out in a blaze of tokay

Writer, knitter, weaver, video game nerd. There's fic over at Ao3 under the same name. I live in Portland with my awesome fiancé.
General Cauthrien Headcanon | Cauthrien and the Civil War | Cauthrien and Appearance in Origins

A Dream Shared (Cullen/Cauthrien)


A slight edit and repost of a drabble written for Seri. The original post was six months old and I can definitely see the difference. Surprisingly, I didn’t hate this one as I reread it.


In the months away from each other, they shared a dream. Expressed only in pages and strokes of a pen, but more real to them than any tale. With each letter passed between them, they added to a landscape. A blade of grass here, or a ray of sunshine there—every droplet of ink bled together to create it. A landscape not of grand adventures on foreign shores, or even the honeymoon they had never been able to take. Their greatest desire was something far more mundane—something they were certain few others would wish for.

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Damn straight he can only have one sweetroll.

fahahdsasa can I be sappy and wibble about how much this means to me? AH SWEETER (badumcha) TIMES.

(via elkageddon-deactivated20130814)


So hey dictatorships, I think I promised you FENRIS & SEBASTIAN BROTP ZOMBIE-FIGHTING DRABBLE.

Here you go!

“Protect the Aggregio!”

Fenris always manages to sound so serious, so dire, and Sebastian just shakes his head, taking his time to line up his sights. One shot, one kill; it’s so much cleaner than Fenris’ method of swinging a chainsaw around as if it were a sword. And it gives him the space he needs to keep his head clear, to ask for the Maker’s aid in taking down the foul creatures who threaten His children.

Of course, perhaps there are more productive uses of his time and skill than watching from the rafters the door into the liquor store while Fenris gathers up every bottle (six, this time, and Fenris looks gleeful (at least, Sebastian thinks it’s glee, because Fenris is nearly smiling) at the outcome), but friends are the most important thing left in this blighted world.

A zombie breaks from the mass trying to crowd into the building and runs fast for Fenris who is, of course, right near the precious Aggregio, his chainsaw a pull away from running (if they’re lucky). Sebastian frowns; he can’t get the shot, not fast enough.

And so he drops from the rafters and onto the creature’s head, knife in hand driving deep into the zombie’s rotting eye socket. A moment later and he’s fighting to scramble back up to his perch, but Fenris has his blade running and takes his turn rushing the door, beginning to clear a path.

The Aggregio, thank the Maker, is unharmed.

was going through old posts finding stuff for Cherith’s secret fanmix project, AND I FOUND THIS

A Dream Shared (Cullen/Cauthrien Drabble for Seri)


She planted this in my head. I blame it all on her and the brief plotting we’ve done in the past. SEE? I DON’T FORGET THINGS.

Opener featured below with more under the cut.

In the months away from each other, they shared a dream. Expressed only in pages and strokes of a pen, but more real to them than any tale. With each letter passed between them, they added to a landscape. A blade of grass here, or a ray of sunshine there—every droplet of ink bled together to create it. A landscape not of grand adventures on foreign shores, or even the honeymoon they had never been able to take. Their greatest desire was something far more mundane—something they were certain few others would wish for.

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They’re such a relatively quiet pairing, probably because their duties don’t bring them into such stark conflict. Also, sweet rolls!

(If somebody steals Cullen’s, Cauthrien is comin’ for them >8|)

(via blamethetemplar-deactivated2013)

Stories [f!Tabris/Varric]


The stories aren’t all happy.

Well, really, almost none of them are. Even the cheerful ones have an unpleasant undertone. Few will make good tales, except for those in the world who like hearing about the suffering of elves - and to those, he will not tell her story.

The scar on her cheek, a deep gouge that has left a long divot, came not from a darkspawn blade or a childhood tumble. It came from the beginning of the story of Kallian-as-Warden. It’s a story he knows, has heard and told in equal measure, but he’s never heard the reality behind it. She tells him over Antivan brandy and dinner in his room about her wedding and about what came after, the strike of a wicked gauntlet across her face, the taste of blood in her mouth when she cut down the men holding her cousin captive.

