idrelle's ocs


“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.   


OC Wardrobe Meme: Venara Lavellan

First to the Keeper | Herald of Andraste/Inquisition Agent | Inquisitor Armour
Winter Casual/Field Gear | Summer Casual/Field Gear | Formal Inquisitor Dress
Wycome Disguise | Halamshiral Dress | Free Agent

I redesigned and tweaked Venara’s wardrobe from the other day. This one is more realistic to The Tempest’s Shadow. This is the last one for the day, I promise!

@long-liv-prairies @ladydracarysao3 @fatale-distraction @tel-abelas-mofo @lavellanlove

thevikingwoman  asked:

For DWC: ♖: Having their hair washed by your muse (Venara and Solas please) :)

I’m still waiting for dinner to get here, but in the meantime, I wrote you a thing! Sorry it took so long to get to your prompt!

For @dadrunkwriting

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 Never Be 

Her hair was unremarkable. 

Not 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. 

She usually thought little about her hair. 

That was not the case today. 

Venara 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… 

Her hair was a snarled mess, soaked and matted with blood and other fluids she dare not think about lest she vomit. 

Most of the blood was not her own. Physically, she was unscathed. The assassin who had been torn in two by her spell was not. 


Solas 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. 

Venara’s arms tightened around her knees. “My hair,” she murmured. 

“I know.” 

“My hair…” A hand drifted to touch a loose braid, but jerked away as it came in contact with the knotted, sticky mess. 

“I know.” Solas knelt at the edge of the tub and gently enclosed her hand with his. “What can I do?” 

Venara glanced at him, jaw set, eyes hard as flint. “Get rid of it.” 

And 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. 

Maybe someday she could feel like herself again… 

Instead of the monster she had become. 

“There 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.” 

“I didn’t just protect myself,” Venara said hoarsely, eyes still boring into the flickering flames beyond. “I obliterated him.” 

“Your magic had… unexpected results, yes.” 

“Unexpected 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.” 

“There are some powers—” 

“The 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.” 

Solas 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.” 

Venara 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.   

Solas’ 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. 

When Venara finally stepped out of the tub—skin pruned, but clean—and wrapped herself in a robe, she began to feel like herself again. 

At any rate, she began to feel. 

She 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 be said. 

They remained there until the fire burned to embers.

Get Into My OC

Tagged by @thevikingwoman ❤

NAME: Venara Isena Lavellan

AGE: 27 at the Divine Conclave 

GENDER: Female

ORIENTATION: Biromantic asexual 

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.

Eyes: Green. 

Hair: Dark brown, long, somewhere between wavy and curly 

Skin: Medium brown, with the faintest hint of freckles. Gold Dirthamen vallaslin. 

Height: 4′11″ 

Weight: 110 lbs   


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.  

Drinks: Water.

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. 

Tagging: @long-liv-prairies @ladydracarysao3 @kagetsukai @a-shakespearean-in-paris @star–nymph @empresstress13 @bearly-tolerable @galadrieljones @fatale-distraction @elevanetheirin @ma-sulevin @5ftgarden @buttsonthebeach @vir-ghilani @lavellanlove @solverne @hansaera (only if you want to!)

thesecondsealwrites-deactivated  asked:

Take my jacket it's cold outside(from 100 ways to say I love you..i think.) For Josie x Adaar. ❤

For @thesecondsealwrites‘s Kissing Day prompts. Josephine x Vidomeda Adaar, romance/fluff. 822 words. Thanks for the prompt! :)

This scene was partially inspired by this adorable and beautiful art of Josie by @kirkwallgirl.


Snowflakes 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. 

Vidomeda loved it. 

Growing 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. 

It had felt almost magical, like they were touched by fate. Nature had come to their rescue that day. And snow always reminded her of it. 

(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.) 

“You can be such a child, you know.” 

Keep reading


OC Wardrobe Meme: Lorenna Hawke

Act 1: Fereldan Refugee | Lowtown Wear | Mercenary Gear

Act 2: Noble Wear | Formal Wear (CHATEAU HAINE!) | Battle Gear

Act 3: Champion Armour | Post-Kirkwall (and on the run with Fenris) | Inquisition Gear

Another one! Blaming @fatale-distraction for the addiction, and everyone who jumped on @tel-abelas-mofo‘s character design meme train. (Tagging @long-liv-prairies and @ladydracarysao3 for interests’ sake). 

kagetsukai  asked:

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!

Also for @thesecondsealwrites‘ Kissing Day celebration.

Rhea Tabris x Alistair, pre-relationship fluff/romance. 2389 words. A03 link here

Over a Pint of Dwarven Ale

Alistair 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 darkspawn. 

However, 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. 

Keep reading

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.   

Over a Pint of Dwarven Ale

I made a thing (because I’m too lazy to go into the DA:I CC right now). This is Rhea Tabris, my new Warden.