hello hello, and happy thedasweekend!! 🥰 how about some adoribull with the artifacts of thedas prompt: a palm frond from seheron
"I was wondering if you might be able to help me with something I'm looking at," Dorian says, into the sending crystal. It's set into the gold back of his half dragon tooth, usually hidden with magic that can be revealed on a willed touch, glowing faintly purple where he holds it aloft, near to his mouth.
"What do you need to puzzle out?"
The Bull's voice is not as close, through the magical hum of their connection. Likely wearing his necklace and not holding it, otherwise occupied. Travelling, perhaps, bouncing gently against the great swell of his breast. He wonders idly if the Bull is still growing out his beard. He'll indulge in the details later.
"No, I mean I'm actually looking at something. A gift I've received."
"Dorian—" he says, warning. He knew that would set off alarm bells for the Bull immediately, but it was still pointless to couch the point in too much superfluous chatter and reassurance; the Bull would worry regardless.
"It's already been checked for magic, and it's not food or drink, so no poison."
"Could be a hidden trap mechanism, poison somewhere."
"I know, I know," he gentles. "It’s been tested, but I’ve not touched it but to move it. I've done my due diligence, I'm just a little stumped. I think it's meant to convey a message."
"Who's it from?"
"That's the thing; I think it's from the qunari."
"Yeah?" the Bull says, failing to sound casual about it. Dorian knows him too well by now, half a decade into this.
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hello ivy!! another thedasweekend is upon us uwu loving this prompt from the as said by karlach list: i'm not going anywhere. i've got plans for the future, you know. and they involve you. it feels very davrinmance to me, so how about with davrin/tuelartha c:
@broodwoof You are so correct about the davrinmance vibes of that line! This one is a twofer for @thedasweekend AND @dragonagekissweek, for Day 1: Morning (even though it's a day late lol).
Every time I run through Weisshaupt and hear Rook say Davrin is going to kill the archdemon, it's like a punch to the gut realizing a non-Warden Rook might not understand the gravity of what they're ordering him to do. And Tuelartha being my first playthrough, with me already knowing she'd romance Davrin by the time I reached that mission... Ooof! I love making things hurt :)
DA Kiss Week — Day 1: Morning
She wakes in a cold sweat, sheets sticking to her skin, suffocating her. With the fading image of her nightmare still clinging to her eyelids, she thrashes to escape the bedding’s restraints. Her elbow collides with something — soft-and-solid, the give of flesh, a grunt of surprise — and for a moment, her panic intensifies.
“Whoa, whoa — Hey!” Firm hands grip at her shoulders and arms, steadying her.
Her vision swims and coalesces… and leaning over her in bed, grounding her, watching her with those dark eyes so full of concern, is the one person who can put her mind at ease right now: Davrin.
“Hey,” he says again. Gently, reassuringly. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”
“I’m okay,” she says, gasping for breath.
“You’re okay.” He rubs his hands up and down her bare arms, and the slow, soothing rhythm drives away the last vestiges of Tuelartha’s nightmare. His warm smile replaces the image in her mind’s eye of his body crumpling over the archdemon’s corpse.
“You’re okay,” she echoes.
“Yeah. I’m okay, too,” Davrin murmurs.
He leans in — slowly, giving her time to move out of the way if she spooks — and brings his lips to hers. She melts into the kiss. Melts into his touch.
“We’re okay,” Davrin says.
“Are we?” Tuelartha whispers.
The nightmare isn’t real. It never was. Davrin plunged his sword into the skull of Ghilan’nain’s archdemon, and he lived. But the determination in his eyes before that, when he looked over his shoulder, and she gave him the tacit order to kill it… Or earlier in the library, when she laid out the plan. When she didn’t know —
That look is harder to forget.
Davrin pulls back, his brow furrowed with concern and confusion, his thumb still rubbing patterns into her skin. “Whoa, ‘course we are. What’s this about?”
“I ordered you to — ” A shudder runs through Tuelartha’s spine. She shakes her head, and her lips harden into a harsh line. Her grip on Davrin’s forearm tenses.
If he had…
“I had to order you to your death, Davrin,” she growls.