She tells him what happened in that house, what she could not abide.

She tells him, too, of injustices before that, kicks to the knees from much bigger humans, food taken from her hands by other children. But there are also stories of strength, of her mother teaching her how to wield a blade, her father how to wield words. Her love for her cousins and her family, for her community.

The words come over dinner, over drinks, during walks through Hightown and Lowtown and Darktown. He goes to her when he can find her and when Hawke doesn’t need him, finds her waiting or waits for her to return from forrays into the Deep Roads. He’s seen her ecstatic and exhausted and convulsed with nightmares. He’s seen her sleeping naked curled against him, her body a map and an edifice in exultation of all she has accomplished.

Her stories are not happy, but she is. She laughs and jokes and smiles, and that smile becomes ever more precious with the unfolding of detail after detail. He doesn’t care that her teeth are chipped, marred by the faint lines and pits of somebody who ate far too little in childhood. He doesn’t care that her legs bow out and couldn’t be made straight if she tried. He cares about every imperfection only because it is uniquely hers, and he catalogues them all, along with her small breasts, her big dark grey-blue irises he sometimes thinks he could drown in, the narrow curve of her hip.

When she stays the night, he’s the happiest man in Thedas.

“So what do you say, Blues?” he asks with a chuckle as he sits himself back in the bed she has come to share so often with him. “Write to your Warden bosses, ask them if you can stay on in Kirkwall?”

“That’s not how it works.” Kallian drags her shaggy, kinked black hair away from her face like she always does, hoping it will be stuck with sweat even though it always falls right back into her eyes. “Can’t just go, oh great Ser First Warden, can I choose my command? They hate that sort of thing. Dedication to the Order, and so on.” She waves a hand and shrugs, her hunched shoulders rolling fluidly for just a moment as she settles beside him. Her body, for all its odd bends and sad dips, is muscled and strong and capable and beautiful, and he smiles as she dances a hand along his chest.

“Could always give it a shot.”

“I don’t feel like going to Weisshaupt. It’s cold there. It’s warm here.”

“Don’t have to. Look, I’ll get some parchment and a pen and you can write them. Tell them there’s matters that need to be looked into here. Deep Roads to be explored. A liason in the Merchant’s Guild-“

He trails off when he notices that her smile has fallen and her hand has stilled.

“Blues?” He reaches over and catches her chin, tilts it up to get her to look at him again. “What’s the matter? Don’t tell me you’ve lost that filthy mouth of yours already?”

She bats at his hand but he doesn’t pull away, instead rolling onto his side so he can feel her warmth along him. “I’m fine.”

“Nope. Come on, tell me. You’re good at lying, I’ll give you that, but I’m a lot better.”

“Arrogant little man,” she mutters, and he laughs, then strokes her cheek.

“Come on. Please? At least tell me a better lie.”

She looks away again, over to his desk. “… I can’t write,” she says after a moment, and he catches a hint of blush beneath her dark skin, her embarrassment in the set of her mouth.

“Then I’ll write it,” he says, gently.

Kallian shakes her head. “I won’t be able to read it, either. I won’t know what you’ve said. And like you said - you’re a great liar.”

“Oh, Blues.” He lets go of her jaw and pulls her close instead, her narrow body against his broader chest. He can’t enfold her completely; she has at least five inches on him. But he can nuzzle at her cheek and press a kiss to her brow. “I wouldn’t lie to you - not about that. Not for anything but fun.”

Kallian murmurs, “I know, but-“

“No buts. How about this - I teach you how to read and write, and then when it’s done you can tell Weisshaupt to piss off, because you deserve a break?” He quirks a brow and she thumbs at it, as if to wipe his smirk away. That, he thinks, is one of the only things she can’t do.

