#wteg

Bold of you to think I'm organized enough to have a WIP folder @hoochieblues.

Rules: Post the names of all the files in your WIP folder, regardless of how non-descriptive or ridiculous. Let people send you an ask with the title that most intrigues them, and then post a little snippet or tell them something about it! Then tag as many people as you have WIPs.

I'm adapting these to brief descriptions. If there are any ongoing files in my GDrive I'll include the title/first line, but those are temp then everything moves to Scrivener.

Tagging: @atypicalacademic @motherofqups @niffty24, @ankoku-jin and @hollyand-writes

Here's what we have going on right now:

(In addition to the super fun work of writing my own bloody geometry textbook because the major publishers can't be bothered to do it decently/even vaguely in line with the current academic standards.)

Dear Ones, I give you a restful chapter.

Read on A03.

---

Hawke slumps against Anders, giving in, letting the vigilance which shadows him like a second body rest for a moment. Anders chest vibrates as he laughs at the jokes flying between Varric, Bull, and Dorian – generally at the expense of each other – but he’s yet to put more than the barest of dents in his second pint. (Or had Hawke consumed that finger or two of dark ale himself?) Justice being a grump about drunken frivolity again? Who can say? At least the spirit had let Anders have a cup of wine with dinner.

He keeps one hand in near constant contact with him, resting on his knee or drawing patterns over his back trying to ignore just how distinctly he can feel each of Anders’ ribs. He must not have been eating enough – even before the Taint caught up with him and the Templars got to him. Hawke hadn’t been paying enough attention.

An hour or so past the end of dinner, Rhys joins them, yawning loudly as he drops down onto a bench beside Dorian. He rubs his temples and shakes out his hair. Cassandra had allowed him to eat before pulling him aside to review messages they’d received from Skyhold and whatever other Inquisitorial tasks had come up throughout the day. The poor bastard has been holed up with her for the past hour. Maybe longer. Maker. And she’s been hunting Hawke down for that thankless job.

Iron Bull chuckles, pours a pint of dark beer, and slides it across the table to Rhys. “There you go, Boss.”

“Thanks.”

“Looking a little tired there, Lucky.” Varric wiggles an eyebrow at them. “Early morning activities cutting into sleep time.”

“Or maybe it was late night.”

Dorian’s clears his throat and glares. Rhys just tilts his head to the side and blinks at Varric in a manner that very much reminds Hawke of Merrill. And like Merrill, it isn’t clear with Rhys how much is genuinely missing some subtext and how much is a matter of having figured out the ways in which people assume he’ll miss a subtext can be useful.

Tagged by @hoochieblues! Tagging: @ankoku-jin, @motherofqups, @cumbiazevran, @pinkfacewhispers, @atypicalacademic

For some context, Josie and Leliana, being wise, decide to host a little soiree of their own in Halamshiral prior to the Empress's ball as a sort of test run for Rhys.

---

Dorian glances across the room.  Rhys is rubbing the hem of his coat between his fingers, rapidly moving toward panicking if he hasn't already leapt past that point.  Kaffas.  Dorian excuses himself from the twittering conversation he's been idly engaged in and strides across the room.  Being at least somewhat incognito gets in the way of an easy excuse to pull Rhys aside, and they are both clearly with the Inquisition, so it's not unreasonable they'd have some business to attend to that doesn't involve revealing Rhys's identity.

"Pardon me."  Dorian takes Rhys's arm, feeling the slight relief rush through him.  "I need to borrow the young gentleman for a few moments." 

Holy shitake mushrooms, my dudes! It's an update!

Read on AO3.

The warm light spreads across Cassandra’s face, softening the hard lines. “Thank you.” She sets the candle down on the table, murmurs a silent prayer, and returns her attention to him. “We were looking for Hawke. We thought he might be the leader we needed.”

“You were looking for the hero of Varric’s novel.” If her goal had been to rope Adrian in, involving Rutherford was a mistake. Adrian didn’t even consider him the most tolerable of the Kirkwall Templars, just preferable to Meredith if he had to deal with someone of high rank. “You realize, by now, that Hawke doesn’t exist.” Adrian isn’t the Champion with a steel skin who somehow walks away from every fight without a scratch on him. Anders knows that very well. Varric knows it too, but the little ‘project’ he had started in an attempt to tease Adrian back into some semblance of good humor while he was still trying to get back on his feet after the events with the Arishok had grown a bit out of control. It’s not that Adrian wouldn’t be the capable leader Varric’s tale suggested. He’d probably pull off leading the Inquisition – or whatever it is – and pull it off well, but it would destroy him.

“Hmm, in some ways. He seems as honorable as I imagined. As passionate.” She smiles. “Although, not nearly so tall as I had thought.”

Anders snorts. Isabela had contributed quite a few notes about how Varric should describe ‘Hawke’. If he remembers correctly, her key word was ‘beefcake.’

“Varric lies.” Not about things which really matter, of course, but he’ll happily confabulate for the purpose of drama – or if needed, protection. He steps away from the table and sits down on one of the last intact pews. Lie or not, Hawke might just destroy Adrian anyway. Not just ‘Hawke the lie’, no. Anders has contributed enough to breaking Adrian apart on his own.

Who got to write something that doesn't relate to math? Me!!!

tagging: @atypicalacademic, @motherofqups, @pinkfadespirit, @barkspawn-says-mage-rights, @niffty24, and @hollyand-writes if you would like to share any goodies from the week.

The hinges of the doors groan again, interrupting Anders’ musings, and he glances up. Cassandra meets his gaze with her steady one and pauses, holding a pillar candle in her hand. Anders is puzzled by her behavior, until he realizes she’s waiting for a sign from him to enter or to leave and cede the room to him. A Seeker asking him for permission to enter a room? Suddenly, the notion of a dead prophet whispering in his ear seems like the lesser absurdity.

When he nods, she steps into the chapel proper. “I did not expect to find you here.”

“Seeker.” Anders straightens up and turns away from the side table slowly, keeping his hands slightly raised, palms visible. He’s never understood why that posture tended to placate Templars, given that experienced mages rarely needed hand gestures for the majority of spells, but it often did. He grins wryly, mostly to himself, at the old habit, then decides to add a touch of drama for old time’s sake and sketches a half bow. “You’ve found me.”