I do like these new Primaris kits but I am worried that when Codex Space Wolves comes out some of these new kits won’t be in my toy box… We already don’t have Chaplains or Apothecaries. Will we suddenly be allowed Primaris Chaplains and Apothecaries? How will someone like Ulrik react to two separate marines doing his job?
Similarly, Space Wolves don’t have access to Centurions will we get Aggressors? Ok, there is less of a straight line between the two but there are enough similarities.
Reivers, however, really suit the Space Wolves. Highly independent units ranging ahead of the main force, harrying the enemy forces. Bleeding and slowing the enemy ready for the kill. Sounds just like one of our Rites of War from the 30k Inferno book.
Look I know that tabletop wise I just put them in their own detachment and call them the Wolves of Mars or whatever but that doesn’t feel fluffy to me.
(Now, I know they are representing a military organization and all, but for the sake of the fic let us pretend that dresses were an option for Wicked Eyes and Wicked Hearts.)
The ball at Halamshiral comes as a pleasant distraction, knee-deep in shit as the Inquisition is at present, and Varric finds himself enjoying it, surprisingly enough. But there’s good food and ale (or what Orlais tries to pass off as ale, anyhow), and enough good stories to pass the time as their honoured leader lurks the shadows for shifty souls and hearsay.
And – there’s the Seeker, who Ruffles has somehow wrangled into a dress for the occasion. It’s a dark piece, deep purple folds and with a plunging back that’s got to have her feeling exposed – no warrior he’s ever known would willingly put on an ensemble like that and go unarmed, but Ruffles is nothing if not terrifyingly convincing (and Varric sincerely doubts Cassandra is entirely without a weapon).
She stays to the sides, trying (and failing) to keep out of sight, but the talk trails at her back in reverent whispers (‘What is Lady Pentaghast wearing?’, 'Unmarried at that age, imagine!’ 'What a posture, so awkward – almost like a man!’), but she bears the blows with her chin held high in defiance, and Varric watches her prowl the edges of the room on restless feet.
She catches his eye across the ballroom and he raises his glass in greeting, and she turns away so fast she almost trips on the hem of her dress. And it takes him a moment and a swig of his drink to make his decision, and then he’s crossing the room.
So this is where I am in the “Rogue Codex” (a nice name given by Ash, it stuck)(details in the link if you missed the first post). I combined primary + secondary entries for the Council Races, added turians + salarians and this is basically what the design will be like for the rest of the codex. What do you all think? I’m still looking for feedback and I would love to be able to send the final pdf to at least three people to get comments on it before I finish it and make it available for download. You can click on each picture to see the page better.
Some Varric/Cassandra for you, because this ship has ensnared my soul. Part 1/? [Read on AO3]
She is being wooed.
It’s not conventional – sweet Andraste it’s everything but, and she is justly mortified. He doesn’t read her poetry or sing her songs of old ardour because that’s not his way. Instead he writes her stories – short excerpts of longer tales, but they’re nothing like his novels, oh no. These are different. Intimate. For her eyes alone.
At first she can’t even read them, too horrified to even consider their existence (one slid under her door one evening, another below her pillow, one tucked between the pages of her favourite chapter of Swords & Shields because of course he’d know, of course he would). The entire affair is ludicrous and humiliating and – and utterly wonderful because isn’t this what she wants more than anything?
She doesn’t look at him – can’t look at him because he’ll know, oh he’ll know the minute he sees her and she can’t risk it being just a jest. Part of her (the part who’s seen how far he’ll go to protect those he cares for – the Champion, the Inquisitor, the woman he’s named his crossbow after) doesn’t believe him capable of such cruelty, but another part – the one borne of an intimate knowledge of dishonesty and love’s own folly – can’t be fully convinced. It’s self-preservation, and she can’t – won’t – risk her heart for a few pretty words on vellum.
And so she doesn’t reciprocate – doesn’t give him so much as an inkling that she knows of the letters, but that doesn’t stop them from coming. Small notes appear among her paperwork (and Maker’s mercy but she nearly lost her composure when one fell out on her desk during a meeting!), and a longer rolled-up parchment tied to the handle of her sword and – she’s not even going to wonder how it got there without her noticing.
She’s had a glass of wine for courage when she finally relents, and unrolls the most recent letter, her candle burning low in the quiet dark of her private rooms. It’s the story of a princess masquerading as a dragonhunter and she wants to wrangle his neck, but – it’s thrilling and utterly compelling and she reads the whole thing in one sitting until her eyes are straining in the dim candlelight. The princess is aided by a rogue dwarf who commissions her for a rare dragon’s tooth, and in return he’ll whisk her away from courtly life, her duties and her gilded cage, take her far away and –
and that’s it. There’s no more, and she wants to tear out her hair because she knows what this is, she’s not blind to what he’s put before her, finally, after all the notes and the knowing glances. And she’s so embarrassed by her own, ridiculous heart that she mutilates the courtyard practice dummies in her outrage. Bull makes a passing comment of praise, but she can’t see straight, and stalks back to her rooms in a fury that lasts her most of the day. And it takes her one long and sleepless night of tossing and turning – of restlessly prowling the corridors of Skyhold until her anger glows like embers and not a roaring fire – to finally make up her mind.
He’s writing when she arrives the following morning, and she knows he’s noticed her coming long before she’s standing before his desk. But he doesn’t look up until she is, and he takes his time in putting his pen down.