“We can try,” she says, finally. “… Where do we start?”

“We start with one of my books. Obviously.”

Drabble - The Telvanni in Tevinter


Shotguninfinity asked: Your Skryim OC in Tevinter?


This, Relyn thought, stretching out on the cushions piled in the sunniest corner of the garden plaza, was more like it.

Granted, she was never going to get used to the Tevinter style of slavery – the way the slaves were visible, even flaunted, instead of slinking and scurrying and trying not to be seen, the way that most of them had pointed ears. But that was a sad fact of life, she supposed, in a place that had no Beast Races (well. No Argonians. Khajiit, she supposed, weren’t nearly as bad).

But it was nice to be in the sun again, in a city where mages ruled as was proper, and where an occasional deranged giggle was more “amusing” and less of a ticket to the nearest madhouse. She only hoped that the long-haired beanpole of a Magister she’d attached herself to would be suitably impressed by her gifts of soul gems and tiny potted Tels. Impressed enough to raise her rank immediately. Let her skip the messy assassination stage.

It was another thing that reminded her of home, too, but she really didn’t want to have to kill him to take his place. The man was talented enough to make it annoyingly difficult.  And his drunken rambling about illusionary crocodiles the other night had reminded her of Therena. Talented and endearing.

And, she supposed, he was rather cute for a human.

…Relyn instantly squeaked and blushed a deep shade of purple. Mother would have killed her for that thought.


why yes I am proud of him for showing up in other fic before he’s even officially debuted

Can somebody write me Leliana/Bethany?



I have just discovered a burning need for it because of a single line I wrote in shotguninfinity’s fic, but I can’t pursue it there.

It’s short but I got the idea and… yeah.  Enjoy?  Maybe?  -hides-

Bethany usually refuses to go into the town proper.  The merchant is too close to the chantry, and the chantry is too full of templars.   Granted, each templar has features which she has memorized over time, and the polished armor is visible from far enough away that she can easily duck and cover, but ultimately she finds that it is easier to wait for Garrett outside.  Besides, she likes the windmill, the waving rows of corn just on the horizon, and especially the little blue flowers that peek just above the grass in the spring.

So she sits, and sometimes she daydreams while looking up at the clouds, or sometimes she contemplates a life with that blue-eyed boy from the next farm over who kissed her once – a normal life, free of magic, free of templars, full of love and laughter and devoid of fear.  Today she stretches out on her back, arms folded to pillow her head, linen skirt tucked under her legs which are crossed at the ankles.  The air smells like spring and dog and it is these little moments, quiet but full of promise, that she misses her father the most.  The four of them used to sit outside under a big old oak tree in the spring, Bethany curled in her father’s lap, Garrett and Carver flanking her and nestled in the crook of either of their father’s arms.  He told them evocative stories from his imagination all about dragons and unicorns and – even though Carver whined and protested – the occasional princess.  She misses those stories now.  Garrett tries, sometimes, but never can tell them with the same panache. 

“I think that one looks like a bunny,” an accented voice says, and Bethany snaps her head to the side.  One of the lay sisters stands there, chantry robes and red hair fluttering in the breeze, her head tilted back to expose the smooth skin of her neck as she peers up at the clouds.  “Or maybe a mouse.  I can’t quite tell.”

Bethany sits up fast, ready to bolt.  Is a Templar nearby, waiting for this woman to lull her into a sense of security?  Have they discovered her at last? 

The woman looks down and smiles.   “You don’t need to be nervous,” she says as she sits down, legs folded primly beneath her.  “We’re all running from something, aren’t we?”

“How did you—“

The woman shakes her head and raises a hand for silence, palm flat and serving as a barrier between their faces.  Then the hand moves, arm extends, and Bethany recnogizes the beginning of a handshake.  “My name is Leliana.”

