#dadrunkwritingcircle

Prompt: what's your excuse this time?

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"Alright, kid… what’s your excuse this time?"

Storm looked up from the small bound pad of parchment he’d been doodling in—more scribbling than art, more avoidance than either.

"No idea what you’re talking about, *uncle* Varric."

"Uh-huh. The 'uncle' card doesn't work on me."

The dwarf ambled closer, casual as if he’d just wandered in for a chat, and not a reluctant lecture,

"I must’ve hallucinated Harding’s report then. And this—" he gestured the bandage on Storm’s hand, "—is obviously the latest in Warden fashion accessories."

Storm shrugged. "Paper cut."

"Sure. And I’m a nug wrangler." Varric tilted his head, leveling the kid a look, "What was it this time? You decided the hurlock needed a hug? Tried to arm-wrestle an ogre?"

Storm smirked faintly. "You’d be surprised how vicious paper can be."

Varric’s look didn’t shift.

Storm tried to hold it. Failed.

He stared down at the page instead, quill pressing so hard it nearly tore the parchment.

"You can’t bullshit a bullshitter, Rook," Varric said, quieter now.

Storm rolled his eyes, "it's nothing."

Varric didn’t believe that for a second. "You don’t have to keep proving you’re breakable. We already know."

"Not broken."

"Not what I said."

Storm’s jaw tightened.

The ink pooled under the nib, feathering into the parchment—dark veins branching out like frost. His fingers flexed once against the quill, then stilled.

Varric sighed, dragging a chair over and taking a seat, "I thought your parents were a handful. But you're starting to make Blondie look well adjusted."

Storm’s mouth twitched like he wanted to fire back, but instead he muttered, "He’s not."

"Yeah, kid. I know." Varric leaned forward just enough to catch his eye. "Question is—why are you gunning for his record?"

Storm finally looked up, irritation flickering sharp and brief before settling into something tighter. "If I don’t do it, someone else does."

"And if you’re dead, what then? Other than me having to write a very awkward letter?"

Storm shifted in his chair, shoulders rounding, like if he could just make himself smaller. He went back to doodling, though the lines had turned messy, jagged.

"You’re not answering me."

Storm blew out a slow breath through his nose, "If I’m dead, I’m dead. End of problem."

"Yeah, and start of a whole other list of problems for the rest of us," Varric shot back.

"I'm not gonna die Varric." Storm muttered.

Varric arched a brow, "That’s a bold claim."

“You done lecturing?”

“Not even close.” Varric rose, “But I’ll save the rest for next time. And there will be a next time, because apparently you’re allergic to learning from experience.”

Storm managed a genuine grin at that, though it was small. “Guess I’ll keep you in business, then.”

Varric huffed, shaking his head as he turned to leave. “Yeah, Rook. Just try not to make me write your final chapter, alright?”

Thank you @contreparry. For @dadrunkwriting

Tobias Rook x Emmrich Volkarin (SFW, Pre-relationship, pining), 521 words

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It's ridiculous. Frivolous to be doing something so mundane as shopping when the whole world is threatening to come to an end. Particularly shopping for anything that won't immediately assist in avoiding that terrible outcome. That's what they'd told themselves while wandering through the night markets of Treviso, anyway. It was beautiful, sure, but unnecessary. Much as Tobias' eyes had lingered on it, the elf had stuck to the essentials, combing the market for any tradesmen or merchants that might have equipment, weapons, or materials to upgrade they and their companions existing gear.

It had come as a surprise then, the first time they visited their room in the Lighthouse after returning from the markets to find the windchime hanging in one of their windows, glass beads refracting the light, while a tiny golden charm striker and wooden tubes create a soft tinkling harmony on the breeze. It is every bit as lovely as they remember and imagined, and somehow makes their space feel more theirs.

Tobias smiles fondly, reaching out to slowly catch one of the golden striker and between their fingers, admiring the metalwork more closely. A soft tinkling, not made by their new decor comes from behind them and the elf's smile grows.

