#frantic typing

Thanks for the prompt! I guess I’m on a friendship kick so here’s some Shaelin Cadash & Dorian Pavus fluff for @dadrunkwriting

“Bad news?” Shaelin asks as she walks up to Dorian’s nook in the library, finding him looking forlornly out the window with a letter held limply in his hand.

He doesn’t turn to look at her, but she notices the way his shoulders drop slightly at the sound of her voice. “Nothing that concerns the Inquisition.”

“You know that’s not why I asked,” Shaelin replies softly, trying not to sound too hurt by the insinuation.

“It’s just not something even the great Inquisitor, famed Hero of the South, can fix this time,” Dorian sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Though I thank you for your concern,”

“Eh, she’s not all she’s cracked up to be,” Shaelin shrugs before moving forward to mirror his position by the window, leaning against a bookshelf and staring out past the glass. “Plus, I hear she’s shorter than all the stories say. Can you imagine? What does the little thing do, stab demons in the shins?”

Dorian allows himself a chuckle. “She doesn’t need to. I hear she can fly through the very air!”

“Exaggerations,” Shaelin scoffs. “That’s only when that Qunari spy hurls her into battle, while the elf criminal she drags along laughs and watches from the sidelines. In comparison, the mage she recruited seems like the most responsible fellow, even if he does come from a land of blood magic and baby sacrifices.”

“He does seem like the remarkable sort,” Dorian smiles and shakes his head. “A saint, even, to run around wrangling all those vagabonds into line. How stressed the poor man must be,”

Shaelin hesitates for a moment, biting at her lip, and Dorian wonders if he’s gone too far. He’s just about to apologize, when she speaks up in a quiet voice. “All I know is that those three truly love and appreciate him. They’d each go to the ends of the earth for him. They’d defend him to the death. Because while he might be instrumental to the Inquisition, he’s even more needed simply as their friend. And I have that on good authority.”

Dorian stares at the young dwarf beside him and recognizes the determined expression she wears. He’s seen it countless times when she’s in the training ring, or when she’s standing at the war table, or listening keenly to Josephine’s instructions — whenever she feels she has something to prove. He drops the letter on a nearby table and Shaelin finally looks to him, her expression never wavering.

He doesn’t consider the decision for very long before he’s rushing forward to scoop Shaelin into a tight hug, pressing close and disregarding the possibility of onlookers spotting the rare showing of intimacy. He doesn’t care, he has other priorities.

“Thank you, my dear friend. It does good to be reminded of my true purpose here,”

Shaelin takes a moment to stand in shocked silence, not quite sure how to respond at first. But the magnetism is inevitable and she soon finds herself wrapping her arms around his middle, basking in the warmth of his sun-touched skin against her own, drinking in the familiar scent of his cologne. She smiles and revels in the embrace.

TW: none except a severe lack of editing, apologies in advance

Fandom: Star Wars (Obi-wan Kenobi, Qui-gon Jinn, Satine Kryze, General Grievous)

Notes: Getting this in just under the wire. It’s kind of a 5+1 without the +1. And now I really need to go to sleep.

----

The first time Obi-wan Kenobi aimed a blaster, he was fourteen.

This was not entirely true. All Jedi Padawans had rudimentary training in handling weapons beyond their lightsabers, even if half the Council disapproved of introducing younglings to such a crude device.

(Qui-gon Jinn was not one of them, of course. “While I can’t condone blasters, it would be foolish to stick one’s head in the sand and pretend they don’t exist. You must be prepared for every eventuality, Padawan.)

The first time Obi-wan Kenobi aimed a blaster with the intent to do harm, he was fourteen.

Fourteen and terrified, lightsaber stolen by a band of Ceterian criminals on a mission gone wrong on Naxar Prime.

Fourteen and lost, not knowing if Qui-gon was captured or dead.

Fourteen and bereft of any idea of how he might survive, the cold weapon in his hand his only salvation, finger hovering, trembling over the trigger.

