrill asked suddenly, eyes wide as she looked around at them, “who
will look after Fenris?”

“That’ll be me, Daisy,” answered
Varric, slinging Bianca over his shoulder as he stepped up to the group.

“Varric?” Hawke asked. “I didn’t
know you were going.”

“Yeah, well, you’ve been a
little…distracted, Hawke,” the dwarf grinned, looking between her and Fenris
in a way that made Hawke flush and run a hand through her hastily combed hair.
“Thing is, it turns out this Venatori stronghold is a place I’ve…had business
in, before.”

“You’ve been to Tevinter, Varric?”
Merrill asked. “You never told me that!”

“It wasn’t that long ago, Daisy.
After…you know. Kirkwall. Rivaini and I did a favor for the King of Ferelden.”

“In Tevinter?”

“Seheron, too. Apparently we
cleared one crazy Tevinter cult out of that fortress just to make room for
another, if the Venatori are using it now. Look, I’ll tell you all about it
sometime when we get back. If this trip doesn’t make for the better story, that is.”

Merrill frowned at the dwarf, hands
on hips. “You can tell me both, Varric!”

“We’ll see. Anyway, don’t you worry
about this elf of yours, Hawke. I’ll keep an eye out for any brooding.”

“And what will you do if you spot
it, dwarf?” Fenris quirked an eyebrow. “Tell stories till it goes away?”

“Oh, you never know. If it’s really
good brooding, I might use it in a story.”

“Just so long as you make sure he
writes to me often, Varric,” Hawke admonished.

Fenris looked over at her with an odd
sort of grimace. “That…reminds me, Hawke. I wanted to…” He shifted Malcolm on
his hip, trying to reach one-handed for a pouch at his belt, and then finally
thought better of that and held the boy out to her. “Here, if you’ll hold him a
moment…”

Hawke reached for Malcolm, but the
boy tightened his grip on his father, his constant baby-talk babbling suddenly
resolving into a loud and clear “Da!” as he clung to Fenris.

Everyone stared. Merrill’s hand
fluttered to her mouth in a delighted “Oh!” as Carver said, “That
one made sense,” and Varric chuckled, and Fenris stood agape, blinking at the
boy in his arms, until Hawke laughed lightly and reached for Malcolm again,
brushing a kiss to his cheek as she said, “Yes, my dumpling, that is
your Da. And I’ll give you back to him in just a second, so don’t fret.”
Malcolm went to her at last, still mumbling “Da, Da, Da…” thoughtfully as they
both watched Fenris pull a packet from his belt pouch, an array of papers,
yellowed with age, tied up with a string.

“This is…I meant to…” Fenris
began, stumbling over words as he turned the packet over in his hands with eyes
downcast. “When you were gone. To Skyhold. I wrote to you, but…I never sent
the letters.”

Hawke sucked in a breath, holding
it for a heartbeat before slowly asking, “You kept them?”

“I was angry at first, Hawke. No,
not just at first. Most of the time. And I was confined to bed for much of that
time, recovering from my wound, so I took to writing these. But I couldn’t
bring myself to send them. Perhaps I was merely sulking, because I had only the
note you left behind. I suppose it was petty of me to stop short of sending
these, for so little cause.” His eyes flicked up to her, hesitating. “They are
not always…sweet. But nor are they always angry. But I missed you, and…” He
held out the packet and looked up. “Perhaps, when you are most angry with me
for being gone, these will be a comfort.”

“Oh.” She blinked back the tears
that had been so near to springing these past few days, and nodded, at a loss for
words, and handed Malcolm back to him as she accepted the letters.

“Do not read them all at once,” he
cautioned her. “I will write when I can. But when I…cannot, you will
have these.”

Then Commander Cullen’s voice
boomed across the courtyard, marching his soldiers into position to move out,
and Thayer Trevelyan turned from where he had been bidding Josephine farewell
and waved to them. It was time to go. Hawke flung her arms around Fenris and
Malcolm together, pressing the letters to his back in her embrace, and she
kissed them both goodbye once and then again, holding back tears as long as she
could.

“Daaaaa,” Malcolm cooed once more
as Lisbet stepped back with the child in her arms and Fenris not.

“Don’t worry, my dove,” she
murmured into the boy’s hair. “Your Da will be back as soon as he can.”


Blogger Gatherings!



Click the button for reports from the 2010 Spring Blogger Gathering, hosted by Linett of Nimrodel!

Berethron of Brandywine hosted the 2010 Summer Blogmoot.

The Winter Blogmoot was held on December 4, 9 p.m. EST at the home of Telwen of Silverlode.

Next up: The Spring Blogmoot of 2011 shall return to Nimrodel with Tuiliel (Whart, aka user-1027520) hosting! Linett is looking forward to another local moot!

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