“Seeker,” he greets smoothly, and her heart – her cursed heart – jumps. “Anything I can do for you?”
Oh she wants to strangle him, but – that’s not what she’s here for, not this time. Perhaps next time if things don’t go well, but now…now she does not offer her clenched fists, but her fingers slack with trust, and her palms clammy with something she cannot name (fear, perhaps – no, most likely. Definitely.)
Cassandra breathes and – Maker why are her hands shaking, around the handle of her sword they never tremble but now she has to tuck them into her elbows under the pretence of crossing her arms. And she feels young and foolish and out of her depth, and there’s no experience to draw from, no well of strength to aid her in this battle.
“How does it end?” she asks then.
Varric smiles, and she wants to duck her head but she won’t – she’s a grown woman and she will stare down any man or dwarf, intimate prose be damned! “You really want to know?”
She wants to snap that of course she does, why does he think she is there? But then she recognizes the question for what it is – a way out. An escape, if she so desires it, even now when she’s put herself at his mercy so.
And it’s what gives her the courage to say, “Yes. But,” she adds, sharply. “If I at any point wish to…stop reading…if I want to–” Maker what she wouldn’t give for his eloquence. She can’t butt her head against this obstacle, and her sword is no use, even to protect her own heart.
He only holds out his hands, and – there’s no trace of humour in his smile now, but a sincerity she’s not witnessed often. “Then you’re free to do so, of course. Granted, you won’t know how it ends, but I know not all stories go the way we want them to. And if you find you want to pick up another book…”
“No,” she says quickly, swallows. “No, I – I’d like this one. If–” She can’t say it. Not yet.
But he doesn’t make her. Instead he only grins. “Then that’s all I need to know. No use writing if you don’t have an audience.”
She breathes through her nose. There’s a question on her tongue, but the words feel thick and awkward in her mouth. “And am I your…only audience?” It’s been on her mind since she’d found that first note – the image of the pretty dwarf who’d shown up and left with his heart, again. She’s not one for sharing, and in matters of the heart even less. She won’t be second in line.
There are words behind his eyes – things for another time, another conversation when things are not so new, and Cassandra does not pry.
“Yes,” he says then, and there’s no hesitation, no waver in his voice as he speaks the word – this single word that carries with it so much more than a simple admission. It’s a promise, and Maker take her traitorous heart for leaping.
Cassandra nods, once. “Good.” She clears her throat. “I must go. We’ll…speak of this later.” Stiffly, she turns on her heel, and is almost at the door when his voice stops her,
“You know, if you want I could use your insight on some…potential plot holes.”
She lingers in the doorway. “Yes?”
He smiles, and she wonders how many he’s charmed with that gesture alone, nevermind his writing. “I’ve got some time tonight, if you’re free. It’s good to get these things sorted before I start writing, you know – to avoid disappointed readers.”
She swallows, and there’s heat creeping up the back of her neck. “I’d…like that,” she says at length.
He doesn’t say anything more on that, but his smile speaks volumes. “Then I’ll see you later, Seeker.”
She doesn’t trust her voice now – doesn’t trust her heart, or her common sense, Andraste have mercy – and with a brusque nod she turns to make her escape before he has a chance to see the blush in her cheeks. The first chapter weighs heavy in her pocket, with his words or the implications of which she doesn’t know, but she takes a detour to get back to her rooms–
just in case anyone should notice the smile she cannot quite contain.
Solavellan unexpected pregnancy/kidfic-to-be. Spoilers for Trespasser. ~3100 words. Rated M.
She’s an unexpected complication from the moment they meet, the
anchor in the heart of her palm and June’s markings proudly displayed on
her face. One obstacle among many, but he tries his best to accommodate her
existence into his plans; to teach her to control the mark, and to embrace the
role appointed to her by religious zealots and enemies alike. He has always
dealt efficiently with unforeseen hindrances, and knows how to best turn them
to his advantage. Ellana Lavellan would be no different.
she continues to surprise him in the months that follow their introduction,
demonstrating a curiosity to rival his own, and more wisdom than he’d thought
her people capable of cultivating. And he tries to nudge her along the path
most favourable to his own agenda, but every time he thinks he’s in control she
veers off, carving her own path with a tenacity that ought to have rankled, but
that only leaves him shaking his head in wonder. She changes things. Changes
his plans. Changes the world. Like she’s not just part of the weave, but rather
the loom itself, and it’s all he can do not to let himself be swept up in the
whole of her; the charming nature that could lay the whole of Thedas at her
feet if she so desired.
She takes an interest in him early, and he knows the intrigue in
her eyes for what it is from the moment he lifts her hand towards that first
rift. And the admiration that sparks in their depths does not let go, as he’d
hoped it would, given time. Instead she finds reasons to seek him out. She
stops by for talks. To ask questions. She brings him cakes from the kitchens,
and tea she assures him will not keep him awake. She fills the books he lends
her with notes, odds and ends tucked between the pages – some of Sera’s more
colourful doodles, and reading recommendations from Dorian. Questions in the
margins, and flowers pressed between her favourite chapters. And she doesn’t
remove them when she hands him back the books, but it’s not with a sinking
feeling that he reads the intention in the gesture, but a spark of something he
has not felt in a long time.
It is worth noting that many Silent Brothers enjoy unsettling their fellow Nephilim, and deliberately play up their spookier features. This is a kind of hazing and should be taken as the good fun it is intended to be.