hey y’all, i’m updating my intro since i’ve been here for 2+ years lmao. i’m ari (they/she/he), still stuck in dragon age, still having a great/terrible time.
always bi, black, and tired, almost always ready to talk DA-feel free to dump thoughts into my askbox anytime. i have a pretty consistent tagging system and will tag for critical posts, but really i am just here to play with my ocs like barbie dolls. i also have an art tag and a writing tag!
rooks: yared ingellvar, pia de riva, jim skye (aka jim laidir)
this isn’t an nsfw blog but be aware that i am an adult and operate this blog accordingly. will do my best to tag veilguard spoilers for a while after the game is out. likes/follows come from my personal, @waterbearable!
racism, transphobia, homophobia, ableism, sexism, and fatphobia will earn you a swift block-as always, be respectful!
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the hottest thing a guy can be is barely conscious on the floor while someone lifts his head up by the hair so that you can see his glazed out eyes and the blood running down his face
It is nearly immediately after the tense exchange in Eamon’s chambers that Savreen learns of Isolde’s harebrained plan to throw a ball before they make for Denerim.
“And she is aware,” Savreen asks Teagan, sat across from him in his study, disbelief leaching out into her tone, “that we remain in the midst of a Blight and a civil war?” Teagan sighs, long and weary.
“She believes that to be all the more reason to celebrate,” he says, rubbing his temples with the thumb and middle finger of his left hand, leaning his right on the arm of his chair. Savreen tries her best not to react. Teagan already knows her feelings on the matter; to be petty is beneath her and accomplishes little.
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ty for the ask!!! pia's is forthcoming, but have daithi's since it got a lil long:
A letter found in an empty chest in an abandoned wardrobe. By the end, the handwriting becomes an almost illegible scrawl. The paper itself bears faint wrinkling, as though the recipient meant to throw it away, but thought better of it.
Ma vhenan,
I hope that when you read this, it is not too early in the morning.
I put your leathers back in the chest—rest suits you, love, but your greaves were starting to look a bit dry. Suppose it’s easier to maintain them when you’ve got things to kill, but it isn’t like you to forget. Got a new jar of tallow from the butcher down the road. He’s been stingy recently—keep an eye on him, I can’t yet tell if he’s grown tired of us, or if he’s fallen on hard times.
I know you hate my reminders. Forgive me, just this once—it will be the last time I give them.
You have been kind, to say that I am just as handsome as I was the day you met me. But we both know that’s not true. It has been fun pretending, but I no longer recognize the face that stares out at me in the mirror, and have waited as long as my mind will allow.
I beg you—though I fear you will not listen—do not try to find me. Do not hunt me down. I have known these forests since I was a child, and know how to conceal my tracks, even from you. Where I go, you cannot follow. It is because I love you that I will not allow it.
Rest suits you. It suited us both. But if the Blight must take me, then I will bury a blade in the chest of every darkspawn I can, knowing that it will never have you.
My old hahren would always go on about halam'shivanas, the sacrifice that comes of duty. How it was a beloved thing. I do not think I understood it, not until now. I do not relish that I must leave you. But I go thinking only of you, until I cannot think anymore.
Ir abelas, ma vhenan. May it be many years before I see you again.
-Daithi
another oc codex prompt, submitted by @creaking-skull . ty again jay <3
15. a letter to your OC from a companion they haven’t seen in a while
A letter recovered in Inquisitor Arya Trevelyan’s chambers in Skyhold, found neatly folded amidst the pages of a tome titled ‘Flos Duellatorum’, a rare treatise on battle techniques and spirit blade duelling compiled by Knight-Enchanter Fiore dei Libeiri of Antiva in approximately 6:32 Steel.
My dear Inquisitor,
I am glad to hear from you after so long. I had heard that you and Cullen were spending time traveling now that things have quieted down: reuniting with family is a wonderful thing. My duty to the reformed Circle of Magi continues to keep me in Orlais, otherwise I might have endeavored to visit Bann Trevelyan in person. My thanks for connecting us: though you’ve done much to encourage the people’s trust in mages, it would be foolish to believe that all tensions had been eliminated outright. As I’m sure you’ve seen, the further one ventures from Skyhold, the more cracks begin to show. That your brother is interested in collaborating to ensure that peace in Ostwick lasts speaks well of his character.
But to the crux of your letter to me, darling. I consider it a privilege that you would share your struggles with me, and be assured that I will keep your confidence. It has been scarcely more than a year since I lost my darling Bastien, but I have not forgotten what you did for me. Nor have I forgotten what it is like when illness creeps in and overwhelms all other focus.
