#cigs writes

Trying to distract himself, he forced his attention to what was physically around him. The campfire crackled soothingly beyond the thick fabric of his tent. It wasn’t the low crackle of smoldering ash, but the sharp snap of fresh logs catching flame. Someone was tending to it still. Despite how close his tent was to the bonfire the Chargers had built, the bitter cold of Ferelden still seeped its way into Dorian’s bones. He wondered idly if he’d ever feel warm again. Cursing himself for enabling his insomnia, he slipped out of the bedroll and got to his feet.

He tried to stretch a bit to appease his angry muscles. It did little good. Ignoring the aches, he leaned down to rummage through his pack. He pushed aside wrapped rations, quills, inkwells, scribbled notes, and rolled maps of the area to pull out a thick tome. Its old worn leather was soft against his fingers. He turned it over in his hands, letting the weight of it comfort him. He had been elated when he’d found it hiding among the other books of Skyhold’s library. Vetrani was a visionary of magical theory, difficult to find in Tevinter due to his radical ideals on the Fade, and it had been a damned miracle to find one of his books so deep in the south.

He stepped out into the night. The scent of woodsmoke was thick in the air and Dorian hurried to get closer to the warmth. The trees around Ferelden weren’t found in Tevinter and, when burned, Dorian found the campfires smelled different. Much more floral. Less of a robust spiced edge of what he remembered of his home. The flames of it twisted up in shades of orange and gold. As he approached, he noticed a familiar figure sitting in the grass.

- By Blood & Lyrium, Ch. 5

My Dragon Age long fic is perhaps one of my favorite pieces in totality that I've written, which I'm still planning on finishing. A sprawling lore overhaul guised as a parallel plot retelling focusing on the relations and growth of primarily side characters. It's told in a tone meant to evoke not only character voice but older pre-90s fantasy epics. Chapter 5 was originally seven years ago now and I think it really holds up. Some of the language could be tweaked to be fully on theme, but it has some of my favorite setting descriptions I've ever written. Specifically, I remember really wanting to get across to readers that this Dorian is an academic and noble in a foreign land - and I do think I evoke his conflicted homesickness throughout this chapter.

Eoin looks up at him with a quizzical frown as they walk out towards their usual spot among the scruffy grass. “Why do you do that?” “Do what?” “You don’t call Mum ‘mum’ anymore,” Eoin says. Ciaran winces at the question, his frown deepening as his little brother continues. “You used to, but you don’t no more.” Ciaran sighs. “It’s complicated.” He pushes a few stray hairs from his face. When he looks down at Eoin, he sees the expectant patience there. He takes a deep breath. Eoin won't let it go now without a satisfactory answer, so there's no use avoiding it. “She’s never really here anymore and, when she is, she doesn’t hang around the house. She doesn’t really feel like my mum anymore.” Eoin worries at the hem of his shirt, twisting it between his fingers. “I don’t think she likes it when you call her Rebecca,” he mumbles. “I think it makes her feel sad.” Something tightens in Ciaran’s chest and an old bitterness crawls up his throat and makes a home behind his teeth. “It makes me sad, too," he manages to mutter. 

-Scarlet Welly Boots, Ch 4

A series of truncated vignettes meant to capture snapshots of my OCs life, Scarlet Welly Boots was a very experimental piece for me. It was a brief return to multi-chapter fics after a long stint doing one-shots, but I was playing around a lot with shortform chapters (anyone who knows me well knows I prefer my chapters 5-8k words) and challenging myself to capture what I needed to in a limited word count. It's also just a deeply personal piece to me. I'm very proud of how a lot of the dialogue in specific turned out.

They raise their hand to knock and the door swings open, bringing them face to face with Ricardo. He's dressed up for going out, in a silky purple shirt and a nice pair of slacks that hug tight across his hips. A hint of musky cologne lingers around him. He blinks once and then again as if not convinced they're really here. "Shadi?" Rashad swallows down the tightness in their throat at the old nickname. "Sorry it's so late." It used to be so easy to talk to Ricardo, especially when it was hard with everyone else. Now it feels like they struggle with the most basic conversation. Or they argue. And they'd really like to not argue tonight. "I didn't mean to interrupt" -they look over his outfit and gel-tousled hair once more- "your outing." "What are you doing here?" Ricardo's tone is abrupt and confused. His eyes widen just as Rashad's do as the question leaves his lips. He scrubs a palm over his face with a groan. "That's not how I meant that. It's just, I wasn't expecting you." He laughs sharply. "I guess it almost feels like-" "Like I'm avoiding you," Rashad finishes honestly, regretting it immediately as Ricardo flinches. "I've just been busy." Ricardo looks at them, his eyes heavy with exhaustion. "So you keep saying."

