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Before the curious turn of fate left him tossed into the middle of a raging battle against demons and evil cultists and abominations infected with Red Lyrium, Farkhad Adaar was not quite a common Tal-Vashoth. Upon first glance at him, at this sheepish-looking, shyly waving grey mountain topped by a couple of curving horns, most dignitaries visiting Skyhold (especially ones from Orlais) are ready to paint a picture of his past self as a mercenary, standing guard behind a noble's back and tossing around fire balls to clear a winding mountain road off brigands. But in actuality, Farkhad used to be a Circle mage... or some semblance of one, anywa

Title: Sleepless Author: Sarina-Hawke-Theirin Game: Dragon Age Featured/Major Characters: Garrett Hawke, Alistair Summary: After being named Inquisitor, Garrett Hawke finds it difficult to sleep. Drabble from my AU series, "Kings and Queens of Promise". Disclaimer: Dragon Age, its characters, and in game dialogue belong to Bioware. All OCs are the property of Sarina_Hawke_Theirin Rating: General Audiences. ............................................................ Garrett stares at the ceiling as his wife rolls over to drape her arm across his belly and nuzzle her cheek against his chest. A wistful smile curls the corners of his mouth as

Nathaniel leans upon the tower parapet. The wind that stirs his hair and brushes his face has an edge of bitter cold, but he stands motionless within it all the same. This tower was always one of his favourite places in the Vigil, even when he was so small that he had to stand on tiptoe to see over the edge of the castellations. There was seldom anyone else there, except perhaps for a lone guard on lookout duty, and he or she would willingly leave to take up their watch on a different part of the battlements if Nathaniel requested it. It was a place to be alone, a place to think, a place to escape from his parents’ raised and sharpened

All the companions that Ursa has brought with her have scattered all across the different corners of the murky, high-ceilinged mystery store. Isabela is busy trying on a succession of oversized, outlandishly decorated hats (one even has a row of jingling bells dangling along the hem), all the while blowing teasing kisses at Aveline, who is thoughtfully frowning at an enchanted blade she has picked up. Bethany is stealthily approaching the drowsy mabari hound, apparently with an intention to pet it without waking it up and potentially making it snap her fingers off. Varric is inspecting the twisted pile of desiccated limbs, which is apparently

Even though she is no longer a confused, mewling little toddler who can't make head or tail of her own dreams, Papa still asks Bethany to wait for him once she falls asleep and finds herself in the Fade. It is a dangerous place, he says - un... unperdicabble. Not fit for a young girl to explore all by herself; even a smart, brave girl like Bethany, who has already come so far in her studies of magic. And when he tells her that, she usually listens and nods and does as he says, because she tries very hard to be a good, polite child, just like her big sister Ursa. But it does little to help her be a good child that her bedtime is so much earli

A strong gust of wind tugs forcibly at the little slivers of paper that the little girl is cupping in her hands, and carries them off, towards the pink-splashed evening sky, like a flurry of snow - or better still, like countless soft flakes of ash. For the paper is not purely white - many of these little torn bits are smeared with black and maroon and pale grey, in places where the girl scribbled at the crinkly sheet with tinted charcoal, sticking out her tongue with the effort. She was so proud of her drawing when it was finished, so excited to show it to all and sundry - and yet, now she does not even get up to chase after what remains of

The knock comes in the middle of the night, brief but very loud, demandingly so. It makes Malcolm abruptly emerge from the comfortable drowsiness he has been slipping into, a stinging feeling burning at his half-lidded eyes as he lifts his heavy head and peers ahead. Leandra, who is still wide awake, stiffens at his side and gives him a slight nudge. 'Go hide your staff and your books,' she breathes, pushing herself up. 'I'll check who it is'. 'Are you mad?' he hisses in reply, now awake as well. 'I won't let you face a Templar in nothing but a nightgown!' 'It may not even be a Templar,' she points out, already out of bed and on her feet.

They were plastered above her old, chipped bathroom sink - Those countless slivers of acid bright pink. She had put them all up to sort herself out, Because she was always too cheery, too loud, Too fond of embraces, too quick to forgive; And everyone'd tell her, 'That's no way to live. The world is a wretched, chaotic, doomed place, Where people are hated for their looks, creed and race, Where every news broadcast turns in a death toll, So smash those pink glasses; get harsher now, girl!' And she'd taken her post-its (ironically, pink) And written those words all around her sink. So now in the morning, she got out of bed, And stood by