#fenrian

have ANOTHER fenris/dorian sketchdump because im in love with this dynamic (specifically post-da2, usually during/after inquisition)

and i just... love these two characters, and their faces are both really nice to draw (their nosesssssss)

Summary: It’s just Dragon Age 2 but with Dorian.

* * * * * * * * * * * * 

It was another usual day with Hawke- at least at first.

Fenris was woken by the persistent knocking on the front door of his mansion, the old wood creaking under the pressure. He wasn’t alarmed to find Verric and Hawke outside, asking him to come along to take care of a bounty Hawke had picked up in the shady, dirty corners of the Hanged Man.

“You’ll like this one,” he had said, that stupid typical Garrett smile plastered across his face. Fenris would never admit it, but it made him feel good to know Garrett thought of him- even if it was in relation to murder. Of course, Isabella wasn’t far behind and before he knew it, the gang was in Lowtown searching for some Tevinter slaver.

In the evening light, the red haze of sunset illuminates the tall smoke stacks in the distance surrounding Lowtown where factory workers slave over hot furnaces. The markets are only beginning to thin out as people retreat to their homes, leaving heaps of litter behind the edges of the streets. It doesn’t take long to navigate the winding streets on uneven cobblestone to find the warehouse their mark was rumored to be occupying.

Inside, the building is only illuminated by the light that filters through small windows at the top of the walls. The floor is either dirt itself or so much sand has tracked in that it has obscured the once stone foundation. Empty and destroyed crates lie around with some rusted cages abandoned in the entry room. It is unsurprising to find their target would occupy such a place. The man, Danzig, is just another mechanism for slave trade in Tevinter. Sick and twisted, their employer says him and his men lurk in the shadows of Lowtown and Darktown to prey on the defenseless only to drag them across seas to serve cruel masters against their will. Typical.

Fenris can feel the magic at play in the building. It takes some fighting to get past the guards, but upon entering the storage room, they quickly find the source. Danzig is locked in combat with another mage; elemental attacks surge from their staffs through the air, colliding with boxes and crates to send splinters and debris flying through the air. It’s clear Danzig is outmatched. He stumbles back, weakness dragging him down as he runs low on mana. The other mage casts one last spell, and giant billowing purple smoke envelops the slaver and his fallen comrades around him.

Necromancy.

Fenris feels the magic filled the air around him like heavy mist in the early morning as the singed bodies of his fallen guards rise around him only to turn on him. They crowd him with their swords swinging wildly and unskilled- yet effective. Even from afar, he can hear the thud of steal meeting bone as the reanimated dead fight at the command of the young mage.

Young, indeed. As soon as the battle is won, the prevailing mage collapses to his knees, quickly followed by his small army of corpses. He’s weak and exhausted- good, Fenris thinks, taking a step forward. Garret puts out his hand to stop him, but Fenris is already unsheathing his sword as he nears the man, pointing it at him warily.

“Fenris!” Garrett warns, panic rising in his voice.

He’s not cruel; he wouldn’t kill him just for being a mage. But there’s something in his magic that sets Fenris’ nerves ablaze, tells him to be on edge, and makes him want- no, need to investigate.

Hearing Geralt’s warning, the man whips his head around. His eyes immediately lock onto Fenris, and the elf is nearly taken aback to see the paleness of silver-grey eyes staring at him, wide with the hint of fear in them. He’s probably around Fenris’ age if not a few years older. His skin is darker, and hair pure black, curling just slightly, a few strands falling into his face. He has a strong jawline and full lips, an appearance more common in the more Southern reaches of the Imperium. One glance at his clothes tell Fenris he’s wealthy, a closer inspection, however, reveals the wear and tear on them unusual to a mage of his power.

Garrett’s large hand grips Fenris’ arm, as if to restrain him from making a sudden move. In the past, he would have ripped out of the mage’s grip. But seven months into traveling together, he’s become tolerant of the way the man obliviously clings onto all his friends- most of the time, anyways.

“I mean you no harm!” the man says. His voice. High society mage undoubtedly.

“Let’s just calm down. We came for the bounty on Danzig. What are you doing here?” Garrett asks, eyeing Fenris nervously as he lets go of the elf’s arm.

“The very same. I was just dispatching our friend here,” he says, nervously eyeing the blade. Fenris does not point it at him, but its presence is just enough to remind him not to try anything; one swift move would be all it would take with the mage in this condition. His eyes drift back to Fenris, something in them makes him gristle at the sight. But the way they linger on him- his suspicion continues to grow with the rotten feeling in his stomach.

“Who sent you?” Fenris growls out at last.

Chaol: No. Tragically, we are both heterosexual.