-Love That Doesn't Have a Place to Rest

This is easily my favorite piece I've written in the last six years, with a close second being Don't Let Me Break This. I have such a deep fondness for the the way I explore Ricardo's sexuality and how he's struggled and thrived with it in time. For all I wish FHR would get more into the nitty gritty political details, I'm glad the lack of it has given me the space to breathe and fill in those blanks as I choose. Publicity and how it takes a toll on one's identity and particularly on what aspects of identity one is allowed is a topic I find deeply fascinating and, while I have a more explicit fic in the works on this topic, I'm glad I could lampshade those themes here. But I did highlight this particular excerpt because I'm deeply proud of how it showcases that Rashad and Ricardo know each other so well as to know how their conversation will go but still languish in the void of things they can't say to each other. It's a really fun dynamic to play with.

He knows he shouldn’t, but Felix has never been one to not take risks, and this is such a small one in comparison. Sliding his hand a little closer across the table, he brushes his little finger against Julian’s. He watches Julian’s gaze flick down to the touch, his expression infuriatingly unreadable behind the walls he’s erected. But then his expression softens, ever so slowly, like watching water run down the icicles that hung outside the windows that one winter up north. He hooks his little finger around Felix’s, stilling them both, and he tilts his head slightly towards Felix. His expression gives away little, but Julian feels emotions like a radio turned up just too loud for Felix’s empathetic senses. He feels himself losing his footing in the stream of it and, instead of fighting it, he lets the undertow pull him into the depths of Julian. Julian feels like loneliness and isolation so often - cold and profoundly deep and ancient as the oceans - but there is more deeper in the blue. There is warmth like volcanic vents, giving life to passion and drive and something small that Felix has to pay closer attention to in order to realize its name. There is hope there, cracked and brittle under the pressures around it, but bolstered by the attraction that tastes sweet on Felix’s tongue. Would he drown here, in the currents of Julian’s heart? Could he, knowing that as soon as they catch Julian’s hunter, he will be gone with the rest of his team?

-Catalyzing with a Breath of Calefaction

A deeply silly title for a very soft fic, but I can't be bothered to change it. I have such love for Julian and Felix, especially in this fic. As much as I love established relationships or romance born from them, it was really fun to write a relationship of just two people getting to know each other, especially when one has stopped opening up at all. It also let me play with Felix's empathic senses and decide how I felt they should manifest. Which, in turn, let me do my favorite thing in writing: metaphorical descriptions.

Lastly, something from a WIP for fun!

"Right," Ricardo announces. He rolls his shoulders and, much like Rashad in the car, Anathema watches him become the Marshal. "Let's go save the world again." He turns and steps towards the barricades, leaving the rest to follow suit. As Anathema widens their stride to keep up, they bump gently into Rashad's arm. "You gonna be okay?" The silhouette of their cowl shifts, no doubt as their jaw works in mild annoyance. "Yeah. I'll just keep to the fringes." "Well, you know I'll watch your back." They elbow Rashad playfully. "Hard to kill the indestructible, even with spooky mind powers." She wiggles her fingers for effect.

-Untitled WIP

I'm finally braving writing pre-HBI character dynamics, which is something I've struggled with and lowkey been afraid of working on, but I'm really enjoying it as I get into the swing of things. I'm quite enjoying walking the tightrope between What We Know From the Books and understanding Sidestep has been through a lot of trauma and that's colored how they think of their past relationships with the Rangers. It'll be four chapters when it's done and I'm so excited to share it eventually.

Sterling isn't prepared for just how cold it is on the ramparts of Skyhold. He'd expected cold when he'd first peeked out the windows of the du Loupain carriage and seen the snowy peeks of the aptly named Frostbacks, but nothing could prepare him for the blustery night winds. Though the Inquisitor and her ambassador had not put them up in straw beds, Sterling was certain they were not down feathers in their mattresses. And the sheets left something to be desired. That was surely the problem and not the fact that his daughter was miles away. Oh, he knew she was safe under the watchful eye of the Marquess, for sure, but it wasn't the same seeing her in the library or wandering the gardens.

