#for dwc

For @dadrunkwriting

Faeven should have known that her knee jerk of a decision was sure to bite her in the ass sometime, but she didn't expect the voices. Maybe she should have listened to Mel's rumplefuck of an ex, and then again, maybe she should have kicked him in the bits for how much pain he put her sister through. However, she supposed the creepy voices that appeared inside her head and sometimes out of it, more specifically, out of her own mouth, were the bigger problem.

The first time it happened it was the night after the wilds and that temple which had everyone under some weird life altering spell that made no lick of sense to Faeven. Sure, she believed in the gods. They were real. They were her gods, but why was everyone so held up by drinking the sacred pond water? oh sorry...well of sorrows, and her grandmother would come out of her grave and give her that disappointed sigh, if she let some condensending shem who was so adamant on drinking her people's sorrows, do just that. "Do you know who Mythal is?" Pfft. If this Morrigan knew who Mythal was, she would know exactly whose vallaslin was adorning damn near every inch of Faeven's skin. Who was this woman anyhow and why did she want to start a fight so bad? Hm...Maybe. Just maybe it was Faeven that wanted to fight. Her knuckles did itch something fierce for her knives and she couldn't unclench her jaw for the life of her because the energy of everyone was so damn off. Yeah, You're right. It was. So Faeven did as she has always done, act without giving more than one thought. They were running out of time anyway, right? Much to everyone's horror, especially the shem's, and worried Gordon half to death as she took a big gulp of that slimy water, puked her guts out, and passed the fuck out.

...

Well, back to the point, those consequences manifested at the most inopportune time. After their particularly stupid spat that consisted of his stupid stern eyebrows, and his stupid lovely mouth saying things like: 'be more careful,' 'I don't want to lose you,' and 'I love you.' Of course, Faeven melted and apologized with her stupid mouth enjoying his stupid mouth, and somehow she ended up on top of him, full of hot lovely feelings, straw poking at her knees. It was during this that they almost forgot about the tension temple and the old ass pond water right up until a swarm of voices poured into her head. Faeven did have abnormal thoughts when they would go at it, but that had always been normal for her. These were very much not. She didn't think in old elvhen and even though her thoughts sometimes were overwhelming, they had always shared a singular voice: hers. This was not some trailing sex thought. No. These were plainly not her thoughts at all.

She halted her hips. He blinked at her, and she popped off of him and sprung out of bed.

"Faeven, are you alright?"

"Maybe I shouldn't have drank that..." Then it wasn't her voice, none of them were, that bursted forth in a particularly loud and very elvhen tangent. Faeven could only understand bits of it. They talked of betrayal, ruination, and what she thought was apples? No. Not apples.

Blackwall sat there, his frown and brows doing that very him thing they did, when the voices stopped squatting on her tongue.

"You should probably..."

"I know, dammit! think before I act. Well, if I didn't we would still be there playing pebble, parchment, clippers and Ol' Corphallus would have our asses, now wouldn't we?"

Thank you, contreparry!! @dadrunkwriting

Pre Reveal! Faewall | Angst | TW: Swearing + Blood

"What do you want, knife-ear?"

Faeven was perched in the window, gauzy curtains billowing inward. The night, a starless and soundless behemoth behind her. Barren albeit the slight breeze. 

"It's not my ears you should worry about, darling...it's my hands..."

"What?" It didn't matter, time was fast like the flitting of a sparrow. 

A knife thrown with a flick of her wrist, throat barred, a spray of blood and gurgling. The slow slump to the floor as he clawed, tried to cover the wound. His eyes dull and green like stagnant ponds, hands slack, and the final thump of the newly deceased. 

She hopped down from the windowsill. "Creators, what was I thinking...such a stupid line." She remarked, retrieving her slight blade from the man's throat. 

It was too easy. Then she wondered why was it easy? Easy. Peasy. Lemon. Squeezy. The question jarring her so much that she had to sit. Did she like killing? That question had her staring at her hands. She did, didn't she? Her hands stared back at her, clean, perfectly still. Her heart a dull thud every so often. Calm. What? 