For a long moment, Bethany stares into the sister—Leliana’s—eyes, looking for… something.  Something hidden, dangerous.  But she sees nothing but warmth and maybe the hint of sadness way down deep, so she places her hand in Leliana’s and shakes.  “Bethany.”

“Well, Bethany,” Leliana says, and Bethany hears her name almost as a song, lilting as it is, “do you like stories?”


(via aazeris)

Never a Problem


cherith asked: I NEED HAPPY THINGS. So. Isabela/Aveline. GO.

“You’re drunk,” Aveline says as she hauls Isabela into the room she’s rented now for two years.

“I’m always drunk,” Isabela retorts, with a giddy laugh as she tries to pitch to one side. Aveline rights her again, then drags her to the bed. It’s rumpled and bent in odd places and there’s the tail of a long scarf hanging off one of the small posts, but Aveline ignores it all and pushes her down onto it.

“Yes,” she says as she tries to tuck the pirate in (tuck the pirate in, a thing she’d never thought she would ever do), “that’s part of the problem.”

“Never a problem, Big Girl,” Isabela says, grinning and reaching for her. Aveline nearly pulls away, nearly bats her hands off, but then she shifts her weight andtucking Isabela in becomes suddenly very similar to caging her against the bed. Isabela smirks and waggles a brow. “But I think you might have a few of your own.”

Trust (HTBD 98)


She moves more gracefully than ever, he knows that it is because she sees things in a way that both surpasses and falls short of humanity. She is no longer distracted by fleeting thoughts or distracted chatter with friends, she is all serene focus. She is Tranquil.

“Oops!” His brands flare from the grasp of her hand on his arm where she caught herself. “Sorry. Did you see that woman’s top? Mother would have locked me in my room for a month. I always thought she wanted to pin Isabela down and dress her.” She smiles, but he can see grief like a ghost haunting her eyes.

To think, there are those in the Chantry who aspire to her calm without ever once knowing it could be achieved at the simple price of all dreams. Is there an irony to be found in that? Fenris thinks there is.

He watches her thread her way through the market, her hair and forehead covered in a scarf he had given her months ago and bade her wear whenever she left the home they shared in Hossberg. He knows that the basket over her arm will have only the vegetables she needs for the night’s meal, only the exact ingredients she needs for her latest potions.

She wastes nothing.

“I thought they’d last.” She holds a bowl of peaches and grimaces at the decaying mess before she bursts into laughter. “Do you think Gamlen can make brandy out of this?”

She sees him watching her. He wants to let her go on her own – they are far enough from Kirkwall that there is little chance of anyone recognizing her, but when she is out of his sight he is seized with the fear that overwhelmed him when she went missing in Ostwick.

He never found her, he found this new woman who is all grace, and focus, and calm, even when he found her in a cell deep under the Chantry there.

He had made the mistake of asking her what they had done to her, and she had told him. In detail.

“And then…” He cuts that memory off before it can blossom into the nightmare it is.

To this day people tell tales of the fall of a second Chantry at the hands of Marian Hawke. He encourages the myth to keep alive the memory of that lost woman. Her myth is better than the truth of how he killed every brother, sister, and templar with sword and bare hands.

He loved that lost woman with all her faults, but hard experience had always held back a tiny kernel of trust.

She crosses the market to slip a hand through the crook of his elbow and he allows it as he escorts her home.

He loves this new woman. He trusts her.

It’s the rest of the world he doubts.

time flies in a teapot?: I Thought You'd Be Taller (HTBD 64)


Sigrun scrutinized the ragged band of refugees tracking through the gates of the Vigil. The Warden Commander had received word weeks before that an old friend in trouble would be coming, bringing along some new friends in trouble.