(Later, after the Ceterians had been dealt with, Qui-gon had given Obi-wan an earful about proper use of weapons, how blasters were last resorts. Obi-wan hadn’t had the energy or courage to point out the hypocrisy in Qui-gon’s statement.)

(Years later, Obi-wan would come to understand Qui-gon was only scared, his Padawan teetering, an unpracticed balancing act on a high-tightrope spanning Light and Dark.)

~

The second time Obi-wan could remember holding someone at blasterpoint was, of course, on Mandalore.

In an effort to not attract too much undue attention (a difficult task, given the antics of Qui-gon and Satine’s fiery personality), both he and his Master had forgone their lightsabers, wielding blasters on their hips, both sides, in the Mandalorian tradition.

Given the conflict between Mandalore and Jedi, it was a prudent move.

“If you’re going carry the blasters, you ought learn how to actually use them,” Satine had commented in that contemptuous manner of hers, chin slightly raised, somehow peering down at the Jedi Padawan despite the fact she was a good two inches shorter. “Otherwise no one will believe you come from this planet.”

Somehow Qui-gon had managed to wriggle his way out of blaster training with Satine (there was some story attached to his excuse, something about an undercover mission, an illegal pod racing ring, and his old Master which didn’t quite make sense to Obi-wan’s ears, but Satine had deemed a satisfactory explanation).

Learning to be marksman was every bit as taxing as his own exercises in the Temple.

Mandalorian training, apparently, did not leave room for error or kind words, it seemed, Satine putting him through his paces day in and day out as they hid in a forest refuge on the far side of the planet.

Still, he had improved, in small part to Satine’s efforts, and weeks later, Obi-wan found himself pointing his blaster.

“I don’t think this is the wisest idea,” he commented, pursing his lips.

“You’ll be just fine,” Satine responded.

Obi-wan grit his teeth. So stubborn. “In fact, I won’t, if this ends as poorly as it has the capacity to.” Forget the Council, Qui-gon would murder him on the spot.

“You’re a Jedi. Trust the Force.” Satin quirked her lips. “And my training, of course.”

“Of course,” Obi-wan muttered, drawing on the Force against his better judgment, aiming his weapon just above Satine’s head, where a single, red apple sat.

~

The third most important time Obi-wan had held someone at blaster point, it hadn’t been Obi-wan. Or, at least, that’s what kept trying to tell himself.

Rako Hardeen. It wasn’t you, it was him.

It was a terrible lie, of course, one so threadbare it wouldn’t even have passed muster as a Republic-issued blanket, and Force knew he had heard enough griping from the clones and Anakin about that issue the past few years.

He hadn’t killed that clone, in fact, he had nearly blown apart the entire mission to save one life. Rako Hardeen never would have done that.

(But if Rako Hardeen wasn’t the perpertrator of that non-crime, it meant all his other actions spanning from the breakout to Naboo had been Obi-wan’s alone. The guard on Nal Hutta. His rage, fists flying at Anakin, then later at Moralo Eval as Dooku’s smug face looked on. The way he had left half a dozen sentients to die in the box. The way he had betrayed everyone except the Council.)

No, if Rako Hardeen hadn’t held that clone at blasterpoint, then Obi-wan Kenobi had.

It had been so easy, too easy to pick up the blaster and aim. And so difficult to keep himself from pulling the trigger.

~

The second-to-last time Obi-wan Kenobi held someone at blaster point should have been his last.

He had lost count of how many of the Death Watch he had felled, his aim unerring, bodies falling succession as he and Satine tried to make their escape.

It had been murder, plain and simple, Obi-wan not having the time nor the awareness (nor the inclination, if was going to be honest) to change his weapon to ‘stun.’

Perhaps Death Watch’s weapons did not even have such a setting. It wouldn’t surprise him, the Mandalorian splinter group lived by the most vicious of codes, and what need did they have of a weapon that would merely slow their enemy, not destroy them?

A weak justification for his actions. Disgusting, really. He was a Jedi, and he had killed. Indiscriminately.

And it hadn’t been enough.

In return, his penance took the form of an ancient weapon cruelly wielded, striking Obi-wan through his metaphorical heart as the dark blade slid easily into Satine’s gut.

