#vhywrites

Dorian let the corners of his lips curl into a smile to the elf’s groan and leaned back in his own chair, turning to the next page of the book he was cradling. It was part of the latest order, a gathering of texts exploring elven traditions and the few things known about the Dalish. He had issued orders for anything he could find on the elven right after they had set foot in Skyhold and he was sure his books would be at least protected by the blasted rain- there was not much on wandering elvhen to begin with which allowed traders to overprize the books quite a lot. Yet with a Dalish Inquisitor walking around, practically being a living, willing encyclopedia, what better time to indulge into a new obsession? Feynras had proven herself witty and humorous and was always ready to share and explain should her duties allow it.

Her brother, now. Such a different case Dorian had at first honest to the Maker doubts the two elves were related. Fahlron was snappy and had that glare glued to his face, like he distrusted you and eight generations of your family before you. He was, well, in general, much closer to the common image of the Dalish.

“Val- las- ni-in?” he tried his tongue at it again.

“Vallas - LIN!” came the angered growl from the neighboring chair, receiving a loud hush from the next library corridor for his trouble. Falhron’s ears trembled and lowered a couple of inches, giving him the look of a feral animal ready to pounce.

“Sometimes referred to as blood writing,” Dorian began reading in hopes that the elf would stay where he was and not leap after that poor, unfortunate shusher, “it is what the Dalish call the intricate facial tattoos worn by all adult clan members. The ink used to do so is considered sacred as we confirmed while attempting to trade with dalish merchants in some of the friendlier camps we came upon. The merchants refused to sell us a small portion of it or reveal the correct way to mix it.”

“Did they make it out of that camp alive? Friendly clan.”

“When a Dalish elf comes of age,” Dorian continued, “they prepare to gain the vallaslin by meditating on the gods and the ways of the Dalish, and by purifying the body and the skin. When the time comes, the Keeper of the clan applies the blood writing. This is done in complete silence.  Blood writing is at least in part a religious practice, and there are different designs representing deities in the Elven Pantheon.”

He eyed Fahlron. The elf had turned his attention to the book in his slender hands, a brownish, overused tome about astronomy Dorian knew like the back of his hand. He could make out some of the dark patterns on the hunter’s sharp cheekbones even as he watched him from the side. They curled and turned like vines, overlapping and creating a complex, beautiful net on the man’s forehead and higher cheeks, some lines extending as far as the lobes of his long ears. Hours, Dorian thought, it must have taken hours to complete.

“So. Which deity?”

Fahlron didn’t bat an eyelash away from his book. “Rude.”

“Rude?” repeated Dorian. “If asking was offending, the book would surely mention something. I did pay its weight in gold after all, I do expect it to be quite precise.”

To his surprise- and amusement- the Dalish swirled on his chair, now turning to stare at him face on. Their eyes met and they held each other’s gaze in a mutual fit of stubborness. Then Fahlron gave him a sly grin, lips stretching, and motioned to the leather bound tome with his chin.

“Doesn’t your precise book have diagrams of our blood writing, dear friend? Here.” He motioned to his forehead, brushing a few stray black hair back. “You can see it clearly.”

Dorian flipped a few pages, glancing at the elf’s face in between, pretending to ignore the arrogant curl of his mouth or the spark in those grassy eyes. Not stealing glances of his ears as they twitched slightly or the slope of his nose. Not noticing the curious way the hunter’s upper lip was plusher than the bottom one or how his aroma reminded Dorian of pines and soil and- the altus coughed.

Vallaslin. Yes, of course. There were drawings, masterfully sketched, but none quite fit.

“Now, they don’t seem to have come across your very specific clan.” he pursed his lips. “It is not in here.”

“Good luck getting a refund for that gold of yours.” Falhron tossed his ponytail over a shoulder before turning back to his astronomy journal.

Dorian flipped through the next few pages. He didn’t scowl - no, that would only lead to future wrinkles.

“You’re being an ass today, Fahlron.” he nagged instead. “Careful or our lady Vivienne will come at you wishing to claim back her rightful place in our merry little group.”

“Pfft!” A snort was all he got for an answer but he could see the elf’s cheeks puff out as he lost an inner battle against a smile.