Faeven thought of her sister as she sat on the floor, next to the body lying in the growing red. Would she be able to stomach something like this so easily? There it was again: easy. No, Mel didn't like to kill, avoided it until absolutely necessary. She was a pacifist and oh gods, whole, so fucking complete, bright all in her face. Too bright. 

When was the first time Faeven killed? When did it start becoming a thing of casual casualties? She couldn't answer. She couldn't feel. Why the fuck was her soul so numb? It was a great big tree, her soul, so rigid, livid, and vivid once. All these atrocities, little nicks on the bark, until she was something made. Something whittled and weathered and too gods damned broken. That tree once grand, a twig so easily snapped. When did she become so wrong? So utterly outside her own self that she didn't recognize, didn't know these alien hands that glared at her in their steely unfetterance. 

Then Faeven felt; felt too much in such an itty bitty frame of time, it jarred her as well. It was on her toes, the blood. Her feet were bare, and now they were in this man's lifeblood. It was still warm. He didn't even have the chance to cool and she was sitting here like some psychopath with her toes in his blood like it was waves at a beach. She needed to move, needed to get the fuck out of her skin for a bit, so she went back home. 

...

He was there, waiting up in bed. He liked to kill too, didn't he? Oh gods, what was wrong with her? His face scrunched up in concern, and he swung his feet out of the covers. Oh no. Shit. Don't fucking say it. She felt the hot streaks, felt the buildup up in her throat. She felt so much all the time, so buried like he was. Don't  please. 

"Faeven, are you okay?" Gods dammit. He did it. She had to respond, but she couldn't. If she opened her mouth right now, it would come out and she wouldn't be able to stop feeling. 

It didn't come out. Blackwall held her on the floor her mouth pressed against his shoulder as she shook. She swallowed past the lump, it hung loosely in the back of her throat. When she spoke it was unsteady, and damn near a whimper. "There's something wrong with me…" 

When he didn't say anything, Faeven added, even quieter. "Why can't I be okay?" 

"Honey, you're okay. Nothing is wrong with you." He tried, he meant well, but she still glared up at him through her wet lashes. 

"I am not okay. I killed a man and felt nothing. I'm a fucking monster. Don't you say I-" He grabbed her by the face, smushed his lips into hers in a resonant chup. 

"You listen to me. There is nothing wrong with you. You're human. You are flawed, yes, but that doesn't mean there is something wrong with you. It just makes you more human. War makes monsters out of everyone, Fae. You become numb as a defense mechanism, so you don't panic and endanger yourself by hesitating, and you are feeling now. The aftermath is what matters, okay. You feel guilty and fucked up, but it means you have a big heart, and you care." He was petting her face with his thumb, wiping away the few tears that chose to fall onto her cheeks. 

She didn't say anything anymore, just hung her head into his hands. "I want to believe you. I really do." 

"Trust me. Out of all the people that could be here for you, I know what it's like to feel this way, so again just trust me…"

Faeven nodded, her head still in his hands. His fingers in her hair, comforting touches, all attentive yet lazy. When she spoke, her voice was a brush of air. She was so tired. 

"Okay." was all she said. 

@dawnofakatosh asked for:

The magician: transformation, beginnings, good omen; “I guess today’s my lucky day.” possible AUs/settings/ideas: first meeting, supernatural au, witch au.

For @dadrunkwriting 

Summary: Varric is at a peculiar inn perched on the frostbacks, and happens along a strange elvhen fellow there. Just mere seconds before the boom and demons tearing a hole in the sky. 

The food here was interesting yet delicious. He still couldn’t figure out how to use the two twigs they gave him as utensils. It was a pasta dish of some sort with little sea creatures fried on top. The flavor though was mouth watering. Varric opted for using his fingers instead and abandoning the impossible twigs. The best part was the weirdly shapen cookies they gave him after his meal. He bit down on one to the waitress’s shock. 

“No, no! You have to crack it, sir. There is a fortune inside.”

Oh. Why would they put a sovereign in here and how could they fit a small fortune of them? Must be mage tricks. 

Befuddled, Varric cracked open the strange cookie right where he had bitten it. It shattered all over the mahogany table. He expected to hear the familiar clink of coin, but it never happened. He looked down to see a small scrap of paper. This had to be a prank. They were pranking them. He scooped up the paper half expecting to find ‘gotcha!’ written on it and an insignia of a single letter: H. 

