An assassin slips into Isabela’s room in the middle of the night. It’s a surprise more than it isn’t, but only just.
“I nearly missed the nails in the window frame, my dear. A nice touch.”
Isabela is sitting up in bed, dagger steady even as the sheets tangle about her hips. When he looks at her knife hand instead of her breasts, it feels like a compliment.
“Still too good for doors, Zevran?”
“Not at all.” He grins. “Your Kirkwall is new terrain. I wanted a challenge.”
Isabela winces, setting her weapon down with a small, disgusted groan. “Don’t,” she says. “Please don’t call it ‘My Kirkwall’. Bad enough that I knew every bloody alley in the place.”
Zevran shrugs. A familiar, fluid gesture that makes a small part of Isabela’s mind shift to fifteen: wide-eyed wonder as her husband changed into a body that cooled in their bed. He’d shrugged then, too. Shrugged and smiled.
His smile now is older. A little sad. “I thought I saw that,” he says. “Small moments, when your delightful Champion was not smiling at you.”
Isabela rolls her eyes. “She smiled a lot, sweet thing.”
“We made sure of it.”
“And you…came back to talk rubbish?”
Zevran eases into the room like a wicked idea, taking a seat at the end of her bed. It creaks obscenely. They both grin.
“I came back,” Zevran says, “Because I knew where to find you.”
She blinks. “You’re a Crow, Zev. You know where to find anyone.” She snorts, letting her own joke well up and warm her before she lets it out. “And I’m easy.”
Her friend shakes his head. “I know where to look. And I’ve traveled a ways before, seeking the fastest blade in Llomerryn. Good times. Far chases.” A small bow over bent knees. “The reward of your company.”
“Always. But, my Isabela, you are here.”
Zevran lets open hands fall to her bedspread.
“At The Hanged Man,” he says, “In Kirkwall. A week in or around this city, and it’s easy to hear about the shipless pirate. The woman who ran off with the Tome of Koslun—”
“—Possibly a foolish choice, but the world is made of those. That is not the part that disturbs me.”
Isabela feels her own faint smile, and sighs. “You’re a rare one.”
“And you are a fixture.” He kisses her shoulder, and she enjoys the warmth of it. His words a little, pricking wounds.
“I came here tonight to offer my services.”
She does not have time to fill in the obvious joke. Zevran brushes his thumb across her cheekbone.
“The other services,” he says. “Or at least a facsimile of them. Do you need an out, Isabela?”
“You’d make it look like I died?”
“As horribly as you desire, or as subtle.” He shrugs, hand falling to her shoulder. “You seem…stuck.”
She laughs, tangling her own hands in her hair. “You’re not wrong.”
“Seven years, is it? I think I heard that.”
She kisses him, just to feel the smile. “Thereabouts.”
“You must be bored,” he says, sympathy in every word. “You never dreamed of places you’ve already seen.”
“Deathly,” she says. “But not enough for that. Not now.”
His turn to kiss her. He pulls her hands from her hair and pressing his own fingers against aching, tight muscles in her neck, over her scalp. “I simply wanted to make the offer.”
“It’s sweet,” she says. “But I’ll live. What was it you said?—the world is made of bad choices?”
“And good desires.”
She groans. “I never know when you’re spouting sayings or making something up. You should be a Rivaini oracle.”
“I do look good in gold.”
Zevran can say many things with a raised eyebrow, a kiss to the cheek. Isabela nods. He moves up toward her, and she curls an arm about his waist, drawing him down. She feels warm against his back.
“Thanks,” she says. “I’ll see this through.”
I love Fenris with kids. I have no other excuse than that.
(This is part of something larger, BUT FENRIS WITH KIDS!) Names came from playing with this.
Fenris doesn’t put much stock in signs. It’s not a sign that he’s in Ferelden when the spring thaw comes. It isn’t a sign that he’s not too far from the city of Highever. If Perron was attempting to walk there in a freeze, he is a worse fool than Fenris thought. There are closer villages, hamlets that may be more expensive but willing enough to trade.
It is not a sign that he comes across a massacre, overturned wagons and smears of blood on dusty roads. They are a common sight, sad enough, and have been now that most of the Circles have fallen to chaos. There are bandits dead, their bodies scorched, and he touches one with a careful hand.
The flesh is still hot. The apostate is still here.
Fenris draws his blade when he hears the scream, and he does not know what drives him forward. The scream is high, piteous, more a wounded animal than a human, and he is nearly sure that it’s a child.
Magic sings through the air, around him, and he runs to the sound.
He means to save a child from a crazed mage, but instead he finds two children facing a bandit, maul raised and ready for the strike. The older child has flame in his hands, his face tight.