Blasters, Obi-wan decided, had no place at a Jedi’s side.

~

The last time Obi-wan pointed a blaster at someone, there hadn’t a someone on the other side. There had been an entity, if it could be called that, a sentient monster masquerading as something more than a loose agglomeration of metal and organs, all tied together by compiled code somehow working in tandem with a higher brain function.

And that strange mix of machine and organs was set on destroying Obi-wan Kenobi.

It annoyed Obi-wan to no end, that Grievous was able to be such a thorn in his side, to be able to gain the upper-hand again and again in their confrontations. Trained in all forms of lightsaber combat, he had proven more than equal to any Jedi, and had been the downfall of too many of Obi-wan’s friends and colleagues, not to mention the Republic at large.

It was fitting, then, that the weapon to finally put and end to the mechanical bastard was no weapon of a Jedi, and every bit the piece of machinery the General was himself.

Obi-wan looked down at the blaster in his hand, sparing a single glance at the steaming pile of parts which had once been General Grievous.

He threw the weapon to the side with a crooked grimace.

“So uncivilized.”

Thanks for the prompt! I loved writing this, definitely tried to do something a little different, a little more subdued, and I really like how it came out. Trea Adaar for @dadrunkwriting

Trea flopped on the bed heavily, rubbing at her strained eyes. She couldn’t believe she had had it in her to stare at a map for that long, moving markers centimeters at a time only to move them right back to their original position, repeating the cycle for hours upon hours—

“Herald?” Called a voice, accompanied by a gentle knock.

Trea growled under her breath at the ridiculous title before dragging herself to answer the door. “Yes? Can I help?”

The servant she faced, still not used to the juxtaposition of her size and the politeness in her voice, stammered for a moment before offering up the large package in his hands. “This came for you. Um, with this note attached.”

“Thank you,” Trea said with a smile as she accepted the scrap of paper and the wrapped object. Once it fell completely in her hands, however, her smile faltered. She recognized it by its weight. Covered or not, simply holding it struck her with a familiarity that rooted itself in her very core. She barely registered the servant still fidgeting in the doorway.

“Um. The note was attached with twine before. Before, uh, Sister Nightingale read it, that is. As she reads all the correspondence coming into Haven. For security purposes, of course. I understand no one else has read it, and that no one removed the wrapping. Not even Sister Nightingale. Speaking of Sister Nightingale, however, she has requested you to come to her tent at your earliest convenience. She would like to speak with you. Shall I inform her that you will be on your way shortly? That is, if you can spare a moment, of course. Then again, this is Sister Nightingale we’re speaking of, and she usually does expect agreement to her requests. But, of course, being the Herald, I doubt she could say much if you were to delay due to another important matter taking up your time. Um. If there was nothing else, I’ll leave you. Thank you for your time, Your Worship.”

Numbly, Trea closed the door and walked to her desk, setting down the package gently and unfolding the note.

Heard your little stint with the humans is gonna be more permanent than we thought.

Tough draw. Wouldn’t trade places with you for much.

Wanted to give this to you in person, but figured that little mountain town couldn’t handle any more horns running around. You understand.

Bet you a pretty sovereign you haven’t been sleeping well without this. You can thank me in a few weeks once this is all over and you’re back with the company again.

Until then, keep your head up and stay out of trouble. Do what you gotta do, play their little game, and come back in one piece.

I really don’t want to have to storm the place just because you landed your ass back in chains. But you know I will if I have to.

Just remember—

Maraas kata

Shokrakar

Trea sniffed, her chest filled with a dull ache as she read over the familiar handwriting. And read it again. Her fingers traced the last three words. She swallowed hard, shook her head, and put the note to the side.

Working quickly, she unwrapped the package before her, and held the bare item in her hands. It was a sheathed two-handed sword. Exactly the one she was expecting. Old and faded and rubbed thin in some places, the leather of the scabbard creaked as she brought out the sword and examined the blade. Every little nick was exactly where she remembered them being, every scratch on the metal and every patch of discoloration. She dragged a finger along the edge and it came away clean, the skin unbroken by the blade long left dull over the years.