He found no such thing. That baffled him more. 

The little paper simply said: Today is your lucky day. 

Varric scoffed and gave a chuckle. “When has it ever been my lucky day?” He was about to fold it and shove it in his breast pocket when he caught the writing on the other side. Numbers. 

Lucky numbers. Varric read them out loud. “4, 21, 11, 20, 23, 2.″ 

He wasn’t the only one reading them. From a booth over was a man reading his own fortune. They made eye contact for a moment. 

“Hey, you and I have the same numbers. Don’t tell me your fortune is—”

“Today is your lucky day.” Varric finished for him, disbelief coating his tongue. Not for the fact that the fortune was preposterous, but for the fact that they had the same one. 

“It is an inane thought that I’d ever be lucky.” The man chuckled with an audible snort. 

“I said the same thing myself. Er…about the same thing.” Varric amended. He waved the man over. “Come over here, sit down and have a drink with me. My treat.”

“I’d be delighted. Thank you.” The man said. An elvhen man. Varric could see that now as he sidled into the seat across from him. 

“No problem. I figured luck wouldn’t come to us, unless we’ve had a few beers.” 

“I don’t think I’d be able to seduce such an elusive creature like luck, even then.” The elvhen man smiled warmly. “No matter. I’ll take a spiced mead, if that’s all right with you. Maybe more cloves than cinnamon.” 

“Fine by me, though I prefer a darker mead myself. Barley puts a kick in my step.” Varric whistled to the nearest waitress, waving her over. “How about a spiced mead for my new friend here? Take it easy on the cinnamon and add some more of those clove things. A black mead for me, my dear. Thanks.”

The waitress strode over with a sympathetic look on her face. “I’m sorry, sir, we don’t have that here. Our only beers on tap are Snow and Juniper.” She held out her notepad, quill at the ready.

“Well, shit.” Varric sighed.

“I assume that fortune was wrong then.” The man’s auburn brow wrinkled in amusement.

Varric grunted his agreement. “I didn’t get your name.”

“Solas.”  

Solas reached his hand over the table but before he could shake it and introduce himself. 

The world went to shit. In a flash of sickly green and a deafening screech of hellish proportions, the heavens ripped asunder.

To Dream Of Starry Skies Pt. 1

Saeris Lavellan || Ten Years Old || Guess. *eyes emoji*  @dadrunkwriting

Summary: Saeris has a vivid dream, and has awoken to the same reality. (I’m gonna split this into two parts, because its your first time and I’m extra as fux)

The young girl was a comet among a deep pool of liquid nocturne. 

The trees hung from the peculiar whorls of rock like pretty jewels, glittering and tantalizing She knew if she touched them that it wouldn’t be good, although she couldn’t place why that was. Glowing wisteria brighter than a god’s eye tickled her cheeks as she floated in the stars and underneath the curious vines. 

There was no current. No threat of sinking. So she floated on and on and on. Around and around in circles she floated. When she waved her fingers through the night ocean, she made waves of milk and frothy galaxies so far away from what a young girl could fathom. 

But here she was floating in the unthinkable dream. 

She heard a the cry of an owl. Then came the flutter of wing beats. Her heart followed suit, chasing the sound through the echoing chasm. 

                                                  She was falling. 

The nonexistent current now existed, and the stars pulled at her seems until she was just threads in a tide. 

                                                She was drowning.

“Saeris!” It was her mother’s voice. Distraught and worrisome in only the way a mother could worry.

“Float!” was a voice she had never heard before. The chill it sent through her bones begged her not to ignore it.

Saeris ignored her mother’s call, and plummeted over the falling stars. 

The young girl was a comet and she fell from the hush of the night and she floated.

Saeris had awoken to an owl perched on her heaving chest and the shallow rocky bed of a river at her back. 

The owl cocked its head to the side and spoke.

                                                          “Saeris.”

                                                    It was the voice.

                                                    “You know me.”

It wasn’t a question, but she nodded anyway. The rocks pushed at the tender skin of her back. She hissed through her teeth. Blood, hot and metallic.