“Oh,” he says. It sounds more like the air is forced from his lungs by a blow. “Oh, baby, no. It’s — ”
“Don’t tell me that’s okay,” Tuelartha snaps. “I could have — If I’d lost you…”
Davrin shifts his weight onto one elbow so he can bring his other hand up to stroke her hair. He presses a kiss between her brows, smoothing out the creases with his lips as he murmurs soothing noises into her skin.
“But you didn’t. I’m still here,” he says, his voice rough with emotion.
All of a sudden, it’s too much. She can’t handle this tenderness from him — not now, not when he should be the one upset with her — It’s suffocating.
She shoves him back, glaring. “No! I had no idea what happens when a Warden kills an archdemon. And you let me send you in there, thinking it would — ”
She nearly lost him at Weisshaupt. And it would have been her fault. All the pain, and panic, and despair that she pushed down deep — because in the immediate aftermath of the battle, Davrin needed comforting more than she did, because her cousin clan crew needed her calm and in charge, not falling to pieces — everything comes flooding back to overwhelm her.
She changes her mind about pushing him away. She grabs his cheeks and drags him close with enough force to make his arm buckle underneath him. His weight falls on top of her as she crashes their lips together.
This kiss is the opposite of gentle. It’s rough. Bruising. Desperate. Her hands clutch at him, shaking fingers digging into the muscles of his back, nails scraping at his scalp.
If she loses him, she thinks it will break her.
“Don’t — ” she gasps into his teeth, “ — ever make me do that again.”
Davrin pushes his forehead into hers, his eyes squeezing shut.
“I won’t. Promise.” With their bodies pressed together — bare skin slick with her sweat — his voice rumbles through her chest. His mouth tugs into a crooked smile as he continues, “I'm not going anywhere. I've got plans for the future, you know. And they involve you.”
“Oh, yeah?” Tuelartha chokes out a laugh and clutches him tighter. “I’ll hold you to that.”
getting to these games late but i see i still have an in, so! hole in the earth?? 👀 sounds like a really fascinating one tbh!
ohh I was thinking the game would end without me getting to talk about my favourite WIP, and here you are to save the day! thank you, brood <3
WIP Ask Game
So! Hole In The Earth would be a follow-up to my Lucanisara mercy-killing fic (also known as ATEOHW) where Bellara sets up a Dalish-style funeral (think Cyrian's funeral quest) for Ghilasara and invites Lucanis to see it through with her.
I Just Think that both of them really need a chance to talk about how much they loved Ghilasara, how her selfishness and the grief she always carried with her impacted them both, and what they are feeling in the aftermath of her passing (feat. them feeling bitter at each other because they both can't help it, Lucanis having an angry mini-breakdown upon finding out why Ghilasara cut him off two years ago. and a few other things)
I don't have much of it written, but I have this quote:
"She [Ghilasara] blamed herself until the end. For everything. How could she live like that?" Bellara asked. "How could I allow her to live like that?"
I'm kinda stuck on planning it, because the funeral requires cameo of three other people, and I know I see Ghilasara's mother and Emmrich among them, but I'm still not sure who else could be there. Maybe Illario, but I'd need to write more Ghilasara & Illario before I can commit to that. Well, that's for future me to worry about!!
Brood, you do not know how much I was hoping you, specifically, would ask me for the solavellan prey kink WIP because! It's! Inspired! By! Your! Fic!!!!!!!!!! 🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰
This one: Appetite (everyone should read it. But mind the tags, etc. etc.) consensual cannibalism 🥰 fade fucking 🥰 beautiful bloody imagery 🥰🥰🥰
I want my fic to be sort of in line with that. That sort of visceral hunt-or-be-hunted energy that obviously, well, ends in fade fucking. Solas is in his Dread Wolf form in this one, though smaller than his actual form because I, uh, don't think Ellana can actually survive the Dread Cock if he's like three stories high, even in the fade lmao. She runs. He catches her. And they're going to tear into each other and live in each other's guts 🥰🥰🥰
hellooooo, happy dadwc day!! i am honestly 👀 at cole/krem, so maybe those two and the wordless ways to say i love you prompt of "Mending an item of their clothing that was ripped," if that appeals. happy writing! ❤️
fifty wordless ways to say "I love you" | @dadrunkwriting
This goes a bit all over the place, but in my defense, so does Cole.
