#desecratedvalor

Nicolas’ back was pressed against the wall and he was both relieved and frustrated that he was still wearing some of his armor. He was making out with the Champion of Kirkwall and the blood was rushing from his head too quickly for him to fully process the situation. His lips moved eagerly against Hawke’s, fingers tugging the other male closer.

He flipped their positions, pressing his body into Hawke’s. He pulled his lips away, dragging them along his jaw and down his neck. “If we get caught, I don’t know you,” he muttered.

-----

Archer himself had no idea what had gotten into him, still it was better than sitting at home in his mansion and thinking about how to deal with rogue mages or how to make Kirkwall less into a cesspole of crime. So right now he found himself in this situation, making out with someone he barely knew. Archer had met him in the Hanged Man.

Verena did not have a preference for seasons. She couldn’t feel external temperature, and no matter how hard a storm raged, it could never seriously hurt her---granted she was grounded, that was. But she liked summer because it buzzed with life. Grasses and leaves toiled in the breeze, cicadas droned endlessly from the brush in the late afternoon, birds sang fervent songs at the crack of dawn, and once and a while claps of thunder and the mummer of a storm would roll into their cozy corner of the world. It was the type of noise she enjoyed. Not like the commotion that humans caused. Which happened to be the source of her current annoyance.

Like an enormous cat, she flicked her long, snake-like tail behind her through the weeds. Its tip caught the edge of a rose bush, and there was an almost inaudible shink as it whipped through the outer layer of branches and scattered a few flower petals around the lawn. She was laying down, but that was a far cry from actually being relaxed. While her body displayed no outward signs of tension, a clear, cocksure way to flaunt her superior strength, her eyes were fixed on the small crowd that approached the gates. They smelled of fear. Which, to their credit, was probably the most logical reaction to seeing a giant, fire-breathing reptile stretched out on the front lawn, rather than terrorizing a castle in medieval Europe. Despite their fear, they pressed on.

Caroline had painted her as a commodity to the school. Nowhere in the world was more secure than a dragon’s territory. She would guard what she believed was rightfully hers to the death if it came to that... It never did. Most advisories had the good sense to know when they were outmatched. And beyond protection, she provided a unique educational experience, according to Caroline, in a voice not unlike the one her sister employed to get her excited about things that she had already convinced herself she hated. They offered no official courses on dragons, but Ena was sure she’d be roped into her fair share of lessons, or people would just so happen to be on a classroom walk around campus that, by chance, went right past her napping spot.

“I don’t like this.” The rumble of her voice was low, and she did not look at Caroline as she spoke. She stared onward, to the group of children filing in the gates at the behest of Stefan’s invitation; her expression was blank, which made her look more beast than woman. She’d protested to this entire idea before, and Caroline had vetoed her each time, but that didn’t impede from making her opinions known another time.

Erik moved through the museum-like apartment with a curator’s interest in presentation. His penthouse overlooked the Metropolitan Opera. Whether he’d bought it on ill-got gains or from his work as a composer and voice teacher was a mystery he preferred to remain unexplored, hidden from curious eyes. Instead, he wished his guest - for that was what he would call this “sober companion” Nadir had all but forced upon him - to see his collections from world travels, his instruments, the way his antiques blended with posh sensibilities. His was a lavish home, for his were expensive tastes. He thought of the bright poppies - only the finest - in Central Asia that had given him his first highs, his first peaceful nights, and his first taste of addiction. How dearly his “expensive tastes” had cost him! He’d been forced to force his wine collection onto Nadir. Alcohol hadn’t been his vice of choice per se, but he wanted to make a fine first impression upon the poor soul who’d been duped into babysitting him in Nadir’s stead. 

(And he’d wanted to see Nadir’s flushed fury when he discovered wine bottles tucked all around his house. His folly could have cost him more than a harmless prank; he was lucky Erik had not inflicted worse punishment upon him!)