I have spent time referencing our libraries and consulting some of our scholars better versed in the metaphysics of the Fade, but unsurprisingly, we have no records referencing this sort of…Veil poisoning, as you called it, and very minimal theories on how one might stop its progression. I have begun preparing some alchemical concoctions to dull the pain while maintaining what mobility you have in your arm. Make a quick detour to Skyhold before you continue on to Honnleath; I will have one of my enchanters hand-deliver the potions to you. I’ll include some unrelated tomes in the chest—if Cullen asks, tell him that it is simply a personal gift from the Circle, a gesture of goodwill. In addition, I would request that while you are there, you permit the enchanter to conduct a thorough examination of your arm. Your description of your symptoms proved useful, but I will need more detail if we are to determine a cure.
It is a shame that Solas disappeared so quickly after Corypheus was defeated. Given his knowledge of the magister’s orb, he may have been the one most equipped to assist you.
But you needn’t worry, dear, we will resolve your dilemma in due time. You have all the resources of the Grand Enchanter at your disposal. You only need ask.
Yours,
Grand Enchanter Vivienne de Fer
A postscript, found on the back of the letter:
I would not endeavor to pry into your business, darling. But I would suggest telling Cullen the truth of it. You do him no kindness to hide your suffering until it is too late.
I would know.
one more codex prompt down, one left to go. submitted by @creaking-skull:
4. a letter from your OC to their love interest
A letter found within the interior chambers of Vigil’s Keep, alongside a small, leather-bound journal filled with various pressed flowers and other flora from across Western Thedas. The journal is complete with accompanying drawings and diagrams, including a number of unnamed specimens. After cross-referencing with the Dean of Botanical Studies at the University of Cumberland in Nevarra, it is believed that some are the first of their kind to be documented in Thedas.
Dearest,
I hate that I could not join you in time for your arrival to Weisshaupt, but I’m glad you were able to arrive safely. We’ve just crossed back into Orlais—I do not plan for us to stay long, but the Hunterhorn Mountains were just as unforgiving for our return trek. None of our party sustained any major injuries, but our provisions ran out two days early, and we’ll need time before any of us are fit to travel again. Velanna’s…displeased, though I expect it’s more to do with her feelings on the inn we’re staying at. Serault’s Sanctuary appears to be more orphanage than hostel, and Velanna’s managed to capture the interest of several children here. I think it’s quite sweet, actually.
Your reports on the siege of Adamant Fortress were deeply concerning. Our journey into the Fade all those years ago was hardly a pleasant one—that you had to experience it again, in the flesh?
I regret that you could not all make it out safely. But Maker, I cannot deny what a relief it is that you made it out at all. To not hear from you for so long—beloved, I worried. But I will not dwell on darkness when there are more pressing battles ahead.
I have taken some time to consult with the others, but given what you’ve told me, I see no other options. I have had my suspicions of the other Warden contingents ever since what happened in Amaranthine—the Wardens may claim to operate without regard to boundary or border, but I cannot forget the minimal aid we received in trying to rebuild Vigil’s Keep after the darkspawn’s assault, nor the continued disregard from the First Warden of my reports on the Architect. That Clarel’s misguided attempt to sacrifice so many Wardens in the hopes that it would end all Blights was not simply overlooked, but encouraged, by Warden leadership, is more than enough confirmation for me that they cannot be trusted to protect their own, much less the rest of Thedas. The threat of the Blight still looms, and my leads further west have all but run out.
So, while Weisshaupt still offers you food, shelter, and grudging acknowledgment, I make a request of you, and I do not make it lightly.
Pull our people out. Every last Fereldan and sympathizer to our cause. They will march to Amaranthine under my command and await further orders there. The other Warden-Commanders have been all too content to keep me on the outskirts: it should be no issue, then, if I continue my efforts to stop the darkspawn without their meddling.
They followed you across the continent, beloved—they will listen to you again. Submit the attached orders with my seal, if you must. I will have no part in the war games of fools who would toy with the lives of good and loyal people. Ferelden’s Wardens will return to Amaranthine unbound.
My partner in all things—though I am not yet at your side, my heart beats with yours. Do not let them forget that the roses of Ferelden still have their thorns.