Saves Nine
Krem knows of Cole, from the Chief’s stories. It’s funny, he’s never seen the guy around before, but now Krem sees him at least once a day. He feeds the cats that hang around the Herald’s Rest, leaving little plates of cooked meat in places they wouldn’t be stepped on. Krem has noticed the food hidden away before, but had somehow missed every time Cole had put it there. So, when Krem catches him walking to the tavern one sunny morning, it’s not entirely surprising, but it is a novelty.
“Hey,” he says, politely.
Cole startles, his tower of plates rattling ominously. They’re all practically licked clean – he must have been out before dawn setting out food. Krem supposes that might explain why he’s missed him until now, but then, he should have seen the guy on his collection rounds before, surely.
“Hello,” he replies, finally. His tone is a little wooden, but perhaps he’s just nervous.
“Yes,” is the answer. And then, he adds, “you’re Krem.”
“That’s me,” Krem agrees. “The Chief mentioned me, huh?”
“Yes. He thought I’d get it wrong.”
Krem waits for him to elaborate, though after a few moments it becomes clear that he isn’t going to. Instead, he goes on about his business. He puts his pile of plates down, and reaches to fetch another, hidden behind a pair of sun-bleached wooden barrels. As he turns, he reveals a tear in the brim of his hat. Not a small one, either. A great, ragged rip, too wide to just sew back together without warping the fabric.
“Want me to take a look at that?” Krem asks.
Cole stops in his tracks. “Look at what?”
“There’s a hole in your hat.”
He raises pale, slender hands – his fingernails aren’t bitten, but they are only just long enough to show white – and gingerly lifts the aforementioned hat from his head. Turning it over in his grip, he quickly discovers the damage for himself.
“You’ve seen it,” he says, somewhat absently. He goes to put the hat back on.
“Wait a sec,” says Krem, a laugh in his voice. Cole pauses, with his hat half-raised. “I mean, I can fix it for you, if you want.” Most of his materials are back in the house he shares with Stitches, Rocky and Grim, but he has a small kit he carries with him for emergencies – a tear in a waterproof coat can quickly land you in trouble on a cold day. Luckily, the stakes here are about as low as they can get.
Cole blinks. “You can.” It’s not a question.
“I mean, yeah.” Krem jerks his head to the side, towards the tavern door. “My stuff is inside. You can pick a fabric to patch it with.”
He gets up and heads inside, trusting Cole to follow him. The set of footsteps behind his own indicate that he was right to do so. He hikes a knee up onto the seat of his chair, more out of habit than anything, and places his kit on the crate next to it.
“I don’t have a lot of choice here, but there are a couple of options,” he says. “I can patch it with something similar, or if you want, we can add something else.”
He puts out the samples that would be big enough to cover the hole, and turns around to wait for a verdict. Cole…doesn’t seem to be paying attention. He shifts uncomfortably from one foot to the other. Krem initially wonders if he’s embarrassed by seeing someone’s private property, but judging by the Chief’s stories, he has no qualms about being nosy. As he watches, Cole is looks furtively over his shoulder, around at the rest of the tavern.
Krem reaches for his arm, touches his elbow gently. Cole’s head snaps around to the stare at it, and he withdraws it. “You alright, there?” he asks.
“They can all see me,” says Cole, timorously.
Krem frowns. The Chief had told him about Cole going unnoticed. At first, Krem had thought he meant the guy could be stealthy when he wanted to, but no, apparently people would just…not realise he was there. I didn’t realise he was there, he realises, something that both unsettles him and makes him feel horribly guilty.
“They all look at me, now,” Cole goes on. “I’m real to them. I can’t make them forget.”
Krem doesn’t know what comfort he can offer. He has met a few spirits in his time – they’re difficult to avoid in Tevinter – but none like Cole. None with this kind of problem.
“If you pick the fabric you want, we can sit outside while I sew it on for you,” he offers.
Cole nods. “Thank you.”
He chooses a good, thick cotton, the one Krem would have recommended if he’d asked. Krem earmarks it, and true to his word, he packs up the kit and carries it back outside. There really aren’t enough places to sit near the tavern, but he manages to find a crate long enough to sit on and set out his supplies. He should talk to the Inquisitor about getting some benches down here.
Krem sets out his things, and turns expectantly to Cole…who does nothing.
“I need your hat,” he says, holding out his free hand.
