DA'ASSAN

hey guys i know that things are tough for a lot of poeple right now. i don’t really have much to say aside from i love you guys. but if you’re kinda like me and you’d prefer a bit of a distraction or some company, i have a twitch stream going on right now of me playing skyrim. please feel free to come by, chat, help me pick out plots to do, or just chill. open to any and everyone, even feel free to lurk if you want!!

feyn’s hair starts to go gray at the temples from all the stress of losing his arm

he dissolves the inquisition in favor of starting over. absolutely refuses to let the chantry have the power he built up because fuck them and their stupid hats

definitely retires to kirkwall for a long time after inquisition. he gets a house there and aside from visits with varric, basically sinks into a massive depression because losing his arm is just. really hard on him for a long time

i hc that most everyone drops in for a visit, but the only ones to stay by his side for a long period are varric and iron bull and his chargers. varric, obviously because he lives in kirkwall and is viscount, but bull and the chargers bc they know that feyn is super vulnerable right now and it would be the perfect time to assassinate him. they stay until they can either assure themselves that he’s safe, or until he starts getting out of his depression

varric also makes sure that he has a full staff, because feyn’s first inclination is to just sulk alone until he dies. he hires some people that are discreet enough that they don’t brag that they’re working for the inquisitor, but they’re spirited and have personality because that’s what feyn responds to the most (he wants friends and family more than he wants servants)

his sister works closely with dagna to design an arm for him. he doesn’t wear it all the time (it’s too big, too heavy, and ultimately not comfortable enough for constant use) as it’s mostly for combat or protection, but it is essentially ironbark and thick vines spelled and imbued with a spirit to allow for optimal movement and protection. it can fit rather easily under his normal shirt sleeves and armor, but his fighting style has to change to accommodate the weight, the way the ironbark claws grip things, and how his own limb feels underneath it.

“Lavender is my color,” Dorian agreed with blithe egotism. And also a favorite scent, as Feynrahel well knew. It wasn’t as though every one of Dorian’s toiletries was lavender-scented, after all… merely most of them. All right, all of them but one, which was only rose-scented because he’d run out of lavender. Honestly, it wasn’t as though he wanted to go around smelling of blood and corpses; he was a necromancer, not a barbarian!

“Yes,” he added a moment later, “I’m familiar with the sensation.” Not for the same reasons, of course; Dorian had been a source of scandal his entire life. And when he wasn’t being looked at because of what he’d done, he was being looked at because of who he was, or what he looked like. Women and men alike found him attractive, and rightfully so. But Dorian had been born to that life, raised in it. He’d hated it at times, even run from it for a while – but he’d always known how to move through it. He could walk through a crowded noble court and never show a moment’s unease.

The same could not be said for walking through a forest, of course; and in the wilder places, Feynrahel was the bolder and more comfortable of the two. Perhaps it only made sense.

“But no,” he demurred, shaking his head. “I’ll have to turn down that invitation, enticing though it is. I don’t think Josephine would approve of the advice I’d give.” It was something of an excuse; in reality, Dorian was simply not comfortable with the idea of tying himself so closely to this organization – to Feynrahel, by extension. Maker’s balls, the elf could die any day! Either of them could, killed by Templars, or a stray fireball, or a bloody bear, for Andraste’s sake! There were certainly enough of them! And what then, if Feynrahel died?

And what about when all of this was over? Would Dorian be welcome here? And if he was, did he even want to stay? He had an increasingly certain sense that he shouldn’t. He should go home and try to fix things there, as the Inquisitor was fixing them here. That’s where responsibility lay.

If only he could figure out why he always stumbled in the presence of the nobility--when he had a mission, a goal in mind, he could accomplish anything. But talking to them, socializing--it had no goals in his mind. He wasn’t going to talk to nobles unless he had something to say--but that wasn’t the same for them, was it? There was always something they had to say to him, some sort of agenda they carried, or just--just wanting to be in his presence and hear his thoughts. Which, frankly, were probably not nearly as enlightening as they thought they’d be.