He needed to get up. Needed to move and not think for a moment and maybe the winds would drag away his worries. So he wandered the grounds and, satisfied they were secure enough, he'd climbed the roughworn stone steps up onto the ramparts. If the guards were keeping an eye out on him, they seemed to be mostly content to let him go where he pleases. Perhaps the Spymaster had her own ways of watching him. He pauses in his rounds, bracing his hands against the wall to gaze over the deep valley of the mountains. It is beautiful up here, though he misses the green of the Halamshiral forests. But, when the winds die down, it's quiet, peaceful.

No, not quite quiet. He hears something on the air, between the unforgiving gusts. A voice, yes, clear as a bell. Untrained, not as sweet as the bards of Val Royeaux, but carrying a mournful quality that feels genuine. Sterling follows it, trying to find the source of the baritone. The closer he gets, the clearer the words grow, though he finds he still cannot pick them apart. No, someone is singing in Tevene. His brows furrow. To his knowledge, there's only the one Vint in Skyhold and Sterling is pretty sure the disgraced Altus Pavus is not one to sing.

He stops short as he finds himself at the wall of a flanking tower. Casting his gaze about, there are no doors into the tower from here, but there is a ladder propped against it to reach the battlements above. He sighs and climbs. If the source isn't up here, he's giving up and going to bed.

Cresting the top of the tower, he finds little more than a few wooden chairs and tables. He spies the trapdoor leading into the tower proper, its latch undone. The song is clearer here, a longing dirge echoing in the cold air. On the far edge, sitting with his legs dangling over the long drop into the frozen lake below, Sterling sees Elian. He's got his arms propped against the cold stone, swaying slightly as he sings out into the open sky. He looks woefully balanced.

"If you're going to leap," he calls out, keeping his tone light to not startle the elf. "Can you flip on the way down?"

Elian stops in his singing to laugh. He looks over his shoulder at Sterling, cheeks ruddy from the cold. "I'm not going to leap."

Sterling grows closer, stopping only as his boot hits something heavy. It clinks against the stone as it topples, rolling away with a hollow ringing. Bottles? A few of them, even, littered on the ground closer to Elian. "Good way to fall to your death," he mumbles, snatching one of the bottles off the floor. He turns it over, surprised to find a label. Tevinter wine, a nice vintage. Where had he found these? He counts three total. He's not known Elian to drink like this.

Seemingly oblivious to what Sterling is doing, Elian shakes his head. "I'm not going to fall. That would demand a sort of catyclismic misfortune that evades me. I couldn't fall if I wanted to." His words slur as he speaks, tone turning dark. "And, if I did, Falon'Din would simply laugh at me. Send me right back here."

Sterling raises a brow and comes to lean against the wall beside Elian. "Men who believe themself immortal often die terrible deaths."

Elian barks a laugh. "I do not think myself immortal. Simply unwillingly resistant to dying."

Sterling frowns, but doesn't argue. Arguing with Elian is a strange experience, prone to leading him places he doesn't understand. Instead, he holds up the bottle. "Celebrating something?"

"Of a sorts." Elian's emerald eyes return to the mountain peaks. His usual easy smile falls. "I remembered it was the birthday of someone long gone and found myself too plagued by thoughts to sleep."

"Thoughts of what?" Sterling sets the bottle down and mulls over whether or not he should help Elian down off the battlements. It's a dangerous place to be drunk.

"Of loving people it is most unwise to love." He sighs, leaning back so far, it's a wonder he doesn't fall back onto the tower roof. "And how I cannot seem to stop doing so."

Sterling grimaces. He can commiserate. He sees Marcus in his mind's eye, not as he is now in his perpetually tipsy state of malaise, but back when he was young. When he was a brash, flirtatious young man with mischievous eyes. "All love is unwise," he snaps. He shakes his head, dispelling the ghost. "It makes fools of everyone who gives into it."

"What a miserable way to view it." Elian's head lolls his direction. "You are such a pessimistic soul sometimes."

Sterling scoffs. "I am realistic. Perhaps it's the world that is pessimistic."

Elian snorts a laugh, jerking foward with the sound. The motion unbalances him and he falls backwards into the relative safety of the roof with a surprised grunt.

Sterling rolls his eyes. "Alright. I think you've been upright long enough." He loops an arm under Elian's and hoists him up. He's heavier than Sterling expects. "I swear, you're secretly half dwarf," he mutters.

"No, no, you southern elves are simply saplings." Elian sways heavily on his feet, but remains upright and they shuffle towards the trap door. "Skinny little things. It's so strange."

Sterling huffs, but doesn't voice his annoyance. He's quite muscular, thank you very much, if not a hulking monster like some of the humans. He's happy to be underestimated, just perhaps not by Elian. So he changes the subject. "So, you're doing it again then?"