“Yes.” Cole takes his hat by the brim, but his hands still before he lifts it. He passes it over, slowly, and even when it’s sitting in Krem’s lap, he hesitates to let go.
“You can leave it with me,” Krem says, but he has a feeling Cole would rather stick around. “Or, you’re welcome to stay. Conversation makes the work go faster.”
“What should I talk about?” asks Cole.
Well, that’s a question. “Uh…how’s your day been so far?” he decides on, eventually.
“The cats don’t swipe at my feet so much any more,” Cole replies.
“They’re getting used to you,” says Krem, as he pins the patch material in place. “There haven’t been people here in a long time. Makes sense that they’d be nervous.”
“Maybe they couldn’t see me either.”
“Maybe.” Krem makes the first stitch. He decides to use a whip stitch – it’ll look very obvious, but it’ll be easier to remove if Cole decides he doesn’t like how it looks. “We had a cat, back home.”
“When your father still had the tailor shop,” Cole adds.
“How did you…?” Krem starts, before he remembers. Spirits know things. “Yeah, when my father was still around. I don’t think she was ever officially our cat, but we fed her. She’d let me comb the knots out of her fur.”
“She trusted you.”
“Yeah, I suppose she did.”
The conversation tapers off soon after. Cole simply watches Krem work with rapt interest, tapping his foot against a stone in the path. The scrutiny is a little off-putting, sure, but Krem has never had someone express this kind of curiosity in the process. His father had a machine cranked by hand to do stitching like this, which was fascinating to a small boy, but he wonders if he would have sat at his father’s elbow and stared at his bare hands working like this. Maybe he would have grown bored, as he expects Cole to do.
He never does. He sits silently for the full hour it takes to mend the hat, foot tapping that same rhythm on the stone.
Finally, it’s done. Krem ties off the final stitch, and snaps the loose end against his teeth. “There,” he says, handing the hat back to its owner. “Good as…well, maybe not good as new, but it should hold up.”
Cole puts the hat back on, which seems to be a great relief. He actually smiles a little – the first time that Krem has seen him smile. “Thank you,” he says.
“You’re welcome.” Krem smiles back, and holds out a hand for Cole to shake. “Good to finally meet you.”
Cole stares at his hand blankly for a second, before starting to lift his hat again.
Krem stifles a laugh. “No, I need your hand, for a second. Other hand.”
Cole finally offers his right hand, so Krem can grip it and shake it. His face turns a little pink. “A greeting,” he says, absently. “It’s how you call me a friend.”
Well, he seems to have grasped the concept pretty quickly, if you’ll excuse the pun. “You got it.”
Krem releases his grip, and Cole pulls his hand back, folding it against his chest like something precious. He keeps his hand like that even as he turns to walk away. He doesn’t say goodbye, but then, that’s pretty typical from what Krem has seen.
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happy dadwc friday!! i love the idea of a lavellan and merrill friendship! so maybe eliana & merrill with the protective prompt of: it would be better if we went together. hope it's a fun one!
-broodwoof
This was fun!! I’d had an idea for this - since it ties directly into my fic Suledin - for a while, but this prompt fit it perfectly! I do apologise for it probably not making any sense without reading Suledin, but hopefully it’s enjoyable either way.
Eliana makes the walk from Hightown to the alienage in a daze. Even as she knocks on Merrill’s door, she isn’t sure what she’s going to tell the other elf. How would she even begin to explain any of this? Merrill has proved to be open-minded about elven history so far - much more than she expected of any other Dalish elf - but…
“Lethallan!” Merrill manages to sound excited, even while yawning, as she opens the door to her small house. “Come in! I can make us some tea, if you want?” She pauses, turning to look back at Eliana, still in the doorway. “Is something wrong? You’re making a strange face.”
Was she? She had no idea. “Oh. Everything’s fine. I…I had a peculiar dream.” She blinks, finally following Merrill into her home.
“A nightmare? Oh, Eliana, I’m sorry.” Merrill continues speaking as she heats water for their tea, gathering the leaves from a container and bringing everything to the table. “Was it a particularly awful one? I used to have this one where I needed to fetch something for the Keeper, but I kept tripping over tree roots. Also everyone was running from me, but also laughing? It was quite odd.”