"I hoped you would like it," Emmrich offers with a small smile as Tobias turns to greet them. "I- I saw you admiring it in the market. You're so diligent about taking care of all of us, when you didn't get it for yourself, I knew I had to," the necromancer offers fondly.

There are a hundred things that Tobias wants to say. All of them, however, seem to stick in their throat as their blue-green eyes meet Emmrich's. He can't possibly know the reason why the chime had first caught their attention, that the gentle tinkle of metal and echoes of the wood striking against one another had reminded them of him and Manfred.

Emmrich is, of course, always welcome in their space, but the older man seems... hesitant to intrude upon their space or time, rather as if he thinks their patience for him and his presence might be finite. It's a positively ridiculous notion, one which the elf would very much like to disabuse him of, but they aren't certain how without showing their hand. A man as accomplished as Emmrich must surely be spoiled for choice when it comes to a partner of a more... romantic nature. Perhaps he has one already he left behind with the Mourn Watch. There's no reason to think that he might be interested in them.

That doesn't stop their foolish heart from hoping, though. Or from little things, silly things like the sound of a particular wind chime, reminding them of him and bringing a smile to their face.

"Thank you, Emmrich," Tobias smiles softly, dropping the striker and listening as it knocks gently against the tubes once more. "It's beautiful."

Hi Potato! Thank you for the ask, friend! I answered this prompt as part of the 100 Word Challenge for @dadrunkwriting . I hope you enjoy. There's a bit of a nightmare in the beginning, just so you know. <3

“Anders!”

He reached towards the sound, struggling to move even an inch. Everything was melting: his boots, staff, his very bones. Anders gasped. Darkspawn were approaching; guttural growls buzzed in his head. War drums shook him to his very core—

“Anders!”

He startled awake, heart pounding and drenched from sweat. His eyes widened; the Commander sat beside him.

“...Bad dream?” she asked.

“I think I’m going mad,” he whispered, in tears. “That dream…” 

“You’re not. Every Warden has nightmares.” She pulled him into an embrace. “Shh, I’m here, I’ve got you.” 

For @dadrunkwriting !

Morrigan comes in to say goodnight to Kieran, only to find Mahariel reading a book with him already.

Rating: G

-:-:-:-

Armor lay in a heap by the door, visibly stained with blood and smelling of smoke and battle. Morrigan was no stranger to such things, yet with no small measure of loathing she realized that her nose had become accustomed to the overwhelmingly floral scents of the court. The acrid scent of the Deep Roads and its Darkspawn made her nose wrinkle slightly as she closed the door behind her and made her way deeper into her rooms. At least Halevune had not shucked his outer layers beside the eluvian this time. The cleaning staff had had a grand time trying to remove the mysterious blood stains from Morrigan’s lush, gifted carpets, and she had briefly considered whether she should move the grand mirror somewhere slightly more out of the way.

She had not, for it was too sweet a sight to find Kieran watching the mirror from his four-poster bed, waiting for his father to arrive.

That was where she found them: skin-to-skin in bed, candles lit all around them to better help them study the book in Kieran’s lap. Their eyes were trained on her, however, and a crooked smile played easily on Halevune’s pale face. He nudged Kieran’s head with his chin. “Good ears, ma’da’isenatha,” he said proudly. “Even I did not hear her coming.”

Kieran giggled. “I know you could hear a mouse at a mile, papae,” he retorted with a roll of his golden eyes. “He knew you were coming, mother. But I did hear you this time!”

“Oh, did you?” she queried, sauntering closer with a coy smile of her own. “And what did you hear, I wonder?”

“I could hear your feathers,” Kieran said, “and talons on the landing.”

“Very good. ‘Twas indeed in the form of a raven that I took my leave of the Empress today.” Morrigan sat heavily in his bed and kicked up her feet without removing her boots. The voluminous skirts of her court dress rolled and puffed awkwardly, and she wrinkled her nose at them--if only to hear Kieran’s giggle again. She rested her head on his shoulder and looked down at the book he still held. “And what is this, my love? ‘Tis new--from your tutors?”