She remembered when the sword was so intimidating to hold as a child, remembered when the mere mention of training with it made her sore muscles ache in protest. But she also remembered the first time she noticed the subtle grooves in the grip, the ones perfectly matching the shapes of her fingers. She remembered when she came to think of that sword as hers, even as it lay under her mother’s bed. She remembered when she started to gravitate to it, when she started to realize its true power, and that suddenly it wasn’t a bringer of punishment, but the only source of protection she truly had. She remembered that final night, she remembered the way she held onto that scabbard for dear life, remembered the fleeting intent to fight if her mother had moved forward to take it from her. Because she knew that keeping that sword in her hands was the only way she felt safe enough to stand her ground, safe enough to run away.

She stared at her blurry reflection in the blade for a moment, identifying only a pointed, wavering shape.

She sheathed the sword and walked over to place it under her bed.

She picked up the note, folded it gingerly, and slipped into her jacket, pressed securely against her chest.

Thanks for the prompts! Here’s some coming home fluff for Trea Adaar x Josephine Montilyet for @contreparry @honestly-wilde @talesfromthefade @dadrunkwriting

Trea felt like collapsing and she could see the same sentiment in her companions as they each settled their mounts in their stables. The stars were bright above their heads and the cool night breeze did little to ease the sweat from their brows. They murmured soft ‘goodnights’ as they went their separate ways and then Trea drudged up to her quarters alone.

Making her way up the several flights of stairs took more out of her than she was expecting and she briefly entertained the idea of simply sleeping there on the landing. But after nudging the bedroom door open as quietly as possible and ascending the final flight of stairs, the welcome she was greeted with was more than worth the sore muscles.

Before her, Josephine sat peacefully on the bed, reading by candlelight. A fire crackled in the hearth, everything was still, and Trea couldn’t deny the allure of the softness of the scene. Cast in the flickering glow, Josephine’s hair, her cheek, her skin against the satin night shift she wore, everything shined and Trea’s chest ached as she smiled.

Josephine looked up at her entrance. “Oh, my love, you’re home!” Her voice, wrapped in a familiar kind of welcoming warmth, was also unmistakably soaked in drowsiness.

“No, no, don’t get up,” Trea hummed as she dropped her pack and slid out of her boots, watching Josephine’s attempt at getting out of bed. “I’ll just be a moment,”

On any other night, Trea might have taken her time freshening up before bed. Removing her pieces of armor with care, scrubbing thoroughly at her skin, giving her sore muscles a chance to relax. But she was impatient to get to bed, to feel Josephine’s embrace after so long without.

After quickly stripping down to just a clean sleep shirt, she all but ran forward to collapse onto her bed. Nuzzling into the sheets before moving to settle in Josephine’s lap, she allowed herself a deep breath of her lover’s scent.

“Did you have an easy journey back?” Josephine asked softly, putting her book away and blowing out the candle before threading her fingers through Trea’s hair.

“It was fine. Just long,” Trea hummed and wrapped her arms around Josephine’s waist. “You didn’t have to stay up for me. I know it’s late,”

“I missed you,” Josephine said simply and leaned down to press a soft kiss to Trea’s lips. “It might also have been a bit selfish. I wanted yours to be the last face I saw before I fell asleep,”

Thanks for the prompt! This is a scene way before their relationship starts for Trea Adaar & Josephine for @dadrunkwriting

Trea was none too embarrassed to grab the closest serving dish in front of her as soon as it was placed on the table. She had especially requested a hearty meal tonight and looking at the spread with wide eyes, her expectations were certainly exceeded.

“Save some for the rest of us, yeah?” Sera jabbed at her side.

“Sorry,” Trea answered, passing the dish to the elf and quickly accepting the one Cassandra had been offering to her on her other side. “M’hungry,”

“A qunari’s appetite never ceases to impress,” Varric laughed from across the table.

