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Mature contentFirst Blush NorroenDyrd 4 9
Mature contentFriendship Is... NorroenDyrd 2 10
Mature contentWhen The Good Man's Gone, The Villain Will Do NorroenDyrd 1 2
Mature contentSurvive Together NorroenDyrd 3 5
Mature contentTevinter Weapon NorroenDyrd 0 2
Mature contentExplanations NorroenDyrd 2 8
Mature contentDon't Listen to Demons NorroenDyrd 1 2
Before the curious turn of fate left him tossed into the middle of a raging battle against demons and evil cultists and abominations infected with Red Lyrium, Farkhad Adaar was not quite a common Tal-Vashoth. Upon first glance at him, at this sheepish-looking, shyly waving grey mountain topped by a couple of curving horns, most dignitaries visiting Skyhold (especially ones from Orlais) are ready to paint a picture of his past self as a mercenary, standing guard behind a noble's back and tossing around fire balls to clear a winding mountain road off brigands. But in actuality, Farkhad used to be a Circle mage... or some semblance of one, anyway.
Found as a mewling, twitching grey lump on the doorstep of a Templar outpost that guarded the approach to the tower in Ostwick, he was raised together with the tiny elven and human children, who were first his playmates (to an extent as games were allowed by the Chantry overseers), and later became his studymates, after he began to show signs of
So here I am. Once again, treading down the hallways and into auditoriums that I once knew like the back on my hand. I really have not visited the Circle as often as I would have liked, what with a political career (or better, an attempt to have one) and private research having taken over my life. Well, at least now Tiberius has rectified that.
The boy is teaching his own class for the first time, I understand, after a period of service on Seheron that his family have done their utmost to make as brief as possible. I have also heard that his time with the Legion has left him quite obsessed with the oxmen and the various ways of killing them. I am all for patriotism, but that sounds somewhat alarming. I will wait and see, I suppose, as a guest at one of Tiberius' lectures. I would bask in the happy illusion that the boy still values my opinion and is willing to accept constructive criticism, but I know him better than this. He just wants to show off. Let him, then.
Tiberius is a
Tumblr Prompt: Loss
Even though, unlike most elves he has come across, Dorian's amatus is not at all bony and wiry (the result of a regrettable dietary imbalance in alienage folk, who go starving for most of the year and only get to eat more than stale bread on the rare festive occasions), he has never been the least bit a burden when Dorian held him, worry as he might. It has always been such a joy to wrap his arms around his Wyon's soft, pear-like body, to kiss and caress all the folds and bumps, and to sweep his small, warmly flushed self around with effortless ease... But now - now he feels stiff and heavy and horribly solid, like a block of icy-cold stone carved in his image, a pointless, utterly useless statue - because statues are supposed to honour the feats of great heroes, especially after they... after they are gone. And Wyon is not gone, no, he can't be! Nor would he want a statue - he has always been so delightfully modest, and unassuming in his desires. All he has ever wanted was to flee fro
Untold Elvhen Tale
The old elf gave a smile to the children waiting for him around the camp fire. He sat next to them, taking a young girl on his laps. Her jet black hair were gathered in a loosened braid. He sighed softly in the clear moonlight of the Emerald Graves. The story he wished to tell was none which had ever been told. Merely a dream, a whisper in his ear.
He took a deep breath before beginning, his voice soft in the silence of the evening.
"Once upon a time was an elven maid.
She lived in the grand empire of Elvhenan. The elves were everything and everyone, their magic magnificent. The spells were tunes, resonating through the years and reverberating in sweet harmony. The world was as only one can dream, and even the Fade lost most memories of this beauty which no words can describe. This is what has been lost, da'len."
He looked sadly at the young elves before his expression turned dark.
"But everything wasn't the golden face one could see. Arlathan was living upon the blood and sweat of its
Trip to the Storm Coast
Mahariel groaned as her hand slid on a rock. Did it ever stop raining? She wasn't planning on staying here more than necessary, but she was not going to let these people down if there was any chance for them to be still alive. She had taken her boots off down the cliff to climb more easily. It was too hazardous for the soles to get any kind of grips. She finally looked down, irritated to see Solas and Cassandra didn't even start climbing.
"Are you following or what?" Solas frowned.