It sounded kind of fun and romantic actually, too bad she knew…

Small Favors Part 2 (Orsino/F!Tabris)


Continuation, still for Serindrana. :)

“Can you do nothing to make it stop?”
Kallian could no longer pretend to sleep.  Apparently, Nathaniel couldn’t either.  She rolled onto her side, finding he had crept from his own blankets to kneel beside her.  His gray eyes were narrowed to silver slits in the moonlight.  The thought of leaving her warm bedroll sent a shiver down her spine, yet none of them could sleep and as their commander, it was her problem to solve.

“He’s unwell,” she replied in a gravelly whisper.  “What do you want me to do?  Knock him over the head?”

“I wasn’t going to recommend that, but now that you mention it…”

“All right,” she muttered, waving him off.  “I’ll see what I can do.  Oghren?”

“Sleeping like a baby.  I’m half-tempted to drink that swill of his.  Maybe it will blot out the moaning…”

“No.”  He was joking, surely, but Kallian couldn’t risk it.  “I need you sharp tonight.”

Nathaniel nodded, padding away and back to the dwindling fire. He and Oghren had set up their bedrolls there.  Kallian could just make out the wheezing lump of the dwarf, a bottle tucked against his side like a lover.  Yawning, freezing, she pulled on her boots and ventured out of the warm cocoon of her blankets and furs.  A chill wind whipped through their little camp, bringing a shimmering cascade of brittle leaves down around her.  She picked one such leaf out of her hair and flicked it away.  The mage’s whines of pain grew louder as she left behind her bed, every other breath punctuated by a yelp.  She had no idea if he was sleeping or simply lying there languishing in the dark, keeping them awake with his song of discomfort.  It didn’t seem right to pity him.  He had, after all, brought this misery down on himself.  Blood mages paid the ultimate price, and he was no different.

Yet pity welled in her anyway.  Kallian shoved those feelings back down.  If he didn’t shut up, she and Nathaniel would be useless on the next day’s march.  She stopped briefly to rummage in her pack, her keen elven eyes allowing her sight enough to find the carefully rolled packs of herbs at the very bottom.  They were all pressed in delicate, expensive paper and then wrapped in clean swaths of linen.  Corners could be cut, certainly, but not when it came to the salves and poultices that could save a soldier’s life.  She took up a small torch, hoping it would be enough to light her work.

Orsino made a smaller lump than Oghren, a slender line of dunes all covered in black.  He blended in almost perfectly with the ground and the shadows, nestled into a leaf-covered berm not far from their tree cover.  The whole bundle of him shook, rattling like the dry branches above them.  Kallian stooped at his side and laid out her packets of herbs, clearing her throat softly to alert him.

“Come to put me out of my misery?”

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(Source: )

Small Favors Part 1 (Orsino/F!Tabris)


Prompt: Orsino/Tabris - for Serindrana (sorry, girl, this is going to turn out long and plotty)
“So,” she said, picking at the loose bit of scale on her gauntlet. “I heard they had to scrape most of you off the floor.”
“That is… an accurate assessment, yes.”  The First Enchanter of Kirkwall.  Former First Enchanter.  He really didn’t look like much.  Well, now he wasn’t.  Now he was her charge, and she was - yet again - little more than a glorified baby sitter.  Orsino shifted on the floor, rearranging his nondescript robes until they resembled something more dignified.  They were both covered in filth, but she could tell it rankled him more.  Nobody was going to smell like roses in the Deep Roads. “The healer… Anders, he put me to rights, though he wasn’t happy about it.”

“That sounds like him.”  Kallian grinned, leaning back against an outcropping of slimy stone. “Did it for a woman, yeah?”

“The Champion…”

“I’m doing this for her, too.  Seems she’s gonna owe a lot of favors soon.”  Kallian turned, listening to the patter of footsteps that echoed through the tunnels.  Nathaniel would be back soon, hopefully with news of an exit.  There were several ways out of Kirkwall, but none were particularly safe with Templars swarming the city.  The Deep Roads weren’t safe, not by any stretch of the imagination, but they were a way out, and for her purposes that was plenty.