The library was quiet with the gentle sound of scholars copying parchments and writing reports - the midday sun was shining brightly through the thin windows. Comfy on his chair, Dorian leisurely turned to the pages featuring the various entities of the elven pantheon - he had read about them before but hadn’t memorized their names or symbolisms. Dirthamen, Falon‘Din, Mythal. The names shined on the yellow page, written in expert cursive with rich black ink.

“Andruil?” he attempted. “You’re a hunter. The goddess of hunting sounds appropriate if not a tad typical.”

Fahlron gave him a thoughtful nasal sound, neither yes or no.

“Always glad to entertain.” groaned Dorian. “Ok… then. Elgar’nan.”

“The God of Vegeance?”

“Considering you look like you’re about to punch someone in the face twenty four hours a day, it sounds like quite the plausible choice to me.”

“Well, hunting and vegeance. I do not dislike the image you have of me, Dorian.”

“It’s Sylaise.” interrupted a voice near the mage’s chair. making them both jump a little where they sat.

“Feynras!” hissed Fahlron, glaring daggers at the blond elf now leaning over the altus, staring down at the book in his hands with interest. With her came a thin smell of something nauseously sweet, like decaying flesh.

“What?” she retaliated. “‘Tis only the truth. Can I borrow this book later, Dorian?”

“I can’t believe you-”

“Sylaise?” Dorian found himself staring down at the description of the deity with wide open eyes and a huge grin making his lips twitch. “You serve the goddess of the domestic arts?”

There was a flush on Fahlron’s cheeks now, painting his skin with a deep red. His eyes were shining dangerously as he glared at the pair of them- Dorian couldn’t tell if it was him that was at the end of that murderous stare or the Inquisitor or if the hunter was about to launch himself at both of them at once.

“It was the Keeper’s suggestion.” he hissed venomously through clenched teeth, averting his eyes and glaring at the brownish journal instead. “And mamae- ugh! Mother- I could not go against the traditions!”

“I think his vallaslin fits him perfectly.” The Inquisitor raised her shoulders and tapped a light finger over the passage referring to the goddess before taking a step back and stretching her back.

“If you’ll excuse me, I have quite a heavy bag of freshly picked, still-trying-to-claw-me demon remains for our mages.” She gave her backback a tag. “I’ll be back for the book around nightfall?”

“As long as you don’t let it anywhere near demonic intestines.” Dorian scrunched his nose. “Off you go now - these clothes are brand new and unless you can promise me a new outfit by tomorrow morning, demon stench is renowned for seeping into fabric as fast and persistently as the Fereldan King in a cheese storage. So, shoo.”

Feynras flicked him her tongue. “I’ll bring wine.” she promised before skipping towards the research table.

“Ah, finally.” Dorian laughed. “A lass after my own heart.”

--

Ferv… Fervev- Fervevial! Fahlron tried to concentrate on the unfamiliar letters on the paper. Commonly referred to... as "the Oak," the con… constellation Fervanis-

“So.” he heard the mage’s voice. It foretold of the expression he must have been wearing but Fahlron kept his head down. Creators, if he as much as caught a glimpse of that stupid grin, he would rip that precious moustache of his right off.

Many scholars believe this is a representation of nature... that hark… harkens back to the lore of the early Neromenians-

“Where was I? Ah, but of course. Sylaise.”

Dorian cleared his throat. “As told by Gisharel, Keeper of the Ralaferin clan of the Dalish elves.” he read, his voice over coloured and pompous. “It is Sylaise who gave us fire and taught us how to use it. It is Sylaise who showed us how to heal with herbs and with magic, and how to ease the passage of infants into this world. And again, it is Sylaise who showed us how to spin the fibers of plants into thread and rope. In her youth, it is said that Sylaise stayed at the home-tree to sing and create art while Andruil hunted and played. Her path -”

“Her path is called the Vir Atish'an.” Fahlron cut him. “Her name is invoked before a fire is kindled and after it is quenched. Sylaise is seen as a protector of all who dwell close to a hearth, especially children and is also invoked during marital vows.” The words were not only of Clan Ralaferin - they were of all the Keepers throughout Thedas, on the lips of every Dalish elfling in a camp. He had heard them thousands of time, he had recited them himself another thousand, kneeling before the Goddess with offerings in his hands and the fire burning in front of her, with green grass at his feet or red crumbly leaves or thick, quiet snow.