“Funny coming from the dwarf with an almost full plate of potatoes,” Iron Bull said, a smirking arched eyebrow flashing to the dwarf at his side.

In between hurried bites of food, Trea looked up periodically and watched the serving dishes slowly make the rounds. It was hard to ignore the last remaining seat left empty, especially once everyone had finished making their plates and dinner was well underway.

She made sure to finish her mouthful before speaking up. “Leliana, where’s—”

“I was just about to fetch her, Inquisitor,” The spymaster replied without looking up, already taking the napkin from her lap and placing it on her chair as she stood. “She would appreciate your concern, I’m sure.”

The steel in her voice, in every word she seemed to utter in Trea’s presence, was hardly new or surprising. There was an indecipherable look passed between Cassandra and Leliana, Leliana made her way to Josephine’s office without another word, and Trea ducked her head to avoid a pointed glare from the spymaster. Out of the corner of her eye, Trea saw Cassandra shake her head.

“Things are still icy, huh?” Sera murmured, unabashedly turning around in her chair to watch Leliana leave the hall.

“No, it’s not that,” Trea shrugged and continued eating, ears pricked for any sign of approaching footsteps. “She’s just...she’s keeping it professional, you know? Formal. If that’s how she wants to operate, I don’t mind.”

Cassandra scoffed.

“Sure, tough stuff,” Sera bit at her lip. “That’s probably all it is,”

A soft voice, lilted but warm, reached Trea’s ears and she looked up to see Leliana returning with Josephine at her side, the two speaking to each other in hushed tones. Once they would have been able to be overheard, they fell silent with a practiced ease. Trea watched as the ambassador gave the group a polite smile, a vague apology, and settled in her seat between Vivienne and Leliana. Clearly, the spymaster wanted to continue their conversation, but Josephine turned to the mage at her side instead.

“Madame Vivienne, would you be so kind as to pass the wine?”

The enchanter hesitated for a mere moment, tempted to make a teasing remark at the uncharacteristic request, but met the woman’s gaze and handed over the bottle knowingly. “Of course, darling,”

Trea furrowed her eyebrows. She watched as Josephine silently filled her glass, took a long sip, and slowly filled her plate with only a passive interest in what Leliana continued to say. Trea understood the reason for Vivienne’s tact, it wasn’t too hard to notice. Though slight, there was a definite way that Josephine’s shoulders hung too low. Though subtle, it was apparent that she held her fork too loosely. Though still, there was something in her muted gaze that suggested she was steadily travelling miles away from the current moment.

“Hey, you gonna finish that?”

Trea watched as Josephine easily finished her drink and wasted no time in filling another glass. In that moment, the gold of her sleeve flashed and weaved around the silverware in one fluid motion, smooth yet darting, completely undisruptive of the momentum of Leliana’s conversation. And then, without missing a beat, she turned to Vivienne at her engagement in the topic. She followed the volley of discussion with ease, swiveling between Vivienne and Leliana at all the correct moments, but she didn’t say a word. She only sipped at her wine, picked at her food, and occasionally prodded at her temples.

“Trea?”

Something tightened in her chest as she watched Josephine. Her hands fidgeted uselessly with her napkin as she struggled with what she could say. Interrupting the conversation would be rude, Josephine was too far to offer a physical gesture of concern. All she could do was watch the ambassador’s mechanical movements, watch as her eyes grew duller in the dim candlelight, watch as her lips grew stained a deeper and deeper red—

“Trea! Hello?”

The Inquisitor jumped at the sudden jab in her side. “Hmm? What?”

“I said, you gonna finish that?” Sera pointed to the portion of bread still untouched on her plate. “Didn’t mean to interrupt your daydreaming over there.”

“I, uh,” Trea blinked, turning between her impatient friend and the plate she had long since abandoned. Then a prickling traveled down her horns. She looked up to meet Josephine’s gaze, her attention suddenly on the unfolding situation, and then Vivienne and Leliana followed suit. Not that Trea could focus on the others suddenly looking at her. She was engrossed in Josephine’s eyes, the look of surprise that flashed across her face, her lips parting slightly, her shoulders stiffening, as if this was the first time she was noticing Trea in the room. A jolt racked the qunari’s chest and she couldn’t look away fast enough. “Sorry. Yeah. You can have it.”