He was no Herald of Andraste, no holy leader on a righteous mission. He was an elf, bruised and battered more often than not, drunk more often than not, and not someone to lead anyone anywhere, unless they needed to find the nearest bar brawl as fast as possible. He wasn’t like Dorian or Josephine--born and raised into this Game, knowing what kind of moves to make and how they would be read. He was at home with the trees and animals, more at ease with staring into the eyes of a wildcat and snarling into its face than even carrying the most bland conversation with someone holding even the lowest of ranks.

With the Templar rogue helpfully pinned in place by an arrow Dorian recognized as one of Feynrahel’s, finishing the man was easy enough. Dorian’s staff shot out, bladed end first, in a wickedly quick snake-strike of a move; the rogue crumpled, gashed throat spraying bright blood. With this Templar dead – or quickly heading that way in any case – the tightly painful feeling drawing Dorian’s skin taut over his bones receded. When Dorian reached for his magic this time, there it was again, a shining well of power roiling inside him like a tempest, like an inferno.

With a great shout of joy, Dorian flung back his arms, back arching and hair flying; between his outstretched arms, a great burning sigil of pulsating energy wrote itself upon the air and then spun forth and free, arcing outward in a many-tailed comet which burned and hissed and spat as it flew. All around the field of battle, men and women in sword-blazoned armor screamed and twitched as that electric power touched them. Fire ran up and down Dorian’s body in flickering sheets, spinning off him as he turned and turned again, casting it forth with hands and staff, conjuring up the power with his whole body and laughing as he fought.

“Boss!” came a sudden growled shout from somewhere down the field of battle, and Dorian spun, following the Bull’s gaze.

Feynrahel was bleeding and weaponless, and something inside Dorian snapped, his vision flashing red at the edges. Vaguely, a part of him wondered if this was how berserkers felt, their entire world tunneling down into a point of pure, primal rage. But he had no time for such questions now; Dorian was already moving even as he saw the Templar’s sword come up.

He reached out, grasped at the stuff of the Fade itself, and twisted, tearing himself a hole in the very fabric of reality as a worm might bore through wood; to any outside watcher, Dorian blurred and all but vanished entirely, reappearing half a heartbeat later at the Inquisitor’s side.

His staffblade, shimmering veilstone honed to a wicked edge, crunched through the Templar’s ringmail and found the man’s kidney; even as the Templar made a terrible sound, blade dropping from already nerveless fingers, Dorian channeled lightning through the staff’s metal.

A second later, the Templar dropped to the ground in a boneless heap, his body smoking and blackened and very, very dead.

“Feynrahel!” Dorian exclaimed. “Are you well?”

This was bad. This was very, very bad. Normally he’d draw his daggers for close combat, but this Templar was too quick, sending blows towards his arms whenever they lifted to go for his own blades. Instead he spent his time dodging, dancing around the sword thrust at him, twisting this way and that despite the burn in his side from his cut earlier. Just my luck if it’s poisoned.

He might’ve been able to keep up this deadly dance with the Templar for much longer had they not been placed near a tree. The roots were wild at the edge of this hill, gnarly and causing bumps and ridges in the terrain. Feyn tripped. He fell backwards, sprawling on his back as the Templar bore down on him.

And just like that, in one blink of an eye, the Templar was impaled by a familiar staff. Lightning arced so brightly off the metal that Feyn had to lift his hand and turn his head, shielding his eyes from the intense sparks that flew from mage to Templar. The smell of burnt flesh filled the air, hanging around even as the Templar’s now lifeless body was pushed from Dorian’s staff and down the hill.

“M’fine,” He grunted, slowly sitting up--only to hiss, hand going to the wound on his side. Damn but it burned--much more than it really should. Looking down at it, Feyn carefully pulled his fingers away, his palm covered in blood and another dark, nearly black substance. “Poison--fuck.”