“Papae brought it from afar,” Kieran said. “It is a collection of the Adventures of the Black Fox!”

“I do not think I have heard of this ‘Black Fox,’“ Morrigan mused as she ran one finger down the uneven pages of the tome. An illustrated novel, it seemed, with a delicate wooden cover painted white and adorned with leaves. The title was in script so elegant and swirling it was almost illegible.

Halevune shifted in bed and stretched an arm out to brush a flyaway strand of Morrigan’s hair behind her ear, and she flicked her golden gaze back up to meet his. “I only know of one fox, and he is pale as the moon.”

Hal rolled his eyes. “Nathaniel tells me the Black Fox is every young rogue’s dream come to life,” he explained, ignoring her teasing with well-practiced ease. “He was a noble who forsook his title, donned a mask, and adventured across Thedas making a mockery of those frilly cakes and fops.”

“Ah, I see the appeal!” Morrigan gave a sigh of lament, then grinned up at Kieran. “Are you a young rogue, then, Kieran?”

Her son scowled at her, but a smile burst across his face quickly thereafter. “Papae says that if I complete my studies and get the right people to like me, I could be a spy,” he said around his too-wide smile.

“A spy for what cause?” Morrigan asked, looking not at Halevune for a moment. She knew of plenty of causes they both, collectively, might support--least of which being the growing unrest between Orlesian City Elves and their noble masters. But she wondered what her sweet child might surprise her with.

He lowered her voice, though his whisper was still too loud to be truly conspiratorial. “For mages, mama.”

Morrigan blinked up at him. “What do the mages need that you would further their goals?” she asked.

“Freedom,” he said, eyes wide and disbelieving. “It’s not nice, what the Andrastians say about mages and witches. It must be so sad, to be locked away in a tower. But no one knows that I am what I am. I could fly in through their windows and bring them letters from their families!”

Halevune had let his hand dance down Morrigan’s shoulder while she spoke with Kieran, and now he found her hand and twined his fingers with hers atop Kieran’s book. They shared a look that lingered a moment too long as they both, doubtless, thought of things she had said, and things he had seen, at the broken Circle in Ferelden. These moments came more often these days, often prompted by Kieran’s inquiries and innocent, well-intentioned observations about life in the Orlesian Court.

Kieran began to fidget, and when Morrigan looked back up at him she found his gaze uncertain.

She offered him a faint smile. “My kind-hearted son,” she said gently. “’Tis a worthy cause indeed.”

Relief and pride flooded Kieran’s face, and her heart tightened to realize how the puppy fat was beginning to melt from his cheeks. Sometimes when she looked upon him now, she saw the ghost of his father in his face--barely older than a child, with as much idealism and kindness in his eyes and roundness to his face as his son now held.

She sat up to press a kiss to Kieran’s temple, and across the top of his head she caught Hal’s gaze again. There were so many more shadows beneath his eyes now, than there had been then; the Taint had bleached his hair entirely now, and the purple of his vallaslin was stark against sallow skin. Yet in his pale gaze, still, she saw the boy she had--against all expectations, against her supposedly better instincts, against the odds--fallen in love with nearly ten years ago.

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For @dadrunkwriting, and for @sulevinblade

~1400 words, Padi Hawke & Varric, good for all ages, mentions of alcohol and a depressed Hawke

Posted to AO3 here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16719058 (copy and paste since links are weird)

“Hawke, you can’t stay in there forever.” Varric turns on his heel, not quite pacing in the hallway.

“And yet, here I continue to sit.” Her voice comes to him through the door to her bedroom, where she’d been all day, if Bodahn is to be believed. The untouched tray of food outside is convincing, if nothing else.

You cannot see it, but I am giving you two looks. One that is mischievous, and one that says, “I hate you and I will kill all that you love.” But, whatever.

I had been contemplating doing this scene for awhile, so HERE YA GO. This is for @dadrunkwriting ! (Also, I fully realize that @veridium-bye may kill me for this scene and to that and I am only half sorry.)