With love,
Veria
i took wayyyy too long with this, but it's the last of the codex prompts:
(submitted by @creaking-skull)
5. letters between two of your OC’s companions about them
A couple of letters collected from the headquarters of the City Guard in the Viscount’s Keep in Kirkwall, during an interview of Guard-Captain Aveline Vallen in 9:40 Dragon, conducted by Right Hand of the Divine, Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast. When asked to share the letters, Guard-Captain Vallen parted with them voluntarily, remarking that ‘they do me no good, though I doubt you’ll find anything useful in them’.
Anders,
I am sure you know I would not reach out to you like this if I wasn’t asking you something important.
How are things at your clinic? Our guards continue to post watch in Darktown, though most of their focus has been on keeping the usual brigands and highwaymen under control. No matter our personal disagreements, the people of Darktown speak highly of you and your work. If there are any disturbances near the clinic, I will gladly send my men to intervene.
I understand you were with Levi when he found Leandra. I’ve tried to pay my respects at the estate, but haven’t received a response. As much as he might like me to, I will never forget fleeing the Blight with him—we lost so much, so quickly. That family has been through more suffering than most can bear. I am sorry for his loss. I hope he realizes it.
I know you two are close. I know you’re well aware of the tensions at the Gallows, which is why I come to you. I cannot manage it on my own: things at the Keep are in chaos enough with the Viscount dead and Meredith hovering. If you want a real way to help your people, tell Hawke to meet with me—help me set Kirkwall on the right path. If there’s anyone they’ll listen to, it’s the Champion.
—Guard-Captain Aveline Vallen
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
Captain Vallen,
No need to waste time pretending with pleasantries. I have no need for your offers of protection: my patients are nearly as wary of your Guard than they are of the templars skulking the docks. It is more than enough to know that as of yet, no one has come to break down my door. I will see to it that it stays that way.
If you really wanted Hawke’s assistance in the matter, there’s a far easier way to get it than trying to beg me like some dog with your tail between your legs. But I suspect I know why you haven’t gone to Levi, and I’ll gladly confirm: no, he doesn’t want to speak with you, nor does he want to speak with most anyone in this blasted city right now.
He is still grieving. At least give him the peace to do that before you start parading him around for your own ends.
—A.
Subsequently added notes in the margins of the second letter:
This aligns with Varric Tethras’ impression of the Champion as ‘prone to fits of pique’ in the years leading up to the rebellion, and suggests he was hiding the extent of his relationship with Anders from you. If that’s the case, they will have gone even deeper into hiding. I still think it would be preferable to focus on leads for Surana’s whereabouts. —L.
No. It has to be him: what happened in Kirkwall is the key to anything we do next. You must find him. We are simply missing something. —C. P.
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It’s been a week, he thinks. Or days.
Or forever.
It’s passed in a blur, a smudge of sooty gray. The last speck of color he remembers is ruby, staining his hands, staining his face, etched and stitched into his mother’s skin. He hesitates, to call that his mother, but he has to–because she is not here, and if she is not here, and not with Gamlen, and not back in Lothering where sometimes the worst parts of him wishes she had stayed, then Leandra is in the ground, and she is in the ground because Levi has lain her there, after cradling her head in his lap like a babe, after brushing ashen hair from clouded-over eyes, after touching the join of her neck, where beads of rubies bubbled as though it were a necklace. A bridal gift, of stomach-turning proportions.
Levi Hawke, grieving in his estate.
(catch the full drabble under the cut lol)
It’s been a week, he thinks. Or days.
Or forever.
It’s passed in a blur, a smudge of sooty gray. The last speck of color he remembers is ruby, staining his hands, staining his face, etched and stitched into his mother’s skin. He hesitates, to call that his mother, but he has to–because she is not here, and if she is not here, and not with Gamlen, and not back in Lothering where sometimes the worst parts of him wishes she had stayed, then Leandra is in the ground, and she is in the ground because Levi has lain her there, after cradling her head in his lap like a babe, after brushing ashen hair from clouded-over eyes, after touching the join of her neck, where beads of rubies bubbled as though it were a necklace. A bridal gift, of stomach-turning proportions.
The ruby is what he remembers because he cannot erase it, cannot rub it out from behind his eyes. He gets to remember the worst of it, which is the Maker’s gift to him. (The Maker’s punishment, for his myriad failings.) His mother’s death is writ in stone, as is the strangled noise that came from his throat once the last vestiges of blood magic left her, as are the tears that streamed down his face. He will forever remember the pallid shock in Varric and Fenris’ expressions, the way Anders reached out a hand (to help, it was just to help) and swiftly recoiled when Levi screamed at him what good are you, if you can’t save her–the hurt in his eyes. The hurt in all of them when Levi could not help but offer the refrain, what good are any of you to me, if every waking moment I spend in Kirkwall is death and misery, and scooped up Leandra and began to walk away, without a glance behind.
