“You sure you want to do this?” “No, but it’s not like we have anything better to do. Let’s go save the world–again.”
My favourite ending for Alistair/Warden relationship has both of them alive and travelling together as Grey Wardens. Free of political restraints, they can both focus on living (and fixing what problems they may encounter as they travel).
If Rhea Tabris had had a different choice in DA:I, she would not have left to search for a cure on her own. Either Alistair would have come with her, or she would have stayed in southern Thedas and nipped Livius Erimond’s plans in the bud.
Solavellan angst. 903 words. I should also note, for context, that in this continuity, the anchor enhances a mage’s raw talent. In this case, it frequently causes Venara’s magic to spiral out of control with some devastating effects.
This Fear Shall
hair was unremarkable.
curly or voluminous enough to be defined as wild and interesting, nor silken
and smooth enough to be beautiful by traditional standards (traditional meaning
human—meaning, usually, Orlesian). Its dark brown colour was rich, but common.
It tangled too easily, was a bother to care for, and typically sat with half of
it pulled back in an assortment of plaits and braids, for practicality’s sake.
usually thought little about her hair.
was not the case today.
sat in the burnished brass tub, her arms locked around her knees, lukewarm
water lapping at her sides. It had once been steaming hot, but it had cooled in
the hour or so she had been sitting there, unmoving, eyes staring blankly ahead
at the fire crackling in its hearth. The water carried the slightest pinkish
tinge from where it had come in contact with the blood splattered across her
body. And her hair…
hair was a snarled mess, soaked and matted with blood and other fluids she dare
not think about lest she vomit.
of the blood was not her own. Physically, she was unscathed. The assassin who
had been torn in two by her spell was not.
stood at the top of the stairs, having entered her chambers through the door
below moments before. She hadn’t heard him open the door, he was just there—and she had felt the calming
influence of his presence immediately.
arms tightened around her knees. “My hair,” she murmured.
hair…” A hand drifted to touch a loose braid, but jerked away as it came in
contact with the knotted, sticky mess.
know.” Solas knelt at the edge of the tub and gently enclosed her hand with
his. “What can I do?”
glanced at him, jaw set, eyes hard as flint. “Get rid of it.”
so she sat in the tub, arms still wrapped around herself, the hollowness that
had followed the assassin’s death threatening to engulf her. She gripped Solas’
hand fiercely, even as he moved about her. He reheated the stone cold bath
water with a gesture and picked up a cloth, wetting it and running it gently over
her arms, chest and face, scrubbing away the blood that was stuck to her. The
cloth was rough and itchy, but it did its job. As the blood washed away, her
golden vallaslin emerged, the tattoos running from her face to her chest, arms
and legs in elegant, delicate patterns.
someday she could feel like herself again…
of the monster she had become.
is no shame in your actions,” Solas said quietly as he wiped blood off her
forehead. “He was sent to kill you. You protected yourself.”
didn’t just protect myself,” Venara said hoarsely, eyes still boring into the
flickering flames beyond. “I obliterated him.”
magic had… unexpected results, yes.”
results?” Venara cried. She turned around with a surprising force. Solas
dropped the cloth. It splashed into the stained water and sunk to the bottom. “You
weren’t there. You didn’t see what I—” She stopped abruptly, shoulders sinking.
“I killed him with a thought. It was that simple, and—and then there was
nothing left of him but… And he…” She
paused, taking a trembling breath. Beneath the water, her left hand—her marked hand—clenched into a fist. “There
are some powers no mage should have.”
are some powers—”
mark is turning me into something I never wanted to be,” Venara said, seizing
Solas’ hand so tightly her fingernails dug into his skin. “And it terrifies me.”
clasped a hand to the side of her face, his eyes finding hers. “Then you stay
on your path and you do not stray,” he said, softly but seriously. “Only at the
end will you find the peace you seek.”
nodded. She plunged a hand into the water and retrieved the cloth. As she wiped
her brow and the back of her neck, she indulged in the feeling of being
scrubbed clean—it was surprisingly soothing. The she reached back and began
tugging at the mess of tangled braids and loose hair at the nape of her neck.
hands closed around hers. She let out a sigh and let her hands fall back into
the water. She closed her eyes as he worked at her hair, long fingers pulling
at the plaits, unbraiding them one by one, taking the time to comb out the
matts and tangles without causing her pain. She leaned back with a trembling
breath and let the water flow over her, soaking her head. Her ears filled with
water and she heard nothing but the buzz of being beneath the surface as Solas’
fingers ran through her hair, washing away the final vestiges of Venara’s
attacker and the memory of what her spell had done to him.
Venara finally stepped out of the tub—skin pruned, but clean—and wrapped herself
in a robe, she began to feel like herself again.
any rate, she began to feel.
and Solas sat before the fire, his arm around her shoulders and her head
against his chest. They said nothing, for there was nothing more that needed to
remained there until the fire burned to embers.
PROFESSION: Clan Lavellan battlemage and First to the Keeper.
At heart, Venara is a scholar, musician, warrior and mage, deeply connected to her clan, her faith and her heritage. Raised by her parents, Roshan and Isena, and trained by Keeper Istimaethoriel, Venara developed a growing curiosity about magic, language and history. Named First to the Keeper at a young age, Venara grew up with a tremendous sense of duty and responsibility, knowing that one day she would be Keeper of Clan Lavellan.