"For DWC: Solavellan. 8 (LI taking a fatal blow for OC)" @thema-sal-shiral for @dadrunkwriting

Eir'melana Lavellan and Solas || Post Breakup || Alternate Ending? || Angst

Summary: Mel and her party are fighting through Emprise Du Lion, when Solas jumps in front of her to take a blow for her. (Tumblr ate the better copy, and I’m very pissed about that.)

Just because her name was Winter did not mean that she loved to freeze her ass off in this Creators forsaken tundra. She longed to return to her cozy chambers at Skyhold with a mug warming her numb hands. It didn't matter want she wanted, however. This was another problem only the Herald of Andraste could solve. She fought the scoff that tried to burst from her chapped lips. It couldn't possibly be any of the new ruler of Orlais's concern, even though she had just put her in power. No, Briala wasn't out here trying to rid this place of the poison that was red lyrium. Out of mercy, she didn't bring Varric along. She had heard the tremble of fear in his voice when he told her how he knew of it.

The Inquisitor didn't realize the sudden shift in her demeanor quite like her companions did. Dorian would notice her taut nerves first and kept his distance. He was careful not to give the elvhen mage that straggled behind the group who pointedly ignored every mumbled curse the Inquisitor spat out a well deserved side eye. He knew that Solas was the source of her blunt carelessness. As did Cassandra who seemed more vocal than the bitter Inquisitor and would groan every time one of these tense moments would unfurl.

"I hope Fen'Harel pisses on your corpse." Mel grumbled at the fallen red templar, as she ripped out one of her arrows. A spurt of blood following its departure. "Where do you think their base of operations is, Cassandra?"

Solas leaned against a tree in a fit of coughs. The rest of them looked in his direction. "Pardon me, the trek up here took a lot out of me. Carry on. "

"Ugh!" Cassandra threw her shield over her back and started the descent down the snowy hill. "I think they would be holed up further in the mine. That's where cowards like them would hide."

The inquisitor laughed, and surprisingly it was full of mirth. "That's why I like you." Her breath was white and frigid.

"If we could hurry up and get out of this frozen wasteland, that would be splendid." Dorian chimed in, looking like a cup of Tevinter flavored sorbet. Frost clung to his mustache. It had lost its immaculate curl.

"Go on ahead without me." Solas said, leaning heavily on his staff now. "I gotta catch my breath."

Mel's icy eyes lingered on him the longest, before she followed the Nevarran and the Tevinter.

Solas watched them disappear from his sight as the wind blew. No more than ink blots on the horizon. The sun was setting. Snow was blown from its perch on the lonesome tree branches staining the flakes a raspberry hue too much like blood to be beautiful. 

His breath had steadied. His magic was still recovering, however. The snow had settled and the wind had died down. He could clearly make out four figures at the bottom of the hill. One was farther away from the rest. Their backs to it, unaware. Wait. Four? There was only supposed to be three of them. 

It was a red templar, he realized as dread filled up his guts, a terror. He could see the ruby glint of its hewn arm, sharp as a dragon’s tooth. The terror raised that arm.

Solas summoned the last dregs of his power and altered the fade around him, and stepped into the fray. Snow chased him at his heels.

“Vhenan!”

Mel had whirled just in time to see Solas appear in front of her. To see him stand between her and the terror that had sneaked up on them. Just in time to see its razor sharp arm impale Solas through his heart. Blood bloomed beneath his armor. A scream tore through her in the form of a name and she was immobilized by shock.

“Solas!”

Cassandra was there. 

The woman’s blade hacked away at the crystalline beast that used to be a man. An angry cry ripped from her lips as she assaulted the creature in vain. No swing of a sword could bring a man back from the brink of death’s sweet embrace. 

Dorian had thrown a barrier over them. She felt his magic valiantly try to piece her love’s skin back together. She felt it fail. Dorian had come to regret that he hadn’t applied himself more into healing magic. Maybe then he could have saved this man’s life. 

The terror ripped its arm out of Solas, and Mel only had time to catch his body as she fell to her knees. She tried to staunch the bleeding with her numb hands. His blood was everywhere. It was bubbling out of his mouth. It was on the snow. On her hands. 

His blood was dripping. 

                             So were tears that quivered off her lips.

His blood was spewing.

                             So were prayers that went unanswered.

his blood was pulsing.