"Hmm?"

"Unwisely falling in love with someone," Sterling clarifies. He slowly lets Elian go, his hands hovering nearby to make sure he doesn't sway to falling, before leaving him be to open the trap door. He breathes a sigh of relief to see stairs beneath. He hadn't wanted to entertain the idea of getting a very drunk Elian down a ladder.

Elian sighs, hand rubbing the back of his neck. "Is it so obvious?"

Sterling laughs. "Just a bit. Watch your step here." He takes Elian's hand, helping him down the stairs. His mind wanders to The Iron Bull and the easy camaraderie he's seen between the oxman and Elian. How well they spar together, as though they both hear and dance to the same tune of battle, even though their fighting styles are so different. Elian gets along well with the Chargers, whom Sterling has begun to jokingly consider The Iron Bull's children. "I don't understand it, but you could do worse than the oxman."

"Don't call him-" Elian stops short, shaking his head. "I'm not talking about Bull." He giggles a bit, leaning heavily into Sterling's side. "No - well, yes, but The Iron Bull is a much more amenable man to have my affections."

Sterling scoffs. "Isn't he openly a Qunari spy?"

"Oh, I'm hardly concerned about that," Elian says, waving a hand dismissively. "What secrets have I got that the Qunari would want to spy from me?"

"If you say so." Sterling's eyes flit from the steps, to Elian, and back. He teases, "So then who is this terrible recipient of your attention?"

Elian chews on his lip, looking askance. He winces. "Pavus."

Sterling stops dead on the stair, his free hand flying up to keep Elian from pitching forward at the sudden stop. He stares at Elian. "The Vint?" It comes out woefully shrill. He clears his throat and tries again, trying to sound less like he'd find a nug more appealing. He fails. "Fuck off." He shakes his head, baffled. He can't think of a single endearing quality about the prick. "Lethallen, you have, without a doubt, the worst taste in lovers I've ever known."

"My taste in women isn't so dubious," Elian mumbles defensively.

Sterling snorts. "And remind me how the last talk with you and the Inquisitor went?"

Elian winces. "You may have a point."

Sterling breathes a sigh of relief as they reach a landing with a door. He opens it. The space within is well lit and warm, the air filled with the smell of ale and cheap food, laughter and chatter carrying up from below. The Herald's Rest. "Andraste blesses us," he murmurs. "I'll rent you a room. I am not dragging your drunken ass to that death trap you call quarters."

Elian waves his hand, nearly unbalancing the both of them. "Oh, don't worry about renting. Drop me off in Sera's room. She won't be there tonight and Cabot won't check it."

"Sera?" Sterling repeats. "The elven girl with the foul mouth?"

Elian laughs. "That'd be her, yes."

He blinks, letting Elian half drag him up the wooden stairs to the rest of the rooms for let. "How do you know she won't be back tonight?"

"A little fennec told me she is seeing the Inquisitor on personal business." Elian stops as they reach the door.

Sterling winces as he sees the words Sera's - Keep Out carved into the wood of the door. He watches as Elian leans down, slipping one of needle-thin daggers from his trousers and slipping it between the door and its frame. "Personal business? Are you saying-"

Something metal clicks behind the door and it swings open with a soft squeak. Elian makes a triumphant noise and his knife vanishes. "There we are."

It is an utter shambles within the room. Half a dozen carpets overlap into a rugged terrain to navigate with a drunk elf. And that's before the books, cups, and other bits and bobs the city elf took a fancy of. With great effort, Sterling manages to manouver to daybed by the windows. Elian collapses among the pillows with a contented sigh.

"Well, now you're — oof!" A hand like iron wraps around him and the world turns on its side. He hits the mattress hard. Definitely straw in this one. "What in the Maker's merry world are you doing?"

"Oh, calm yourself, Sterle ," Elian yawns. He leans closer, practically smushing Sterling's face as he kisses Sterling's cheek. Sterling tries to swat him away, but Elian's limbs are heavy around him. "That cold old marsh didn't freeze your heart after all. You're a good friend under all those barbs."

"Don't count on -" Sterling stops struggling. He's never mentioned the marshes of Clan Aiteall. "Wait, what do you..."

He struggles to turn his head, only to be greeted by closed eyes and a mouth agape. Elian is asleep. And heavy as a boulder, halfway on top of him. Sterling tries to move Elian's arm, but the elf just tightens around his grip around him.