Thanks so much for this prompt and for the first ficlet I’m posting with its title! I figured it deserved it since it totally ran away from me and became longer than I was originally planning. Shaelin Cadash x Sera for @honestly-wilde​ @talesfromthefade​ @dadrunkwriting​

“Are you quite sure?” Dorian asks again as the group of them race across the Storm Coast shore, weapons drawn and poised for battle.

“What, you don’t trust me?” Shaelin scoffs from her position on Iron Bull’s head, hands gripping his horns for balance, but ready to draw her dual daggers once closer to their targets. “I’m the one with the best vantage point right now,”

“Yes, as you mention often enough,” Dorian says through controlled breaths, careful not to pant or seem even in the slightest out of breath, before rolling his eyes. Sera sniggers from Iron Bull’s other side. “It’s just...darkspawn? So far out in the open? I simply question what they’re doing in the middle of nowhere on the beach, that’s all.”

“He’s got a point,” Sera speaks up, pausing briefly to send an arrow into one of the hurlocks they were getting closer to, before catching up with the group again. “Darkspawn being around always equals some hole nearby they had to crawl out from,”

“Heads up!” Iron Bull yells at the darkspawn slowly becoming aware of the approaching enemies, just in time to be met with a dwarf armed to the teeth being thrown up over the qunari’s head and straight at them.

The four Inquisition members easily slip into battle positions as they’ve done countless times before — Sera on top of an upended boat at the edge of the fighting, sending arrows ripping through any enemy seemingly gaining the upper hand; Dorian positioning himself directly opposite her at the other edge of the battle, maintaining barriers for each member of the party while casting a volley of lightning strikes here and there; which left Iron Bull and Shaelin at the center of it all, slashing their way through enemies with blades that quickly soaked through in black blood.

Even so, the fighting did nothing to halt their conversation.

Thanks for the prompts, sorry some of these are pretty old now. Also hope you don’t mind my cheating by putting all of these together. Please accept my murky rendition of Trea Adaar x Sera for @joufancyhuh​ @thevikingwoman​ @midnightprelude​ @dadrunkwriting​

“Oh, I, uh,” Sera stammers at the sight suddenly before her, can feel the tips of her ears burn, and she knows she can’t blame the recent heat spell for the red that’s no doubt spreading across her cheeks. She giggles despite herself. “Sorry. Didn’t realize the canteen was that friggin’ full.”

“Please,” Trea just scoffs as she looks down, finding herself completely soaked. Of course I do this the one time she’s not covered head to toe in armor, with only a white shirt to show for it, and now that she’s wet, I can...I can see...Maker’s tits there’s not much left to the imagination now that— what is she doing?! “Don’t be sorry. I was just about to mention the lake we’re coming up to. Race ya!” She cries out as she sheds the last of her weapons, bags, and outer layers, streaking off through the grass in just her underthings. Sera takes a moment to stare, slack-jawed, before scrambling to do the same and catch up.

“Inquisitor! Please, we’re so close to the next— Sera, no, don’t— Sweet Maker,” Cassandra grumbles as she stoops to pick up the discarded items with Vivienne turning away as if blind to the situation, walking off to the shade of a tree off the lake’s shore.

---

“You seem cozy over here,” Sera remarks as she walks over to Vivienne and the rest of the group’s things, rifling through her bags for the apple she knows she stored away for later. “Enjoying the view?”

“Not as much as you are, darling,”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Vivienne doesn’t look up, only seems to settle even more against the tree she’s propped up against. “For your sake, I hope you’re merely playing at ignorance instead of the alternative.” Sera doesn’t reply, just sits cross-legged nearby as she eats her snack, a frown settling on her lips. “Fine. If you insist.