He should have left. Dread Wolf’s balls, he should have gotten out of there the minute the Tevinter had as much as uttered his mangled version of the word vallaslin. It always came to this, to someone laughing under their breath and giving him the look and he would have to prove himself all over again.

“You did ask of me to demonstrate my battle skills. I’m demonstrating them.” She narrowed her eyes, standing her ground as far away from him as she could move without tripping over the circle of recruits.

The circle of recruits he had to appoint around them or she would scamper far out of reach in a matter of seconds.

For the past two days he had been trying to get a handle of how she was operating on the battlefield. Thus far, she had force-blown dust to his face with some godforsaken spell he had never witnessed before in his life, had tried to trip him, had successfully tripped him, had spent hours circling around him with way too much space between them for Cullen to make a move against her and had tried to kick or hit him in the northern regions so many times, Cullen was now wearing a crotch protecting plate he wouldn’t normally have on unless in full armor. The only positive trait the Commander had managed to detect was the elf’s uncanny speed in swirling just out of his sword’s reach. There were a few hints of her using her staff more like a spear than an actual staff but even with that, she only ever used it to block his sword and redirect his slashes whenever he managed to close in on her. Never to attack. Never to advance on him.

“I asked of you to show me how you fight.” He allowed himself a deep breath for the sake of concentration and brushed a dusty lock of hair out of his face. “This is how rogues squabble- you’re a mage! Act like it!”

“Funny words, coming from a Templar.” snorted a voice from his right.

Cullen shot as fiery a gaze as he could at the dark haired elf sitting on the ground amidst the recruits, watching their training session. The hunter had followed his sister, seething and itching for an argument the first day she had reluctantly shown up for her training, their cousin trotting after him and trying to calm him down. He had planted himself right next to them anyway, arms crossed over his chest and refusing to leave and Cullen had no reason to chase him away. Their training was public and no secret- if he wishes to sit and watch, let him, he had thought.

Right about now, he wished he had kicked the elf out of the training grounds, if not out of Haven for good measure. Their cousin, Rhian, had turned out to be a rather sweet young woman- she had sat and watched, had stirred some small talk with the recruits and shouted some advices for Feynras now and then or groaned painfully with compassion every time Cullen was blasted with another swipe of dirt across his face.

Fahlron, on the other hand, was a public menace. Snarky comments, low growls whenever Cullen managed to get too close to the Herald and a general sarcastic attitude that had the soldiers around him laugh themselves to tears but made the Commander boil in his own armor.

“I no longer belong to the Order.” The phrase already felt old and tired on his tongue. There were no few people who knew his former title. Templars, former and present, some having followed him from Kirkwall- Knight Captain, they called and he had to correct them again and again and keep himself from turning to the words.

“Assume position!” he barked, turning his attention back to where the blonde elf stood, tearing the thoughts- the doubts- out of his head. She flinched to the bite in his order, falling into her battle stance, knees bent and ears flicking his way. She eyed him, grimly, and Cullen stared her down. Herald or not, out here she was his trainee and he would do this job right.

Keeping a firm watch over her, the Commander began advancing- he caught her scanning the space around him, calculating his steps and then lowering down slightly, body leaning forwards, tensing.

Not this time, Cullen growled to himself. Whatever he could have hoped to learn about her long ranged attacks, he already had. He now had to press forward for a closer experience- he had to force her to face him head on.

His advance was quick and careful this time and before long, he was already within her spells’ range, his shield arm flexing and raising instinctively. The average un-specialized mage would launch their first spells at this distance, hoping to keep the attacker at bay or divert them while they were putting more distance between them and setting up wards. The Herald watched him closely instead, keeping herself in a hunched position, her fingers clutching at her staff.

Then Cullen took another step and adjusted the shield on his hand and that was it- she sprang into action, her heels digging into the ground as she tried to evade from his left side. He sidestepped and put himself in the elf’s path, causing for her to halt, momentarily, before propelling herself away, trying to dart for his other side- Cullen’s sword glimmered in the morning sun as he swung the blade in a wide ark, threatening enough to stop her and too controlled to actually make contact. The soldiers whistled, someone hissed and the mage retreated back to her original position, body held close to the ground and a frown on her face that made her cheeks puff out.

“You’re not getting out of this, Lavellan.” Cullen fell into more stable footing- the elf blinked at the sudden use of her surname leaving his lips for the first time without a title glued to it. Lady Lavellan, Herald- she was a soldier at the moment and he, her general. The time for games was over.

