style marchers

The Damn Bagel Fic

Any good bagel connoisseur can tell you that in the world of Thedosian baked goods, there are two major contenders for the title of Best Bagel out there.

Deciding a winner is a fight as old as deep dish versus thin crust – if not older – and there have been no real victors in the long, bloody battles waged over the matter. Some would say this is because taste is largely subjective, and certain people are just going to prefer certain qualities in their food without one being inherently better than the other. These people are cowards who haven’t eaten enough bagels yet.

Because everyone knows that it’s the Marcher style bagel that wins. Soft, chewy, a little buttery, perfect for spreading toppings onto; excellent when toasted. Light enough that you can actually eat one and not feel like you’ve swallowed half a cake. Clearly, the superior bagel.

But some bitter assholes simply cannot admit defeat, and that’s where the Orlesian bagel comes in.

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Each Time, A Little Different

Original Characters // Post DAI // SFW

It had never been weird before, looking her in the eyes, so why was it so different now?

A/N: For picchar, I went way further than I was going to. Also I took some liberties with this, I hope you like it. <3

Fereldan’s were not people of pageantry. They had no stories of grand balls, of elegant galas, or 100-man hunting expeditions. They had not the elegance and flair of their neighbor Orlais, or the grand amalgamation of style as the Marcher cities did, nor the dazzling colors and lively movement of Antiva. Nay, Ferelden existed almost in defiance of those things, a nation and people carved from the wind-beaten cliffs that faced the Amarantine Ocean and from the ancient gnarled trees of the Bannorn. Their colors were earthy, their buildings strong enough to withstand Ages, their fashion practical and proud, reflecting their land, and their decorations: decidedly less shiny. 

The measure of a man, to those tenacious people, was judged by one’s accomplishments, by their honor and their word, and never by the length of their title, weight of their power, or depth of their pockets.

Thus, Prince Duncan Theirin, only seven years of age, knew something was awry when the royal palace underwent a subtle, yet distinct change. Tapestries were switched out to new, grander ones, the carpets in the hall were replaced. He overheard the servants gossiping about important guests, and suddenly not a speck of dirt could be found and the armor of the guards had been polished to a mirror’s shine. 

Additionally, someone had thrown away the collection of rocks he’d been hiding. 

Wholly anxious to see who could prompt such a change in decor, Duncan slipped from his lessons every day to race across the battlements impatiently waiting for the future guests to arrive in the city. Fortunately, the young boy’s curiosity was not long to be sated, banners announcing a retinue of powerful guests streamed through Denerim two weeks later; the sword and eye in white rippling across a black field.

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Cullen/Mage Trevelyan: Scene Twenty

Scene Twenty
This Scene NSFW
The last night of the ball.

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Scene Eighteen
Scene Nineteen

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