Besides, nobody would cry over spilled milk, or in this case, a disgraced First Enchanter.  Kallian let her eyes wander back to his huddled form.  He stuck like a shadow to the walls, sitting there with his knees up and his wrists propped lightly on top.  A deep, encompassing hood concealed his face.  Kallian hadn’t gotten a proper look at him yet.  The Champion had warned her that his wounds were grievous, that his chances of survival were slim.

“Every mage counts now,” the Champion had said sadly, staring at the distance and the smoke that rose from every quarter of Kirkwall.  “Even… even the… They all count.”

“And if he doesn’t make it out?” Kallian had asked. “What then?”

“Then at least we did all that we could.  Anders thinks…”

“I don’t give a shit what Anders thinks.  Have him ready to go by morning.  I’d rather not linger.”

She shouldn’t have been so curt, but that wasn’t worth fretting over now.  Desperate times, and all that.  The Champion would understand, would forgive, or maybe die before she had the chance to do either.  Kallian pulled a pouch of tobacco from her belt, listless, and set about rolling a cigarette of stale leaf and staler paper.  It steadied her nerves, the repetition, the familiar smell of the tobacco, the practiced gestures that took her mind away from how many darkspawn waited around the corner.

“You couldn’t… You wouldn’t happen to have enough for two?”

Kallian grunted, shoving off from the wall.  She groped for her flint and tinder, muttering when she couldn’t find it among her many satchels.  The cigarette flamed, a whisper of fire bursting from the end.

“Thanks,” she muttered. “And you shouldn’t, not in your state.”

“My state,” he sneered, shifting again against the wall.  “What do you know of it?  Were you there?  Did you tend me?”

“Touchy, touchy.”  Kallian laughed, dryly, and reached for another pinch of leaf.  He could smoke himself to death if he wanted, she decided, it might be a happier way to go.  “I know a thing or two about wounds, gramps.  I’ve done my share of field dressings.”

“Then you can feel free to replace my lungs when they come spilling out of my mouth, and bandage them to whatever ribs I have left.  Until then, I’d like to at least enjoy the privileges of an adult.”  He coughed, and Kallian hesitated.  A second later, he lifted his sleeve, groping blindly with his left hand.  It was covered in a black glove.  Kallian had to wonder just what the skin looked like underneath.

“Your funeral,” she said with a shrug, handing him a cigarette.

“Indeed. Mine.”  He lit the thing the same way he had hers, magic making the air crackle and spark, flame igniting the paper and sending a curl of smoke toward the cave ceiling.  “Maker, but that’s a blighted relief.”

Kallian shuffled forward, dragging hard on her tobacco and reveling in the slight burn as the smoke trailed into her throat.  He was a crotchety old shit, but she could admire that.  She’d expected someone with attitude, but at least he wasn’t prim and dainty.  He reminded her of some of the tough old nuts in the Alienage.  Some of those relics had smoked well into their seventies, eighties…

“I had a pipe,” he said suddenly, breaking into her thoughts.  “Beautiful.  Carved, polished heartswood.  I’m sure it’s ashes now.  Or someone’s trophy.”

“You’re alive.  Be grateful for that.”

“I should be, shouldn’t I?  Somehow… Never mind.  Pity belittles us both.”

His smoke joined hers, coiling up from where he sat on the ground.  She listened to his breaths, to the way they hitched slightly on the end.  Hawke had not exaggerated his weakness.  The whole thing felt like a fool’s errand.

“Quiet,” she said, casting off her cigarette.  It hissed quietly, the smoldering end extinguished in the slime coating the cave floor.  “Someone’s coming.”

Out of the darkness, two shapes emerged, one tall, the other squat and broad.

“Ancestor’s hairy teats, are you a sight for sore eyes.”

Kallian chuckled and wandered forward, down a short slope that led to her men.  “Anything?” she asked, picking a bit of leaf from her tongue.  The leather of her gloves tasted sour.