He hit his sword against his shield, sending a sound to resound over the training grounds. The trainees around them shuffled. Lavellan’s ears twitched.

With every word their wandering hand finds a new patch of damaged skin. On a shoulder, on the right side of Roan's ribs, over his stomach, below his belly button. August throws the sheets away, off the bed with a sharp swing as they venture lower, mapping a morbid path down their lover's body. Air rushes around their uncovered bodies, still warm and heavy with the sweet remnants of their love making and August presses firmer at a crest of small round scars expanding across Roan's hip.

"Teeth? These must have been as big as a thumb to leave scars like these- good lord, what is this even from?"

"Barbed whip." Roan snorts at the thin, violent line of sickly white that snakes around his left thigh. This one had almost fucked up his main artery, he recalls, and had left him bleeding in a freezing basement more than ten years ago, only with an unconsious teammate and the smell of smoked ham to keep him company. Thank every god there might have been that Hen had found him in time.

"A bit more scarred than your average Hunter?" He squirms a bit, hoping for some warmth, for August to lay back onto a more comfortable spot against him.

They don't.

"Perhaps." Roan sinks with a sigh, head and shoulders, back in the fluffy pillows. "I haven't seen many of my fellow coworkers naked or under proper lighting, that is, but if these scars bother you-"

"Bother me?"

August's head shoots up now, wide eyes narrowing into two threatening slits, the tips of their hair flaring with small wisps of burning blue, static magic that crackles with their newborn anger.

And then, surprisingly, they deflate right in front of Roan as quickly as they flared up, sighing as they turn to lay chest to chest on the Hunter, their full body pressing against his own. Unholy parts brush and warm up with the movement but any twitch of sudden desire is silenced right away when August brings a hand up to cup Roan's cheek.

His left cheek. August runs a soft thumb over the three long scars descending from the man's discoloured eye, the one they always feel a little guarded against, the one that flashes a little more silver at night than it has any right to be.

They scowl and trace the angry lines of dark red. They know they're the oldest ones, the very first scars the Hunter had ever gotten.

My virgin scars, the thought sparks in Roan as he remembers his first unfortunate brush with Hunter slang twelve years ago. August's coaxing of the damaged skin brings him back to the present.

"They're all supposed to be fatal." says the witch, their words quiet even in this small room with its closed windows and thick walls. Their voice is a rumble, clawing its way out of their chest and up their throat.

"By any means, every single one of these wounds should have killed you, Roan."

They look mildly agitated now that they have finally touched the heart of what concerns them, the man can tell. Even so, the gentlest warmth races down Roan's chest, spreading as he inhales. This is what had them so worried? This, this small thing-

"Oh, August."

He didn't mean to chuckle but it bubbles out of him as relief overtakes and then, a hint of regret because he had made his decisions and had set his priorities many years ago and had never thought they would come to haunt anyone other than himself.

"Oh, August?” the Enforcer repeats his words. “You're laughing?"

They sound scandalized with the response they got, bits of anger dancing in gleaming eyes. They press firmer against Roan's cheek, running a careful thumb over the tender skin underneath his eye.

"Apologies." Roan sighs. “Scars are basically in my job description. Sort of like a bonus.” he adds. "For the ones that survive."

"You’re jesting." August hisses. "These are all too severe for you to try and pass them as accidents during a hunt. Do you enjoy it, Hunter? Jumping in front of danger?"

Their free hand curls on Roan's chest, pulling slightly at the fair hairs there. If he didn't know them any better, he'd dare think they closed that fist to keep their hand from shaking.

Maybe he does know them. A tiny bit better than before.

August's fingers are chilly, too tightly pressed together when Roan gingerly reaches for them, too clenched to betray any sign of movement. He covers them with his own anyway, presses his fingertips through the warm places between them and slowly, reluctantly, like a flower budding, August unclenches their fist. They hold hands between their matching heartbeats.

"Am I attempting to lay with someone who's flirting with death?" August breathes, gaze dropping down towards their connected hands. "It's already way too easy to lose a Hunter. I've seen you work. Surgical precision, calculated steps. I refuse to accept all of these were caused by mistakes."

"If you're planning on making it even easier for me to lose you, Roan," they whisper, "tell me beforehand."