Jade can vouch that this just about killed me; I saw the first line and both hands went up in victory and then I started cooing uncontrollably and flailing and Fenris is perfect with these kids and they’re ELVES THEY’RE ALIENAGE ELVES and the ears little one line and you you you are just
I am going to die and I’m going to enjoy every minute of it
PROBLEM: my dunmer despises everything she’s seen and heard about the stormcloaks and regrets ever siding with them, which she only did because the imperial guy was two seconds from cutting off her head
PROBLEM: my dunmer especially hates ulfric’s second in command (galmar?) because dude won’t shut up about evil elves
PROBLEM: my dunmer considers whiterun her home and absolutely adored solitude when she visited
PROBLEM: my dunmer would never ever ever have sworn that oath to ulfric but there was literally no other option
PROBLEM: my dunmer worships talos
Some days I really need to silence the little voice in the back of my head that’s saying “oh, this is too self-indulgent / tropey / unrealistic, I shouldn’t put it in the story”
and remember that it’s fanfiction
and I’m writing it
so who else should I be indulging?
YEP. It’s all well and good to write high noble pieces of art meant to say Great Things about Life, but sometimes there’s just nothing like a good old-fashioned Pretend Marriage Telepathic Secret Spy AU.
[Fic] Were We Not Called [3/4]
Word Count: 5100 (16k total)
Summary: Since mortal love betrayed the Maker’s bride, mortal lovers have been cursed with the name of their soulmate scarred somewhere into their skin. Sometimes this eases the heart’s road.
Sometimes it does not.
Excerpt: Later, Fenris will decide: it was the wine. He has no other excuse for the looseness of his tongue, no matter Hawke’s propitious appearance on the anniversary of his escape. No matter the way she leans just too near, or smiles just too warmly at his inebriation. He has always been well able to command himself before.
Regardless, on this night he does not, and he tells Hawke of Seheron when he has told no other living soul the story. She listens, as he’d known she would (a peculiar thing to know of someone else), and does not hate him, as he’d not known but suspected all the same (also peculiar, and surprisingly terrifying). The night ends well, despite his honesty, and then Hawke looks at him with a promise on her lips and she smiles and he—
Fenris is not so coarse as to misunderstand her meaning.
She knows he isn’t ready to hear it right away.
Words: 568, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English
- Fandoms: Dragon Age II, Dragon Age (Video Games)
- Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
- Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
- Categories: F/M
- Characters: Female Hawke, Fenris (Dragon Age)
- Relationships: Fenris/Female Hawke
read it on the AO3 at http://ift.tt/1mXTt0I
THIS is short and sweet and packed with some of my favorite things, and you should read it.
Sonnet for Fenris
The patterns and the habits of a slave
Are all he knows for endless, painful years
And even once he runs, he can’t behave
As though he’s free; he’s driven by his fears.
The choking hate he raises as a wall
So none may see the pliant slave within.
He tries to raise his eyes and to stand tall
With mage’s shackles carved into his skin
And shoulders bowed against the pending blow.
He watches, and he sees the many ways
That others wear their freedom, as they go
About their simple lives and sweeter days.
He’ll learn that pride and ease, he swears. He’ll try
To break his slave’s mentality, or die.
My follower count has hit 200! Two hundred actual people have been kind enough to give me dash-room (well, OK – 189 actual people and eleven spammers). This is pretty amazing, especially given how short a time I’ve been on Tumblr. So to celebrate, a giveaway! Prizes will take the form of artwork – one winner and one runner up will receive artwork depicting a character of their choice.
Prizes are as follows:
Winner: Full-colour portrait
Runner-up: Monochrome shaded portrait sketch
Here are the rules:
Open to current followers only (I’ll do this again if and when I hit another follower milestone, so new folks will get a chance in the future!)
One reblog = one entry. (Only one entry per person will be counted so there’s no need to spam your followers.)
Giveaway will close at 22:00 GMT on Friday 15th August 2014.
The winner and runner-up will be selected using FABULOUS MODERN TECHNOLOGY in the form of an authentic Mongolian wrestling hat filled with names.
Lastly, before I sign off on this I need to say thank you to some brilliant people for welcoming me to Tumblr, being generally lovely, and filling my dash with good feels. You are fabulous lilouapproves, loquaciousquark, faejilly, w0rdinista, tarysande, jadesabre301, perahn, probablylostrightnow, mynameiscloud, and many more whose usernames elude me at time of posting. Special additional thanks are in order for all those who have supported me by commissioning artwork, and … well, everyone else too, really. You guys rule. ^^
an origin story
So nooling asked me where my handle came from, and I figured—it’s been a while since I told this story! Might as well tell it again, as well as link to my handy dandy About Me post, for the several new followers I’ve totally failed to greet before now, cough, sob.
So, my very first fandom handle anywhere was for FF.net, and I’m 90% sure it was The White Plume. (jadesabre301 remembers anyway; I always have to ask her.) I was fourteen and madly in love with Harry Potter, and I was thinking something about this floofy white plumy quill and I don’t know, it wasn’t well thought-out. And…
(oh god yep well here it is in all its glory, if you really want to know how fourteen-year-old me thought i ought to present myself to total strangers on the internet)
ANYWAY moving right along I realized pretty quickly that it was not a handle I was going to want to keep forever, and when I lost access to the AOL email account I used for that profile a couple years later, I decided just to make a new one altogether. I was seventeen and in Mr. Elegante’s biology and chemistry classes at the same time (I loved that teacher, and he made the subjects great); and because I also thought it would be funny to name myself after a particle as tiny as my self-esteem I decided to go to with Quark.