“We cleared out a small patrol,” Nathaniel replied, stretching his neck.  His gaze drifted beyond Kallian, to the elf slumped a few yards away.  “They were weak, starved.  We should have a clear ascent to the exit.”

“And then?” Oghren asked, snorting out a breath that ruffled his beard braids. “Not a sodding ship.  Don’t say a sodding - ”

“Then we take ship,” Kallian said sternly.  “Whatever Master Dwarf’s objections.  It’ll be the fastest route to Ferelden.  He won’t be safe in the Marches.”

“And whose orders are we acting on?” Nathaniel asked, testing her patience.  “That Hawke woman?  I don’t care if she’s the Champion or the blighted Queen of Antiva, Wardens don’t take orders from - ”

“Yes, thank you, Nathaniel, I’m well aware of my command and of our charter.”  She ought to crack down harder on his moments of insolence, but she preferred that her men speak plainly and honestly.  Sighing, she nodded toward the way they had come.  “This is a favor, we are acting under my orders, understood?”

They nodded, though Nathaniel with greater hesitance.

“Of course, Commander.”

“Good.  Now help me get him up and moving.  The ships are fewer in the autumn, the storms are unpredictable.  I won’t have us stranded in some cesspit harbor through the winter.  We make the exit and then camp, and from there it should be but a short march south.”

“Portsmouth should be nearest,” Nathaniel said, nodding.  “Two days, if we’re fast and unchallenged.”

“Then that’s our destination.”  Kallian turned, leading Nathaniel back to their charge.  The mage tensed as they knelt and helped him to stand, his breaths suddenly faster, thinner.  She appreciated that he swallowed his groans of pain, but heard them nonetheless.

“Are you fit to go on?” she asked in an undertone.

Kallian could swear his heavy cowl was smirking at her. “I shall have to be.”


(Source: )

Lessons (Nathaniel/Cauthrien) - NSFW


Prompt: Smutty continuation of Nate and Cauthrien cuddling in the caves. (For Serindrana)

“You sound like you’re gagging…”


“Honestly.  Relax your throat, all that croaking… You sound like a frog.”  He chuckled and dodged the fist he knew would be coming for his chin.

Frog, is it?” Cauthrien muttered, squirming under the blanket and doing her best not to pout.  Soldiers didn’t pout.  They didn’t smile either, but that was awfully difficult when Nathaniel knew precisely which buttons to press.  “Perhaps I should be concerned that your pronunciation is so skilled.  So fluid.  Does that not implicate you?”  She hazarded a tiny smirk, leaning into his shoulder.  “Are you some Orlesian spy come to coax our Commander’s secrets from unwitting lips?”

“You are many things, Cauthrien,” Nathaniel replied gently, “but ‘unwitting’ is not one of them.  If I tease anything out of you, you will certainly know it.”

She glanced at him sidelong, a faint blush creeping up her neck.  For the moment, and for her pride, she blamed the heavy wool blankets covering them from the waist down.  The cave was chill, but they already knew well how to combat such discomforts. Nathaniel redirected her attention to the page, away from his profile and the distinctive nose and chin she had once found hawkish, severe.  Those things suited him, she thought, and knowledge of his humor, his wit, softened them into prettier features.

“Again,” he rumbled.  “And this time think less.  Your brain is sabotaging your tongue.”

“Very well.”

The candle before them flickered, dancing in the little gusts of breath that came as Cauthrien tripped over the odd Orlesian words.  She didn’t like feeling foolish, or like a failure, or like a frog.  Cauthrien finished the sentence, sighing and pinching the bridge of her nose in irritation.

“I murdered that,” she mumbled.  “I just know it…”

“Less amphibian, so that’s an improvement.”  Nathaniel chuckled, and the candle flame threatened to go out.  “This time, close your eyes.  Trust that you know the words.  Relax, and allow the sounds to simply flow…”


“Come, Cauthrien.  You are an intelligent sort…”

“And yet you make me feel a child.”  She relented, and closed her eyes, and inhaled deeply before trying one last time.  “Elle s’est assise avant lui, une lumière radiante.”