It's like August's weight has suddenly multiplied on his chest because Roan's breathing becomes laboured, words settling in his throat like leaden bullets.

Don't tell me. Some days, the Enforcer's eyes seem full of secrets and he wishes today was one of them because right now, when they look up, it's almost like August is screaming their thoughts straight through them. Tell me I'm wrong.

“These scars were anything but mistakes.”

It comes out hard and he shouldn’t have said this, he shouldn't have. Now August is staring at him blankly, an eyebrow arching, they’re opening their mouth to talk-

“Wait, wait, wait.” Roan raises a hand, palm up and open.

“Listen, please.” he pleads when August’s eyebrow only shoots higher.

"If I was to get mauled by something dark and dangerous a second from now, what would you do?"

It takes a second of silence and the distand sound of wing from outside before the Enforcer perks up, letting their hand slide down Roan's neck, following the claw marks.

"Mauled? In here? Do not try to deflect me."

"It's a hypothetical question, August. Help me here, answer it."

They frown, lips pursing together.

"A nicely placed spell would easily throw whatever that dark and dangerous thing of yours is out of the window."

"No, no fancy magic. Pretend you're a Hunter."

"No- ugh." August scowls even to the thought of such a mundane existence, of the lack of spark underneath their skin, of the loss of their endless possibilities.

"Who am I supposed to be then? You?"

"Anyone who doesn't have neat spells on the tips of their pretty fingertips." Roan hooks an arm around their waist, pulling them up, closer to his chest. Their hair swings forth and spills inches from his cheeks and August lets out a low, sharp growl that doesn’t sound at all like a protest. He brings their still connected hands up and presses a kiss against the Enforcer's knuckles, bats golden eyelashes. "Do you want to be me?"

"Despite your passable taste in wines and lifestyle," August snorts, cheeks now suspiciously pink, "in your dreams."

Their eyes scour the small room, noting their clothes, half folded, half hanging from the old secretary desk, one of their boots still on the matching chair. They had been in a rush when they had returned from the tavern.

"Preferably," he nods towards the Hunter's pants, "I am fast enough to reach your horribly placed rapier over there and scewer the thing into the next life. Or you could just shoot it in the head before I even got off the bed and save us both the pain." A nod towards the side table near the bed where Roan always keeps at least one loaded pistol concealed in a summoning circle. And then, behind the bed's head and the secondary firearm and the two hidden blades.

“And if you had no time to reach for any kind of weapon?” Roan asks again even though August scoffs. “No rapier, no hidden guns and knives. If it was just a fraction of a second away, a single decision?”

A sharp exhale, fingers tightening around his. August finds his eyes and holds his stare, gaze cutting like steel.

“I would rip that thing away from you with my own two hands." they say with such certainty, they could have declared the sky green and the Hunter would have believed them.

"Even if it put you in harm's way?"

August doesn't falter.

"Even so."

It takes less than a second to realise this has been a mistake because Roan can feel their chest filling and emptying against him, the rate of their heartbeats as it raises. Something's stuck in his throat, bobbing when he swallows.

"Never ever do that, August." comes the hoarse whisper.

Then their lips are crashing together because he has cupped a hand around the back of their head and dragged them down to him and August has let themself lower to him. Their eyes close with habit and Roan's so deeply thankful because there's a pressure building behind his own. He presses his eyelids down so hard, he sees stars.

They are lost in the kiss until August demands air and Roan releases their mouth, nipping at their wet lower lip while his partner's breaths warm the bridge of his nose. When the Enforcer tags him up again with a fist in his hair, he responds, tongue darting across half opened teeth to meet its partner in a slick dance, lips rippening and reddening under need and pressure, breaths passing from one straight into the other.

“Roan-” A raw call as the Hunter hooks a leg around their own and nudges a knee up against a buttcheek, August firmly pressing their hips down, against him, grinding.

Roan tightens his thighs and pushes, flipping their positions until August's hair has spilled like a dark halo around their head, painting the white pillow black. He has taken a moment to run a reverant hand across their chest, admiring the soft skin welcoming him when their legs hook around his waist, locking in place with familiar ease, coaxing him lower, to them.

“Backfired, didn't it?” August manages the words breathlessly as Roan accepts the invitation, hands settling on their waist. He's kisses and sucks his way down their throat, careful not to leave any red there, not yet.