Eliana pours hot water over the tea leaves in her cup as she tries to find the words to explain….any of this. “It wasn’t a nightmare. It was a rather nice dream, actually, the first I’ve had in nearly a year.” She can’t keep herself from smiling at the memory, despite the pain that accompanies it. “It’s just…hard to believe? Sorry, I’m sure none of this makes any sense.”
“Take your time, lethallan. I’m sure you’ll find a way to explain what you mean.” Merrill’s smile is warm and encouraging over her teacup.
“I need to go somewhere, and it would be better if we went together. I think. At least most of the way.”
“And this is related to your dream? Where are we going? I have a lot of questions. This all sounds terribly interesting!”
“Yes. I’m…well, I learned about a place. In my dream. And I need to get there, but I’m also not sure if it’s real, or if it’s some kind of a trap…” Eliana takes a sip of her tea, enjoying the warmth it spreads throughout her body. “I’m sure it’s fine. It’s probably not even real. It was probably all in my imagination.”
“Oh, so you learned about a place from someone in the Fade? Like a spirit or a demon? I understand why you want someone to come with you. It does sound intriguing, though! What kind of place is it? Is it close by? When do we leave? What should we pack?”
If she had any gods left to praise, she would thank them for Merrill.
“Well, you know how you’ve always wanted to go into The Crossroads?”
This might be wildly out OOC once we get more details or the game drops, but Emmrich Volkarian has bewitched me body and soul, and I love and have already drawn and begun collecting headcanons and lore for my Rook that is going to woo/be wooed and marry the gentleman necromancer. Hope you enjoy.
The thing of it is, Emmrich is far more accustomed to dealing with the dead, isn’t he? Skeletons, in particular. Nevarra may be a warm enough clime, but the necromancer knows the cool, stale air of the Necropolis and his study filled with bones, old tomes, parchment, ink, and the scent of his favorite teas far better than that of the sun and bustling markets miles above. What he knows of the living- aside from that of a few colleagues- is primarily of their connections to and beliefs surrounding death and what rites should follow. Anything outside of that, well, it is largely theoretical. That’s never troubled him before. That it should do so now, so late in life, is… unexpected, to say the least.
And Tobias Rook is… warm, bright, and more alive than anyone Emmrich has even known. A series of utterly baffling and delightful contradictions Emmrich could spend the rest of his life puzzling over and never entirely figure out. Exactly the kind of challenge, the sort of puzzle, he adores. He adores them, a realization that had shaken him to his very core. They make Emmrich feel more alive than he has in years, and, somehow, both younger and older at the same time, makes their heart stop and race. It’s probably a lucky thing he’s already gone gray, or some of their more reckless antics would almost certainly inspire some new ones. They’ve come away from today’s battle on a little more bruised and worse for wear, but the mage is well aware how easily it might have been otherwise.
“Do you ever think about it,” Emmrich asks when he and Rook are finishing an evening cup of tea, the rest of their companions having already turned in for the night. Given his area of expertise, and the odds of what they’re up against it seems prudent to ask. Truthfully, it seems almost shamefully neglectful he’s not done so before now.
“What’s that?”
“Death. What comes after. What rites you would like others to perform for you,” the necromancer prompts, but Rook shakes their head.
“Not as often as you, I suspect,” Rook replies with a soft, amused chuckle, then, sobering a little, mulls the question over in order to give him a more serious response.
Rook does that a lot. They are playful- albeit sometimes a bit irreverent soul. But they never shame or discourage Emmrich when he spirals into an impromptu lecture about his latest studies or curiosities, even when they don’t entirely understand them, they ask him questions and do their best to provide him both with humor, and thoughtful responses in equal measure.
Emmrich is used to being the butt of a fair number of jokes over the years, not that he’s ever paid those much mind, but Rook is inexplicably far more interested in making him laugh than laughter at his expense. Where some of his colleagues and acquaintances over the years deemed him peculiar, even somehow vaguely off-putting for being so committed and interested in his grim work, Rook consistently seeks out his company, praises and seems to admire his passion, even if they don’t share it for the same things.
“I don’t want or need any pomp or circumstance, and I’d hate to think the last thing I ever did was inconvenience my friends. I don’t know for certain what comes after, but I don’t believe I’ll be needing my body for it. Whatever is easiest, does the least damage- to your purses- that’s what I want.”