                             So was the love that still thrived within her beating heart.

The sobs choked her. “Ma Vhenan...please.” She was clawing at him, hoping desperately to will the life back into him. To melt the bloody snow back into his body as if that would heal him. “Please!”

“Please, please!” She wanted to vomit. The smell and the sight of his blood made her want to scream, to sob until her throat was raw and her eyes were redder than the terror’s gleaming body. “...please...”

“Come back to me!” She wanted to feel his heartbeat underneath her fingers. She wanted to hear his voice tell her it was going to be okay. She pounded her palms on his still chest. “Come back!” Mel screamed and a flock of crows fled from the scene. Their wing beats were almost mocking.

It wasn’t going to be okay though, because it didn’t matter what she wanted.

I switched it around, if you don’t mind. @4vrafangirl “OC showing LI magic” for @dadrunkwriting

Summary: Eloise has been studying and grinding herbs in Cullen’s tower. He discovers her there. 

Eloise’s day consisted of woven wool and dog-eared pages. She had spent the day huddled up in Cullen’s tower. It was so peaceful here. Being far away from the hub of noise and the swarm of bodies like bees in a hive that was Skyhold. She had found the quieter places. Some Cole had pointed out. The hurt is quieter here. The spirit had whispered to her. You can stay here if it gets too loud.

“How many times have I asked you not to do that in here?” Cullen asked as he opened the door and spotted her perched on his desk like a finch. She cocked her head to the side like one too. A veil of her dark hair fell seamlessly over her shoulder. The image of her slender neck was…alluring. He shaked his head.

Eloise Trevelyan looked up from the cinnamon bark half crushed in her mortar. The pestle clinking against the marble as it never ceased grinding. She used her magic to grip the pestle, and watched as Cullen’s jaw set. 

“Hello, Commander.” greeted Eloise in a cheery tone.

“Lady Trevelyan.” greeted Cullen in a not-so cheery tone. “Perhaps you didn’t hear me—”

“How many times have you asked me not to do that in here? The answer is only once.” A laugh bubbled out of her like sea foam softly forming in the shallows. “Are you afraid of herbs and spices, Commander? I’m merely helping the cooks with this tedious chore, it’s the least I can do.” 

“No, but you’re using magic to do so.” 

“Yes. Does that bother you? It helps speed up the process.” Her eyes flitted to the corked bottles of cloves, nutmeg, and allspice berries. 

“You know very well how I feel about magic.” Cullen grumbled. 

“I know.” She admitted softly, the note of sadness in her voice made his heart clench. “But, I’m trying to show you it can be good as well. It can help as well as hinder. You just have to trust it. If you can’t trust, how can you trust me? I see the way you hold yourself back. You’re a-afraid of me.” Her voice ripped at the seams. “I have many reasons to be afraid of templars, but I’m not. I’m not afraid of you, because I know you would never hurt me. Don’t I deserve the same trust?”

“I’m not afraid of you. I’m afraid of magic.” 

“Magic and myself are inseparable. There is not just me. Magic will always be there.” She hung her head, unable to look at him. A shuddering breath was a wisp from her lungs. “I guess I am asking for too much.”

She heard his footsteps first. Then, his fingertips brushed under her chin. She looked up into his face.

“Show me.”

“What?“

“Show me…your magic. I don’t want to be afraid of it anymore. Show me that I’m wrong.”

Eloise sniffed and caught a tear with her knuckle. “All right.”

She placed her hands in his, willing her aura to brighten to encompass him as well. It vibrated against their skin. “Do you feel that?”

It was a little while before he spoke. His breath hesitant. “…I do.” He deemed it safe to breath. “What is that? A spell?”

Eloise shook her head. “No,” Curls licking at his cheek. They were so close. Her heart beat slammed against her ribcage at a breakneck pace. A smile was testing the lush of her lips. The corners of those lips quivered into a sliver of the moon. “It is our auras bending together. Do you see it? Its beautiful. We’re beautiful.”

She tapped two fingers over his heart, and she felt his gasp warm her wet cheeks. “I-I see it…” His chuckle emerged from his parted lips, awe hugged the tone. “I see it!”

“Are you afraid?” asked the mage.