Venara is a trained battlemage. While she does not enjoy the thrill of battle, she prefers to be on the offensive, countering attacks before they occur. She utilizes frost and storm magic and incorporating elements of the techniques of the Arcane Warriors. As a scholar, she is both terrified and entranced by the anchor, which she intends to study more fully as she explores what it can do. She has a weakness for inferno magic, which she has never been able to handle correctly—anything larger than a small flame will explode in her face. She has no great talent for healing magic, though she recognizes that as a fault and intends to correct her lack of knowledge.
Venara cares deeply for her friends and family, but to newcomers she can appear abrasive, judgmental and secretive. She has no patience for dishonesty and will freely speak her mind and opinions, even if it will backfire on her. For this reason, she is terrible at politics.
Body type: Muscular (like a gymnast’s), but small of frame.
Hair: Dark brown, long, somewhere between wavy and curly
Skin: Medium brown, with the faintest hint of freckles. Gold Dirthamen vallaslin.
Weight: 110 lbs
SKILLS (S.P.E.C.I.A.L + M)
Strength: 8/10. She’s extremely physical in her fighting style and very active. She can do a massive amount of damage with her staff even when it’s not charged with magic.
Perception: 8/10. She’s keenly aware of her surroundings, but sometimes her senses get overloaded and she’s focusing on too many things at once to be aware of what is immediately around her.
Endurance: 9/10. A wanderer at heart, she can travel very far on foot and she can fight for a long time before she fatigues, but sometimes she dangerously overextends herself.
Charisma: 2/10. She’s about as charismatic as a doormat. Her close friends think of her dearly, but she struggles to win over people she’s just met. She can be very judgmental on first sight.
Intelligence: 8/10. She loves history, lore and magical theory. She wants to learn more about the world, figure out its inner workings and how it came to be in its current state. She’s curious, innovative and loves discovery.
Agility: 9/10. She’s flexible and agile and fast, all of which are incorporated into her fighting style.
Luck: 5/10. Good things happen at the same rate as bad things.
Magic: +10/10. Magic overload. She already had a strong connection to magic, but that connection has become amplified due to the mark, which has its dangers (namely her magic being sometimes uncontrollable and having unexpected consequences.)
Colors: Violet, teal, blue, gold. She wears a lot of black, though.
Smells: The sea, fresh snow after a snowfall, the woods at dusk
Food: Snails, fish, honey, Orlesian frilly cakes (one of these things is not like the other)
Fruit: Berries, especially blackberries.
Alcoholic drinks: Clan Lavellan mead, Antivan red wine. She likes a drink here and there, but hates being intoxicated.
Smoke: No. The fumes give her a blinding headache.
Drugs: No. She doesn’t like to be intoxicated.
Driver’s license?: She knows how to ride a horse, but if you ask her to sail anywhere, she’s at a loss.
fell lazily from the grey sky, whirling and dancing in the air before tumbling
onto the thick white blanket that already coated the Skyhold grounds. The snow
had come upon them unexpectedly overnight. The evening before, the castle had
been in the last vestiges of autumn. Now they had been thrust deep into the
depths of winter.
up as she had (roaming the northern coasts of Rivain and Antiva with a
travelling band of players), she had never seen snow. She would encounter
travellers from the south who spoke of cold days and endless nights, but it was
something that seemed so far-fetched, so fantastical to a child of endless
summer. She remembered distinctly the first time she had seen snow as an adult.
She had been huddled in the attic of a run-down cottage, somewhere in the
middle of Orlais. Her mercenary company was surrounded by the very same bandits
they had been hired to kill (it was early days… everyone had to start
somewhere). The tables had been turned on them and they were slowly being
smoked out of their hiding place when snow began to fall. Vidomeda remembered
it dusting the windowsill of the attic window. The storm hit, and hit hard,
scattering the bandits to the wind while Vidomeda and her company remained safe
within the walls of the cottage.
felt almost magical, like they were touched by fate. Nature had come to their
rescue that day. And snow always reminded her of it.
also reminded her of how she had almost died after the Battle of Haven, but she
tried not to dwell on that too much.)
May I have a tipsy kiss for Alorien x Alistair? :D
OKAY! So it’s like 12:30am, but I’m gonna post this anyway because I finally got it done. I know you asked for Alorien, but I recently made the decision to phase her out in favour of my new warden, Rhea Tabris (who fits better as Hero of Ferelden in Venara Lavellan’s worldstate… long story there, but basically that’s why it’s a different Warden and not the one you asked for). I needed to take Rhea’s characterization for a whirl, so I decided this was a good chance to do that. One tipsy kiss coming right up!
Rhea Tabris x Alistair, pre-relationship fluff/romance. 2389 words. A03 link here.
Over a Pint of Dwarven Ale
thought he was fairly decent at holding his liquor. He was a Grey Warden, after
all—and all Wardens had consumed something far worse than too many ales and
survived. His memories of the months leading up to Ostagar were filled with
evenings spent with the other Wardens, an assortment of drinks in hand as they
shared battle stories, played pranks on each other and howled with laughter,
all of them seeking relief from the stress and anxiety of battling the
Alistair had never—until that moment—consumed dwarven ale. And dwarven ale,
much like their fine crafts, was a completely different animal than what was
brewed on the surface.
Alistair had always found the way she wore her hair fascinating. Shaved on one side, long and flowing on the other, small braids twisted from her temple and running down to the ends. It suited her, her brashness, her blunt candor. It was just like the piercings in her ears or the small brass stud she wore in her nose. No gold or silver here—only cheap metals, a reminder of the poverty she had come from. She was, as she had always been, Rhea first and a Grey Warden second. Nothing could supersede her own sense of self, not even the burden of stopping a Blight.