But to the thought of first impressions, Erik devoted most of his attention today. Twice already, he had changed his outfit; thrice, his mask. What he wore now fell between formal and functional. A crisp suit paired with a stiff, black linen mask that covered his corpse-like visage. All but his eyes and lips were hidden from view. Already, he considered a mask that covered his face in it’s entirety, but as he studied himself in the apartment’s only mirror, he realized that without sight of his lips, the only thing his guest would see were two, yellow eyes glowering from beneath an otherwise expressionless “face”. A compromise was now in place. His lips, thin and withered though they were, could be seen. He wondered if his smile would frighten or comfort a stranger. Funny - he hadn’t considered such things since his youth. 

The buzz of the doorbell caught his attention as he finished setting the table. Erik set down the last of the forks and he moved to answer. He drew himself to his full height, fullest confidence possible, and opened the door. What he saw surprised him - a woman stood upon his doorstep. He scanned the hallway. Surely someone else would come. She stood alone. Confident. Beautiful. Not at all what he was expecting. Was not “Joan” a unisex name?

“Mademoiselle, forgive me for asking, but you wouldn’t happen to be Joan Watson?” 

Erik wasn’t usually this aware of the musicality in his voice, but he heard it now, for fear that this was Joan Watson. He heard that too, the fear. At his side, his left hand twitched, yearning for something. If he were the praying sort, the dutiful, little Catholic his mother had wanted, he would be praying now...

He sets the pancakes down in front of her with a proud smile, waiting to see her reaction to the message he’d written across her breakfast. The whipped cream was starting to melt but you could still make out a very distinct Happy Mother’s Day. “As part of your present, I’m also not going to comment that this is your third cup of coffee so far and you haven’t even touched your breakfast.” Stefan teases as he leans against the counter, shooting a look at Libby before she can point out that he’d done just that. 

       “Tell me, Miriam, have you seen a dragon up close?”

After Emperor Titus Mede died, an ambitious imperial noblewoman with fire in her eyes seized the throne, claiming the empire as hers-  left without leader and heir, the council bent to the woman who ended the civil war in Skyrim and who commanded dragons, a Dragonborn just like the grand Emperor Tiber Septim. A shining hero for the crushed morale of the empire’s people and a strong message to the Aldmeri dominion: we have not given up. Empress Janna was quick to gather trusted warriors and old friends around her, filling the ranks of her handmaidens and guards with people who would stand by her side more or less reliable.

   She wasn’t sure how well she actually knew Miriam, but she did consider her one of the friends she had in what felt like another life - this wild, unruly girl who loved wielding her sword, who explored caverns and abandoned mines with her friends from the fighter’s guild, who rode between the Imperial City and Skingrad each month. Maybe some part of that girl survived in the flames of dragonfire. 

    “I know WHY we must attend. But that hardly makes it any more BEARABLE.” Behind closed doors, the commander may have garnered just the right amount of security to grumble about the affairs so near the horizon, his own sense of familiarity in the Inquisitor’s presence LOOSENING his tongue. His eyes scarcely found her face among his COMPLAINTS as they instead roamed the seemingly endless paperwork disorganized atop his desk.

    As if any of it had an ounce of his attention.

Everything hurt. Pain rippled through her broken arm, every time she breathed it felt like something else was broken, she could barely walk and blood was coated over her face and she tried to rub it away from her eyes. She had been walking for hours now through the storm, and she couldn’t even count how long she had been listening to the wolves howling. Hypothermia was running through her and she couldn’t even call forth the magic of her fire. Her staff was gone, her sword, all she had was the cloak around her body that was tattered and destroyed. 

The yelling in the distance caught her ear. She was sure it was the Commanders and Cassandra. But there was a distinct voice, she was sure it was Evelyn. Her body collapsed into the snow as she couldn’t move anymore. Her legs gave out as she cried out in pain as her body ached. “Eve...” She nearly whimpered, exhaustion taking over her body. It was a miracle she had walked as far as she did, and even more of a miracle that she had survived her wounds. Though she was tethering on the edge of life and death.