Walking in a haze until he found a suitable place to bury her. He does not remember the act. He is vaguely aware that he wandered back to the mansion. He knows that he began to strip his armor off the moment he got in the door because it is still strewn about the floor, despite Bodahn’s initial offer to collect it. He’d sat, naked, in the bath until the dirt and viscera had left his skin, then found his robe and stuffed a bag full of sovereigns and handed it to Bodahn, telling him something to the effect that his family’s services would not be needed, at least temporarily.
It is an empty manor, suddenly. But Levi feels that if his mother cannot be here, then it is not right for anyone to be. He finds the hallway that leads to her suite and cannot bring himself to push open the door, so instead he sits outside the threshold, in the fetal position, pressed against the wall with as much force as he can stand.
Beefbone flops down next to him, head on his paws and tongue lolling, waiting for a scratch behind the ears that will not come. He whines, and pants, and nudges, to his credit, but Levi is motionless, set dressing in his own home. And so it passes, long beyond the point where his legs feel pins and needles. He gets up when Beefbone all but shoves food and water dishes into his hands, refills them as needed while bread on the kitchen counter grows stale. But it’s always the threshold of his mother’s door that Levi returns to, only as conscious as his body requires, sleeping in the rare moments that his mind does not protest, focusing blindly on the yellowing spots of wallpaper when it does.
It’s in the twilight moments that he remembers suggesting that Leandra might get out more. Finding something else to occupy her time. He hadn’t wanted her to leave, exactly. If things ever got too unbearable, he would have given her run of the place–no difficulties between them could have changed that. She deserved her ancestral home.
(He would have taken a thousand thousand more of her jabs if it would have kept her here, in safety.)
The front door hasn’t opened since Bodahn last hurried Sandal out of it. It is perhaps for the best. He did not leave things well with the others.
He does not know what to say if they come back, besides.
sources: unknown // unknown // maplepecanpastry on tumblr // ashmanathletics on tiktok // i saw the tv glow (2024) // pray for me by kendrick lamar // unknown // what are you waiting for? by derald cannon jr. // unknown // unknown // drunk drivers/killer whales by car seat headrest // polekingrasputin on instagram
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Dread: "Let my enemies see me on the battlefield. Let the dread seep into their bones, knowing their end is nigh, for at this moment I am not a man. I am a force of nature and the bringer of death."
not me updating my inquisition longfic after a yeeeeeeear of radio silence, oops. i'm telling myself that if i get back into writing more (which i am trying to do) that i can perhaps get this thing, if not finished, past the next story arc (wewh) by the end of the year. that feels...doable. i do really wanna take this thing to completion.
snippet under the cut if you're curious
The Wheel of Time: An Introductory Treatise on Entropic Sigils, Hexes, and Incantations, by Enchanter Mariah Taiwo. Arya wrinkles her nose. She remembers this book, vaguely, if only because it represented her general frustration with Entropy, her least favorite school of magic. One she struggled with quite frequently, though as time went on she simply stopped trying. It’s impressive that the Fade managed to conjure this up from the depths of her memories, however.
She tries to open it, but the tome crumbles to ash in her hands. A door slams shut behind her, impact reverberating around the room, and she can’t help her heart skipping a beat. Wood groans and splits around her, bookshelves crashing to the floor—as if they’re decaying?
No.
As if they’re being shoved out of the way.
She breaks into a sprint.
The exit can’t be too far away, she heard a damned door somewhere, but the walls have shifted yet again, and what bookshelves haven’t been tossed aside seem to stretch out, up, doubling in size until they reach the ceiling and block out any sight of the walls. Books tumble out onto the ground as the shelves become too large to contain them, and Arya throws up her staff to block their impact—necessary, it turns out, as one hits her shoulder with all the force of a boulder tumbling off a cliffside, nearly pushing her to the ground. She persists, shouldering her way through the ever-tightening corridors. She hazards a glance behind her shoulder, but there’s nothing she can see, nothing to fight, until she’s slammed forward, the full weight of plated armor concentrated on her upper back, and she tumbles ahead, her staff clattering to the ground, just out of arm’s reach.
She stares upward, ice shooting up through her veins.
He’s not real.
The assertion isn’t much help.
(and a link for the fic in question, if you're curious. unlike w my art i have historically been v reluctant to share my writing. trying to be more normal abt it, lol)