"Your attempt to make me understand, ah-" A twitch of pleasure from a feather-light bite cuts their words in half and they shudder when the Hunter kisses the spot.

"All of my scars." Roan speaks into August's skin, mouth pressed at the tender spot where the Enforcer's neck meets their jaw. Kisses interrupt his words and August can feel the vibrations on their tongue, drawing out a low sound, half moan, half growl as they dig their nails in the Hunter's toned back.

"They would have been fatal." Roan slides the tip of his nose up to their ear and then lets his face hover over theirs, close, noses almost touching, lips half open. "On the people they were originally aimed for. On me, they were not."

A kiss, almost chaste in its swift sweetness.

"I'm still here."

One of August's hands finds a wrist, closes firmly around it, squeezes until they feel the bone underneath.

"I want this hero complex cast aside. From now on, you put protecting yourself on equal ground with the protection of your teammates."

"This is an order." they add. "Effective from this very moment. Understood, Hunter Anderson?"

Roan shakes his head, gently before he sinks back down to them, finding the sweet well of their waiting lips and coaxing it open with a kiss.

Fine. I will die for noone.

He nods in the kiss. Obediently, like he always does, like mother taught him. Like a liar.

No, not a lie, he reminds himself. Just finding the holes in the given orders. There always are. He has been doing this for a long time. He's been working alone for longer still.

He decides it while August is coming undone underneath him, as they fit together on the sheets. They're his supervisor, his lover and he's slowly finding new words for the feelings they awaken in him. Words he had only ever read in cheesy romance novels, words spoken by lovestruck young maidens.

Words meant for others, not him, not Anderson, the selfish son, the ungrateful heir, throwing everyone's goodwill to the trash for his own pleasure.

Roan isn't even half ready to utter them just yet, to whisper that which has destroyed men greater than him before but no orders will make him put his own safety over the Enforcer's heaving in his arms, not even August's themselves'.

Instead of I love you, Roan whispers it soundlessly with moist eyes and his face concealed deep in their hair, whispers it with his back tense and his fingers tight around theirs a second before the final bliss.

For a city broken and mangled from this one-day war, the capital was filled to the brim with songs, raising over the mourning of those who had lost family and friends, reaching up, beyond the plums of smoke. With the archdemon gone and the Blight rescheduled for the next Age, the bar keepers were offering one free drink to every soul stepping in their taverns. Calas, already three beers deep, laughed and twirled, climbing up the Inn’s stairs that lead to their shared room. She hadn’t felt so light since she had been promoted to enchanter and perhaps, not even then.

One of the black and grey streams of smoke framing Denerim’s night sky tonight bloomed from the Chantry’s phylactery storage.

The door creaked when she turned the key and pushed it open. The room was small, a tiny square with a window looking at a side road. It was open, its tattered curtain fluttering gently to the smells of ash, blood and still burning wood. The narrow bed opposite of it would never fit two humans on it yet it fit, barely, the frame of one man with an elf in between his arms.

«This was my good cloak.» Kellen snorted and threw the long brown fabric on the bed where it pooled with one burnt corner resting on the top of the pile.

«It was your only cloak.» Calas stood in the breeze, inhaling deeply. By now, she had fallen in love with the smell of charred wood that fate had accompanying all of her minor and bigger victories. «And it was not even yours to begin with.»

Kellen’s shirt found the back of her head with a soft thump, flinging strands of hair into her face. She snatched it without looking.

«Finders keepers.» he huffed, settling down on the room’s only chair, an old withered thing with two bandaged legs that moaned underneath his weight. “Who cleaned all that blood out of it, hm? I did and now it’s gone and gotten all burnt.”

“I thought you liked blood on you.”

“Oh, I do. On my hands. On the ground. Dripping from someone’s fresh, pulsating wound. On my women.” He leaned back, one leg crossed, the chair’s wooden back scraping against the wall. “But not on my expensive, hard earned clothes. That noble outside Caledon was a bitch to kill.”

He let out a huff, rocking the chair back and forth like a dejected child. “Not yours.” he said in a mock mimicry of her voice. “I deserved that cloak. Anything that gorgeous is mine by default.”

Calas rolled her eyes.

She had never seen an Antivan before that day. Golden skin, eyes the color of a cloudless sky and the notable talent of making half the words spoken sound like curses. The other half, flirtations. Maybe they meant both, she had never bothered to find out. But he had have a ring on him, a rune that hazed their magic. He had been nearly upon her, dagger grazing her ribs when she had finally managed to cast Light Cage on him. Kellen had teared his throat opened from behind.