With the major events in Crestwood taken care of, the group was set to leave within the next few days. They were in the keep at Caer Bronch, settling in after a day of battling demons and highwaymen. Adari had gone to the small room at the top of the stairs to talk to the scouts. Anything else that needed their attention needed to be taken care of soon.

Solas stood off to the side of the stairs, waiting for her to emerge. He was eager to have her attention without so many prying eyes, but he was apprehensive of his plan. It may not work, but he had to know when this was finished that he had at least tried. He couldn’t wait any longer.

Hearing her open the door and begin her descent, he calls out. “Inquisitor, may I have a moment?”

She had been reading a report, but his formality caught her attention. Looking over to him, she said, “Is everything alright? You only ever call me Inquisitor out there,” she says as she gestures with her hand. He knows what she’s implying.

“Yes, I just… I needed your attention. Forgive me.”

That seems to catch her off guard. She is quick to offer, “We don’t need titles for you to have my attention, Solas. What is it that you need?”

His chest tightens when she says his name. She so rarely does, it gives off a feeling of intimacy, of being known by someone.

Are You Sure This Is Legal?

Grace/Cullen • The Gallows • Modern AU

for @dadrunkwriting

“Grace!”

Grace looked up from her spot at the back of the holding cell, her arms squeezed tightly around her legs as she shivered in the damp cold of the police station basement. The thin, barely there paper shirt they had given her did nothing for warmth or comfort. Her clothing, what little of it had been at the Rose, was taken for evidence. Cullen was standing at the bars, worry etched onto his face like acid taken to glass.

“Cullen!” Grace gasped, rushing up to the bars. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t know!”

“What happened?”

“Samson. The guy who owned the place,” Grace said, fighting back tears. “He’s the one whose been selling the red lyrium. I didn’t know!”

Cullen reached a hand through the bars and cupped her face, wiping smeared makeup from her cheeks. “I know. I believe you. Let’s get you out of here.”

“How?” Grace sniffed, wiping her eyes hastily with the back of her hand.

“I’ll make a few phonecalls,” Cullen said, lowering his head. “I know the Commander… we have a history.”

“Cullen is this legal?”

“I’m not completely sure,” he said, shrugging. He pulled out his phone and dialed a number. “But then again, I don’t care. I can afford fines. Right now, my main concern is you.”

“Cullen!”

He shushed her harshly, turning away while the phone rang.

“Hello, may I speak to Commander Stannard please? Yes, Merideth? Its Cullen. Mmhm.” He paused and looked back at Grace. “I need you to do me a favor. You know the Rose? No, one of the girls is my girlfriend. I want her out. Now.”

“Cullen, it’s ok. I can pay my own bai-“ Grace started to say, lowering her face. He ignored her.

“Merideth this isn’t negotiable. How much…”

“Cullen!”

“Done.” He clicked the phone call off, and turned to Grace. The cell opened and he grabbed her shoulder and hauled her out, shucking off his jacket and wrapping her in it. “Let’s get you home.”

“Cullen what did you do!” Grace protested as he started to lead her out. The cell door shut behind them with a bang.

“Made a call.”

“Cullen!”

“Don’t worry about it Grace.”

“Cullen tell me!”

“I said don’t worry about it,” Cullen snapped. Grace twitched and lowered her head again, pulling the jacket closer around her. He sighed heavily. “I called Merideth Stannard. Before I went to school I used to work for the Kirkwall Police department. She was my superior. I did some things and she owes me,” Cullen explained, nodding to the guard. He let them out without protest, even holding open the front door as they exited.

The trusty, rusted old sedan was waiting for them outside the station, and Cullen opened the door, shielding her from the outside world as he shut the door behind her. It wasn’t until the door slammed that she started to shake, the terror and the panic of the previous night’s events finally catching up with her.

“Grace?” Cullen asked gently. “Grace do you want to go to your place or mine?”

“I don’t care,” she whispered, eyes welling with tears as her hands started to shake. “Just get me out of here.”

“Mine it is,” Cullen answered, taking one of her hands while he let up on the clutch. “Just try and relax. It’ll be ok.”