“What dreadful hot weather we’re having! It keeps one in a constant state of inelegance, wouldn’t you agree? Why just look at our famed Inquisitor, reduced to splashing around half-naked where anyone can see!” Vivienne’s exaggerated tone fades and Sera glances out at the lake, watching Cassandra and Trea wrestle in the shallows, horns glistening, smile bright, muscles painfully defined. Sera bites her lip. “And you just know she’ll refuse to cover up again on our way back to camp, feigning something or other about needing her clothes to dry. Which, if I recall correctly, was indeed your own doing.”

“Pfft. Whatever.” Sera says through a mouthful of apple. “It’s bleeding hot. What do you expect?”

“While I certainly don’t expect any level of tact, I would suggest it all the same.” Vivienne supplies. “And perhaps just a shred of honesty? To yourself if no one else, let alone the object of your fruitless affection.”

Sera’s eyes narrow but her chest is too jumbled to provide a proper comeback. She tosses her apple core into the grass behind her, nearly missing Vivienne.

“Charming.” The mage drawls. “However, I am curious. Why won’t you just admit it, darling? Wouldn’t it make things simpler? There'd certainly be less risk involved every time you hide your little blush from her gaze. Or perhaps it is because of a certain Ambassador. Feeling threatened, is that it? The two have been spending a lot of time—”

“Piss off!” Sera barks, reaching for Vivienne’s canteen and taking a swig, only to find it warmer than the air around her. She promptly spits it back out onto the grass. “You don’t know anything about anything so stop acting like you do!”

Vivienne finally meets the elf’s gaze and waves her hand with a slight flourish. Suddenly, Sera can feel chunks of ice clinking around the canteen she’s holding. Her voice is softer and it throws Sera off-balance. “I only wish to warn you. I have a feeling you’re facing strong competition and should be aware of it. That is all.”

Sera blinks and stares at Vivienne until the mage closes her eyes and resumes her relaxation. It isn’t long before a loud beckoning interrupts her thoughts.

“Sera, come back in! You’ll dry out!” Trea calls and Sera jerks her head instantly in the direction of the voice.

the wheel of fortune: optimism, success, luck;

“We did it! I can’t believe it!”

possible AUs/settings/ideas: genie au, chance/fated meeting

Thanks for the prompts! I definitely didn’t plan on this getting so far away from me, but it was so fun to write! Here’s an alternate, chance first meeting (before the Conclave/Inquisition) for Shaelin Cadash x Sera with special guest nonbinary BFF Lantos for @apostatetabris @alxxiis @alxxiiswrites​ @dadrunkwriting​

“In and out,” Lantos whispers the promise for the umpteenth time that night. Shaelin just rolls her eyes and continues working at the locked door. “We go in, get the—”

“You mean you go in. Someone has to keep watch,”

“Oh, uh, sure, good point.” Lantos admits, continuing to pick at their warhammer’s grip absently as their eyes dart up and down the hallway. “I’ll go in, get the cut, we get out, we’re big fucking heroes and that asshole gets stiffed. Just like he deserves.”

“Yeah, that’s about what I agreed to,” Shaelin says with a released breath as the lock clicks open. She puts away her tools and steps aside with a nod to the other dwarf. “Your turn, partner.”

“Right, um,” Lantos stares at the door slightly ajar. “Yeah. My turn. No problem. Totally fine. Super easy.”

“Lan, this was your idea. But if you’d really rather get out of here now and just—”

“No, no, I’m going, I’m going, shut up.” The warrior gives the door one last look over and steps inside.

“Fucking soft,” Shaelin mutters under her breath as she leans against the wall to keep an eye on the hallway. She shivers, though, at the expanse of it. For such a rich noble, the asshole’s castle was dark and cold, void of any life or warmth. She had been surprised to notice no real furnishings besides stiff statues of armor and the occasional Fereldan banner. There weren’t even paintings or fancy vases or whatever else rich people liked to collect, just empty walls and spotless floors and—

She shivers again. There’s that feeling again. Like she’s being watched. She slips into stealth on instinct but stands her ground, feeling the shadows wrap around her to the point of functional invisibility. Silently, she unsheathes her daggers and crouches in a ready position.