Calas turned, butt resting against the windowsill. She tossed the blooded shirt to the bed. The wind felt good on her back, cooling down the heat in her limbs and lazily playing with her hair. The back of her dress fluttered for a second before clinging to the sweat on her back.

“Oh, how the memory serves.” she snorted. “Getting your little cloak was what gave me my first bloodbath. Literal bloodbath.”

Kellen opened his arms wide, naked chest and abdomen puffing out as he stretched. “You can thank me later. Or now. Whenever you want, I’m always available for pretty lasses.”

Calas groaned, exasperated. “Nobody ever wants to have a first bloodbath, Kellen. It comes with little fleshy bits playing hide and seek in your hair and bile on your shoes.”

His eyes were of dark fire and sparks then, a dimple forming above a mouth corner. Magic coiled up the elf’s arms, iridescent snakes of energy slithering just below her skin. There was always a threat lurking whenever Kellen smiled.

“But you look gorgeous in red.”

They stared at each other for a second, the songs of the city an echo bleeding into the background. The burnt corner of the cloak fluttered and Calas’ magic hissed on the base of her skull, a warning.

“Even covered in what a noble coughed up before he left this vain world?” She arched an eyebrow.

“I always found last breaths sexy, you know that.” Kellen swang to his feet, stretching up high like a lazy cat just before a good nap. Muscles rippled with the movement, pants lowered a notch on his hips. A fresh slash framing his left breast twisted and seeped a few droplets of blood.

The elf sundered closer, long dress swishing around her ankles, one long rip revealing the tight pants worn in the inside.

She leaned closer as the man fumbled with his belt.

“Tell me more.”

His hands stopped findling with the cork’s metal for a moment and he eyed her. Magic flared up, bristling as he seized her up, then died down to a spark within him. Arrogant, so arrogant, Calas thought.

She gave him her sweetest smile then pouted when he did nothing more than blink and raise an eyebrow.

“What does a lass have to do to get a compliment around here?” She fluttered her eyelashes and looked up at him through them.

Running a finger down the middle of his torso, she then followed the crimson drops of blood down to the man’s belly button, feeling his muscles tighten under her touch.

“How do those Pearl maidens of yours get their share? Do they look gorgeous in red as well?”

“Careful.” A large hand grabbed her wrist just as her finger wondered down, brushing the fine little hairs trailing into the mage’s pants. “I haven’t been to the Pearl in four days now.”

Stormy grey eyes stared down at her, swimming in lust. She knew that look on him. Raw but knowing what he wanted, calculated, most of the times. Dangerous, always.

She had never seen him take an unwilling woman. He was handsy, firmly brushing arms and shoulders, lifting chins to lock eyes, grabbing waists, tracing curves. And in the end, they came to him, that farmer’s daughter, the baker’s triplets, an Arl’s son that had to be twice refused in their inn’s doorstep and Calas had to drag the mage to change villages to elude him, being too obvious to get rid off. The Pearl’s girls with discounts Kellen refused to take. He always paid the whole price to them. It kept their mouths shut afterwards.

He didn’t let go of her wrists but didn’t stop her either when she lifted both hands to his chest. Firm, warm, toned muscle greeted her and she rubbed circles against it feeling the faint beating of his heart over the raw wound on the left.

“Holy Andraste.” She poked him. “What did you even lift in the Circle? Fully armored Templars?”

There it was again, that toothy grin. His voice came breathy when he spoke. He leaned closer.

“People on desks. Against shelves. Against the walls.” He poked the tip of his tongue out. “One particular night, on top of the stairs to the enchanters’ halls, standing up.”

He dipped lower, grazing the tip of one long ear with his teeth, hands coming to the elf’s hips. He brushed them up and down, slid them back over her butt and squeezed.

“A night of death and fire.” He probed a cheek with his nose. “I can show you so much more of each.”

Calas let her hands wander on his biceps, trailing the veins there, then slipping them back to his chest, up to his neck. He let out a throaty sound, tagging her firmly against his body with an arm around her waist, his other hand brushing down her windpipe, up her jaw.