“There now! That was marvelous.”

Cauthrien couldn’t help herself, puffing up like a peacock at the praise.  Scrunching her nose, she drew closer to the book - wiggling forward out of the blankets - and frowned.  “That’s well and good, but I’ve no idea what I just said…  Something about lights, I gather?”

She turned to Nathaniel, resting on her side.  Distantly, the drips and groans of the cave, of the rock shifting in its mountain cradle, returned in the silence.  Music, surely, the sweetest kind, since the regularity of the sounds went unbroken by the cries of animal or darkspawn.  Nathaniel regarded her back, the candle light melting between them, casting an uneven, buttery glow.  His eyes lit up, illuminated from below.

“It’s a passage my mother used to read,” he explained.  “It means, ‘She sat before him, a radiant light.’  It’s a chevalier seeing his love for the first time in the Val Royeaux gardens.”

“And this is a book for children?” Cauthrien snorted. “Sounds a bit racy to me.”

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(Source: )

Absolution (HTBD 21)



Food is food, delicious, but not to the point of sin.


Once perhaps, but no longer. He would rather be a man of action.


For experience, perhaps, but not for worldly goods. Another he can mark off.


For his parents, for his country, for all he lost and can never regain? Yes, there is rage.


A prince without pride? If one existed, it was not he.


He does not want to admit to envy, but when he sees her with her head close to the elf’s, a smile curving her lips… yes, he will confess it.


Every waking moment, following her, watching the sway of her hips, smelling her sweat, hearing her voice, burning with the tantalizing touch of her hand when she bandages his wounds.

There are sins he can confess, but can he be absolved when the sin never ends?

serindrana: Practice [Sebastian/Fenris]







Sebastian hisses as the cool paint touches his skin, fingers jerking and tapping against the equally chill floor of the mansion beneath his back. He regrets stripping to the waist in that moment. The stone has warmed some from his skin,…

DOodle for this lovely. ; u;
I love Sebrisssss 



Practice [Sebastian/Fenris]





Sebastian hisses as the cool paint touches his skin, fingers jerking and tapping against the equally chill floor of the mansion beneath his back. He regrets stripping to the waist in that moment. The stone has warmed some from his skin, but with the addition of the brush along the line of his collarbone, he can feel every point where the heat has not yet penetrated.

"Do not move," Fenris says, kneeling beside him and staring with furrowed brow at the path of the brow. His touch is light, slow, determined.

Sebastian reminds himself firmly that this was his suggestion, even if the form it is taking was unintended. Fenris needs to practice his letters; what better way than to write out the Chant?

And what better canvas than one of the few tangible things that Fenris focuses on? His blade was too small, wine bottles too round as well. Freedom cannot be painted on, nor can vengeance. His shackles, though Sebastian knows he still carries them in spirit if not in fact, are out of reach of curious fingers.

So instead, Sebastian allows his body to be used as a canvas.

Fenris’s lips move and for a moment, Sebastian is uncertain as to what he is breathing. But the breaths turn to whispers and he makes out,

"Those who had sought to claim

Heaven by violence destroyed it. What was

Golden and pure turned black.

Thsoe who had once been mage-lords,

The brightest of their age,

Were no longer men, but monsters.

Threnodies, Sebastian thinks with a barely restrained laugh. It is an appropriate choice for the task, at least; it was only after returning from the Vimmarks that Fenris asked Sebastian for lessons in the Chant as well as in his letters, and he had asked, specifically, to start with the tale of the magisters and their transgressions. And now it had led to this - offering up his skin as paper.

A part of him wishes that Fenris was not inscribing him with words about magisters, but the rest just shivers and relaxes as the brush glides on.