Emmrich frowns thoughtfully. It’s not that he expects Rook to share his exact views on death, their answer is a pragmatic one, but hearing them speak with so little reverence for their body and its care after death- a body he’s come to… appreciate since first they met- is difficult for him to reconcile.
“I never-“ but Rook cuts themselves short, biting their tongue, and taking a sip of their tea to give them a moment’s pause. “I’ve never cared if anyone knew my name,” they continue finally, refining the thought as they set their cup of tea back on its saucer. “That was never why I joined up with the Shadow Dragons, and it’s not why I’m doing this now.” Emmrich nods as they continue.
“I don’t care if the world knows my name. I’ve never needed that. I just want to matter to someone… one person to remember me- even if that memory fades with the two of us. If it was the right one, that would be enough,” Rook concludes. This is a sentiment Emmrich can understand, and one he shares. He sighs softly, a little wistful. Were he a younger man…
“For what it’s worth, Little Bird, I know I’m not the right one, but I could live a thousand lives and never forget you. I don’t know how anyone could.” Rook draws in a shallow breath, pupils blown wide as they try to meet Emmrich’s eyes which are suddenly rigidly fixed upon the floor in front of them.
“Why not,” Rook asks softly. These words catch the necromancer by surprise if the way his head shoots up at their question is any indication.
‘What?”
“Why not you,” Rook repeats, their voice is soft, almost like speaking too loudly will shatter whatever this strange, beautiful, and fragile moment between them is. Perhaps it will. Emmrich’s throat feels dry, despite the tea, tighter than it had a moment before. Were it not for the way it hammers against his ribs, quite as if it wishes to escape the confines of its bone prison to reach them, Emmrich would swear his heart has stopped.
“I wouldn’t mind if it was you,” Rook admits, suddenly uncharacteristically shy. “I, um, I’d really like that, actually,” they confess softly.
Their cheeks are flush, Emmrich thinks, unable to do anything for a moment but to gape at them. Full of blood, of life, warmth, their eyes full of light, of nerves, yes, but also, hope, a tenderness he’s seen before now, but clearly not for all that it was. They bite their lip and Emmrich realizes he’s been silent, lost in his swirling thoughts, for too long. His gloved hand gently clasps one of their hands, his thumb finding Rook’s pulse and caressing the inside of their wrist. Their heartbeat more akin to a hummingbird than their namesake, but precious all the same. I’ve done that, Emmrich marvels, cool fingers of his bare hand reaching out to rescue their bottom lip, bangles on his arm tingling softly, joining the symphony of his quickly beating heart and shallow breaths.
“Are you sure,” Emmrich asks, words scarcely louder than a whisper, but needing to offer them one last out.
“Please,” Rook nods, and Emmrich doesn’t keep them waiting, fingers moving to card through their hair before coming to cradle the back of their head as his lips meet theirs in a kiss of infinite care and patience, as though the pair have all the time in the world, and he, can think of nothing better to do with that time than this. And just now, he can’t.
oh this is evil bc I want to ask about so many but!! I am very curious about lavellan x roderick - lapse 👀👀👀
(WIP ask game)
Okay, so, this was part of an art swap @choccy-zefirka and I were doing a little while ago! Life got in the way and I didn’t end up finishing my piece, but I still want to one day because Zef’s OCs have a way of living rent-free in my mind.
The Lavellan in this fic is Elodie, who Zef’s written a couple of one-shots about.
To summarise: Elodie and he-who-would-become Chancellor Roderick had a passionate, youthful fling, but were both struggling with their stations in life. Elodie wore an Orlesian-style mask the entire time they knew each other because she didn’t want him to know she was an elf. Eventually, Elodie decides she can’t keep doing this and basically abandons Roderick without really explaining herself to him.
Fast-forward to Inquisition era. They meet. They recognise each other. They kiss. Toward the end of Zef’s second fic, Roderick tells Elodie that the kiss was a ‘lapse in judgment on both our parts’. The fic ends with Roderick hoping that the next time he dreams about Elodie, the woman in his dreams doesn’t bear her real face.
Spoiler alert: she absolutely will.
Anyway, this is all a very convoluted way of saying I owe Zef several thousand words of Chancellor Roderick having an extremely guilty and anxious wank while thinking about the Herald of Andraste, and that it’s still coming.