"Someone has to stay down to catch you when you fall, Herald."
"Herald, there has to be a way around this cliff."
"This will take a good hour of walk."
"Boss, I got the rush, but how are you planning to go down?" Asked Bull, few inches on her side. The Qunari was indeed a Ben-Hassrath, which explained why she had the feeling to have heard about him. Probably mentioned in some random report of Salit.
"Easy. If Solas condescend to follow, he puts a barrier around us and we jump."
"WUT?!" Exclaimed Sera.
Tale of the Custom Champions
In the majority of the possible worlds, the famed Hawke, Champion of Kirkwall, is either a man named Garrett or a woman named Marian, with jet-black hair and striking eyes and a dash of blood-red caddis (so very Fereldan) across their face. The people know them; the people love them; the people revel in Varric’s tales of their exploits and chuckle at the sarcastic humour they fling defiantly in the face of danger. And in most cases, enamoured with Hawke’s look of strength and confidence, and with their vibrant personality, Varric’s readers wish for no other Champion. And who could blame them? It is only fair that such charismatic figures become so dear to their hearts. But still, other Champions do exist - sometimes, in some stories, they do make a tentative appearance of their own.
Sometimes, the Champion of Kirkwall is called Summer Hawke - not her real name but a friendly monicker given by Varric (just as her sister is Sunshine). Bearing her freckles like a mantle
The Colour Grey
Grey is the colour of the haze before his eyes when he tries to look back and understand what he used to be - who he used to be - before the raw, shattering pain of lyrium being wrought into his skin cut away his past self, leaving him only with the heat of his anger, the pull of the endless chase, hunting for the hunter, and the sudden jolts in his chest when he, say, looks someone in the eyes for too long, and the lessons instilled into him by slavers resurface again. Grey is blank, grey is oppressive, grey is a wall that locks him in and does not let him be anything else except what he is now. Completely alone.
Grey is the colour of ash, covering the ground in a thick, soft carpet and still falling from the sky in huge flakes that rest on the outstretched arms, half-melted and charred, and on the twisted faces, almost worn down to leering skulls, still screaming, always screaming, even though she cannot hear them... But that would be the ash carpet muffling everything, wouldn't it?
Varric insists that writing romance is not his strong suit; he thrives on yanking back the veil of propriety and, with a dramatic swoosh, exposing the dark and gritty inner workings of big city life; on tracing intricate plot lines that take many twists and turns and ultimately intertwine in a single point of revelation; on splashing bucketfuls of blood and gore to make the reader's stomach clench in shock. And when it comes to tender affairs of the heart, to kisses with various degrees of tongue involvement, and giggle-filled cuddles, and swoons into the arms on a handsome curly hero or a sword-wielding heroine with fluttering eyelashes and an abdomen of steel... Well, he is far from being a pro here. He still firmly believes that Swords and Shields is his worst series, no matter how much the Seeker may gush over it. And even though he did include elements of romance into the Tale of the Champion - couldn't be helped; not his fault that Hawke and properly laced underwear do not really
The young elf moves forward, swiftly, noiselessly, the soles of his bare-toed feet and the tip of his gnarly, branching staff mage's barely making an imprint on the patchy, greyish carpet of snow that covers the round porous rocks and the streaks of pale, lace-like, dried-up moss, and grows thicker, fluffier, and cleaner the higher uphill he climbs. His eyes, light-brown like the shell of a forest nut, are narrowed intently on his angular, freckled face, as he gazes fixedly ahead at some remote goal that he is supposed to reach.
Absorbed as he is by tracing his path, he does not notice another face bobbing up and down in the shrubs in his wake. Although broader, paler, and with rounder contours, this face is marked by bold tattoo lines, just like his. Except that the patterns etched into the young travelling mage's skin (in dark-red ink to match the frizzy strands of hair that flutter in the breeze under the rim of his dark-green hood, with slits for ears) resemble the crown of a tree
Mature contentLike Nobles Do NorroenDyrd 1 2
AT: Sunshine and Puppies
“Cullen, where are you taking me?” Verana-Kathryn Trevelyan's steps were tentative, even with her lover's hands supporting her back. It had been sunset when they left Skyhold behind on horseback to what seemed a reclusive spot in the Frostback Mountains. It hadn't been a long ride, but Cullen had insisted on bringing the horses all the same. She didn't mind – even with the threat of Corypheus gone, there were still dangers around in the mountains that it was best to be wary of.