Of course, Quark was taken, as well as all basic permutations of it. I didn’t want ~xxx~ or numbers to make it unique, so I thought I’d attach an adjective, and somewhere right around there Dictionary.com’s word of the day was “luculent.” The definition was “clear and easy to understand,” which I thought was hilarious—what an obscure, difficult, obfuscatory word to have a meaning like that!—but of course, the novelty of that wore off pretty quickly. It still has some residual effects (my yahoo email, for example, is still luculentquark), but when I decided to rename myself a few years later when I created my LiveJournal account, I took the opportunity to pick a different L word to describe me instead.
There’s also something to be said for the irony of naming myself “loquacious” when I had a sum total of about five thousand words to my name at the time, but, you know. I think I’ve grown into it. ;)
I’m stuck in everything I’m writing and choking on stupid sad loneliness, and I wish there was more about Fenris and Orana, not as a couple. I don’t think he could ever look at her that way, and while I like the idea of Orana having something of a schoolgirl/hero worship crush on him (which lasts as long as such things often do when you aren’t actually a schoolgirl, ie: she is all flustered by him at first, but in a month or so, it goes away and he is merely Serah Fenris, and possibly later, just Fenris, particularly if she ever sees his mansion.)
I like to think that at first, he just stops to see Hawke, and he is awkward around Orana, because she is such a tangible reminder of the worst parts of Tevinter. Worse yet, she isn’t like Fenris, who chafed at being a slave and being owned. She couldn’t understand why Hadriana betrayed her family; Hadriana valued Papa’s service! She loved his soup :( Now she’s in a world that’s scary and different, and there’s something about Orana that reminds me so much of Varania.
If Hawke doesn’t offer her a job and a place to stay, Orana could have so easily ended up like Varania and Fenris’ mother, free but still chained by their race and their status as former slaves. Orana is safe and free to be wide-eyed and possibly niave because there was someone to catch her in her lowest moment.
Perhaps, too, I am easily enamored with the idea of Orana going out to buy something special for Mistress Hawke after her mama dies. When Leandra lived, she did most of the shopping, or Bodahn, because they are both well-versed in haggling and appraising what something is worth. Bless her heart, but Orana has never had to go to the Lowtown market (because it’s my headcanon that Lowtown’s shops have more variety and better prices) alone.
Orana is a sweet girl and an excellent cook, but she looks like an easy mark.
So maybe that first morning, when Fenris has tucked Hawke into her bed after a night of fitful sleep, he comes across Orana preparing to head out, a shopping basket on her arm. She is tight lipped and she looks terrified.
You are going to kill me with this. Those last two paragraphs are going to end my life with emotions and it is going to be your fault and I am going to enjoy every minute of agony.
discussing the hopefully-not-too-distant future
- jade: okay good
- we be neighbors again you come over i cook for you
- good food
- quark: bleh
- do you know what dinner was tonight
- do you want to know
- jade: what
- what what what
- leftover pizza
- quark: six hawaiian sweet rolls, bbq potato chips, and three half-glasses of sweet tea
- jade: oh my god
- that's worse than the time we had doughnuts and cheese
- at least there was protein
Q:For the age meme: 12 and 218
I did 12 already, but ah yes, 218.
The year is 2206. I’m still breathing. I’m still active. It doesn’t make sense, they say. When I hit 150, news reports crop up in the local papers, which I manage mainly by ignoring them. At 160, bigger media conglomerates start knocking down my door. What’s your secret? Tell us your secret!
I avoid them, hire a reliable publicist to keep them off my back. Fire him when he sells an exclusive interview to the highest bidder. He gets a job working for the famous child prodigy who’s been accurately predicting the slow slump of continents into the rising oceans.
What’s your secret?
I think a lot about it, try to figure out what’s different about me, some easy trick I can share. The docs have got nothing, and after giving them every tissue sample imaginable for future research, I stay away from their tests. In a sort of cracked desperation, once I hit 200 I start attempting stuff other people have tried. “I lived to 140 eating only yogurt and potatoes!” so, hey, that couldn’t hurt, right?
Turns out it can. Turns out I now hate yogurt and potatoes. “I’ll never eat it for the rest of my life” is a pretty potent threat when you’re functionally immortal.
I start submitting my thoughts to a private log, which I know is about as private as a glass skytrain. But hell. I’ll put in the token effort. Maybe I want to be heard, a little. I try to reminisce about family, until that hurts to much. I try to get into politics. Read books. Stop when it becomes clear that people are actually paying attention to what I say.
Children send me pictures of their pets, together with heartbreaking, handwritten notes. Can you make Snickers live as long as you? And, with increasing hope, Can you bring Peaches back?
I can’t. I keep all the pictures, until my directory is full enough to begin attracting unwanted attention. And then, without much other choice, I start posting the pictures to my permanent, private log.
The pictures outlast the pets. The pictures outlast their owners. Millions upon millions of loving snapshots and videos of small creatures who were loved, once. I’ve dragged them with me into immortality.
For a long, long while, it’s enough.