He dipped down first, lips crashing against each other’s, locking together. His were smooth, smoother than they seemed, smoother than they should be, those lips of an apostate on the run. Hers, a savory red, raw from being bitten every other moment whenever she was deep in thought.

“Kellen.” she breathed when he broke contact for a second, for his hands to travel south, to tag at her dress. The man advanced forward, his body a barrier guiding her to the bed. A hand found her breast, clutching it so firmly, it hurt.

“Kellen.” Calas hissed through gritted teeth. “It’s my first- ah!” She moaned when sharp teeth found the base of her neck, grazing a line down her shoulder where the mage had tagged one of her sleeves away. She groaned to the bliss of a breeze coming through the window, at the haze of freedom and the heat racing through her limbs. Kellen’s hands were burning on every inch of naked skin they touched. He grabbed at the fabric covering her chest and it strained under his fingers, the seams stretching.

The dress ripped- she hooked a foot on the inside of his ankle and pushed outwards, twirling as they both went down.

Kellen landed on the bed with a loud umpf and the groaning of old wood. The sheets fluttered around them and the burnt cloak slid to the ground, jolted by the impact. Calas pressed an firm hand against the human’s torso.

She hadn’t told him, of the tattoos with the white ink she had gotten on her palms the second day after they had hit Denerim. The antivan noble and his blasted cloak had plagued her with thoughts, musings over the disruption of magic and ways to prevail against it.

She knew no stronger, more stable form of magic than sigils but the amount of time required to carve them could not be helped. She had spent months drawing in a notebook with the coal painting her fingertips black but once they hit Denerim, she had them ready, the two sigils. Paralyzation and electrocution, one of each. Bless the Mages Underground, with their help, she had managed to get the herbs and lyrium dust she needed blended into the ink.

“Bitch-”

Kellen’s voice came out guttural, a promise of pain as the spell took effect, binding down his arms and legs, gluing him to the undone bed. His own magic flared, boiling hot, bloating the room and seeping in tiny red threats of raising blood from his chest wound. It washed over her, thumbing at her spell, searching for a fault.

“Oh, non, non.” The elf clicked her tongue, reaching in a pocket and slipping a simple golden ring with a black stone to a finger. “Not yet.”

The threads wavered and Kellen hissed.

“See, I got something that can’t be burned.” She held her hand up, the black rune shining bluntly in the dim candlelight as she sat down next to him. She trailed the hair-thin crack adorning its surface. “I don’t think it’s going to hold for much longer but I will take every minute.”

With a small bounce, she settled herself on the man’s abdomen, legs resting snuggly on each of his sides. Kellen’s gray eyes still screamed bloody murder as she stared her down from underneath yet they sparkled with something more when her thumb found one semi-hard nipple, the one slightly smeared with blood.

“As I was saying,” Calas reached with her other hand to undo the laces of her dress, “this happens to be my first night with a man.”

She gave him one last hard rub and pulled the dress over her head, long hair cascading back over her shoulder blades as she threw the garment to the chair. “It will surely do me no good if we go at your usual pace.”

When she leaned forward on his chest and brought their lips together, Kellen let out a strangled sound, something between a growl between teeth and an appreciative hiss. One of his legs twitched behind her alongside a sudden magical swell, thigh brushing against a buttlock and she tugged at his lower lip with her teeth. Her canines were sharper than human ones she had long ago noticed; when she drew back, there was a tiny bead of scarlet blood on the man’s mouth.

“Tell me something nice.” she breathed right underneath his jaw, nipping at the soft skin there, earning herself a sudden inhale from the man. The tiniest stubble had began growing on his chin, scratching at her nose as she nuzzled him, proceeding higher to tug at an earlobe. “Come on.” she urged. “I’ll let you go if you do.”

She sat up, seizing him up. Kellen huffed and growled then suddenly gasped when she shifted her weight and reached down, tugging at the waist of his pants, undoing his belt. They came down nicely, resting at his knees and she brushed the tip of a finger over the bulge in his pants.

“Nothing?” she said in mock disappointment.

“Oh, fuck.” he hissed. “This spell will be undone soon and when it does, I’ll fuck you so h-”

Calas grabbed him, nails grazing him even over the fabric of his underwear.

“Eyes!” Kellen cried. “Beautiful eyes, blue and green.” He held her gaze, growling slightly when she tightened her grip. “Just like the lake around Kinloch Hold, bitch.”