That hadn't prepared her for the blindfold, however, and while they hadn't walked for very long, they had moved steadily upwards. This confused the Inquisitor – surely what he wanted to show her could be witnessed from Skyhold, and easily so?
“Just a bit more, Verana, I promise,” he replied, his voice calm except for a slight hint of excitement. The air was crisp and would chill considerably after sunset, something the sensation on her clothed body informed her wouldn't
The duel between Maedhros Lavellan, the leader of the Inquisition, and Lord Adorno Ciel Otranto, one of the most eligible young bachelors of Antiva, for the hand of the Inquisition’s ambassador, the brilliant and lovely Josephine Montiliyet, was supposed to be the highlight of the day, a grand spectacle for all of Val Royeaux to revel in. But in reality, it has proved more than a little underwhelming: the Inquisitor very obviously had far less fencing training than his opponent (plus, as some of the spectators pointed out sagely, one had to take into account him being older and, well, the e-word); so, barely a few moments after their spar began, he got himself pinned on the Antivan’s rapier, tripped over his own feet and almost cracked his head on the pavement. At which point Lady Montiliyet arrived on the scene, screaming frantically for a healer, the Inquisitor was ushered off on a stretcher by a couple of uniformed agents that his forces had posted all across the summer
Inquisitor's Thousand and One Nights
Sometimes, when he keeps watch at the campsite, slouching on a tree stump or a pile of springy fir branches, sewing yet another dragon plushie to add to the pile that the chief is currently cuddling with in his tent (his snores so loud that the flimsy canvas triangle keeps leaping a few inches up in the air), Krem suddenly finds himself remembering a story he heard as a child.
It was about a magister who had become so enraged with his wife for being unfaithful to him, that he set off a pack of demons to rip her apart. And every day since then, he would grant freedom to one of his many female slaves, and wed her - and on the dawn of their first night together, he would repeat the bloody demon trick to make sure that the poor thing would never, ever cheat on him (which must have made his marble palace floors quite a pain to scrub). But then, a day came when one of the girls brought to him turned out to be a mage, meaning that she had been allowed to learn how to read, and had studied man
Memories of a Storm
Enasalin Lavellan is an elf with a past that it as vibrant and mesmerizing as the net of criss-crossing scars and tattoos and birthmarks and constellations like freckle clusters scattered across the warm brown skin of his shoulders and lean yet muscular back. Not that Cassandra became too distracted when, bleary-eyed and messy-haired, she would shuffle out of her tent early in the morning and catch Enasalin bathing, with his long, sleek salt-and-pepper hair undone and trailing over his body in wet ribbons… All right, all right, time to put an end to this. This digression is getting inappropriate.
Enasalin Lavellan is an elf with a past: Leliana’s personal case files say that his clan would wander through the Free Marches, and as a young hunter not yet out of his teens, Enasalin was separated from his kin and, for many years before his clan crossed paths with him again and welcomed him back, had to make a living among humans, going through a number
DWOAH: Knight Artorias vs KnightCommander Meredith
Deadliest warriors of all history
Knight Artorias vs Knight Commander Meredith
Knights driven mad by that they swore to fight
Knight Artorias info:
Height: 9 feet
Weight: 250lbs (roughly)
Weapon: Greatsword of Artorias
Strengths: Arguably one of the hardest bosses in the Dark Souls universe, Extreme physical strength, Extremely fast, High endurance, Able to leap dozens of feet, Wields his Greatsword like it was nothing, Survived fighting Manus (although he became cursed and lost his mind as a result), Can increase his already overwhelming power with his Dark Aura, Fight through the Dark Abyss with Sif with little to no injuries sustained before facing Manus.
Weaknesses: Is a shell of his former self relying entirely on primal instinct rather than human intelligence, Arguably fights with a handicap as Artorias was left handed before his left arm was broken forcing him to use his much weaker right hand for his Sword.
Knight Commander Meredith info:
Height: 6 feet
Weight: 140lbs (roughly)
Mature contentThe Circle Falls - DA fanfic Captain-Savvy 12 21