How I perceive the series in a nutshell. Awakening is like a summer extension course taken between freshmen and sophomore year; you remember the main points and a couple friends you made but the rest is vague.
Anders watched the Chantry break their own laws to make his lover Tranquil and he saw countless innocent mages made Tranquil in the years after that and he still tried peaceful methods for seven years before realizing he could no longer sit by and watch innocents tortured and killed so yes, yes I think he has heard of it
the dawn will come scene is very moving and all but playing it as a dalish elf is giving me flashbacks to when I was 12 and my friend took me to her church and everyone started singing about how heaven is a big football field and other church camp hymns and I just stood there awkwardly like the heathen unitarian hindu atheist I was raised to be
I am slowly resigning myself to the idea that whatever has happened to / will happen to the Warden in Inquisition is terrible and heartbreaking and there will be many tears
so to combat the pain yet to come i am doodling silly/sappy things that take place before. And I’ve been reading the Silent Grove/Those Who Speak/Until We Sleep comics again and wanted to draw AriSten so voila *handwave* WHAT IF-TIME
it’s probably superboring to have the PC be friends with everyone but I just ;;; w ;;; sten trying to make a funny for his bff. tell me that ain’t the cutest shit ever
i’m never gonna get the grey warden armor right never ever
I’ve successfully avoided major spoilers for Trespasser so far, except for one but it’s alright because I kind of found it inevitable and it was already my headcanon for my inquisitor anyways so thats fine anyway it’s the (seriously stop reading if you are avoiding all spoilers for Trespasser) fact that the Inquisitor loses their arm. And I’m losing my shit about it. In a good way. In an excellent way. In the best possible way.
Prosthetics, you guys. So many different kinds of prosthetics.
Mages with runes etched in to their hands, with focusing crystals embedded in to knuckles, with veins of lyrium literally at their fingertips.
Knight Enchanters whose Spirit Hilt is built directly in to their prosthetic. Who trained for hours and hours under the mantra of This blade is an extension of you. It is part of your body. It is part of your soul. Knight Enchanters who can now embrace that truth more literally, who modify their Spirit Hilt so that it runs the length of their prosthetic. So that the magic can come sweeping out in different shapes or forms–a slash of light running alongside their arm, a burst of energy in the form of a repelling shield, or the original swath of magic like a sword sprouting from their body.
Rift Mages who create a prosthetic of their own out of latent sympathetic magic. The powers of the Fade still whisper to them, still catch around their arm where flesh used to be in swirls and eddies, trying to embody what once was there, what memory still holds in fine detail. Rift Mages who have temporary prosthetics made out of condensed magic. Who cast Stone Fist quite literally now as their formed hand goes rocketing forward. Rift Mages who can curry the favor of small wisps and delicate spirits that will hover around their arm and perhaps hold a thing or two until it is needed.
Necromancers who stride in to battle and capture the spirit of fallen enemies in order to create an ethereal prosthetic that’s faster and stronger than any human hand. Raising the dead to guard their left flank because they are not so readily able to defend it now. Necromancers who know exactly what a raised corpse is capable of depending on its state of decay, on what it still has, on what it is missing–and who know exactly how much they are still capable of.
Rogues with weapons built in to their forearms. Crossbows easily winched and fired. Static hands that can hold a bow steady.
Artificers who well know how to make, and maintain an articulated prosthetic–just as delicate as any one of their carefully spun traps. Artificers who embed their prosthetics with traps, who make little compartments full of dangerous things. Rogues who rig their prosthetics as a last resort, leaving it behind to explode and rain hell on unsuspecting enemies.
Assassins who hide deadly poisons in the spiked fingertips of their prosthetics. Who store terrible venoms in small vials carefully slotted in to the thing. Assassins who use the fact that their enemies will underestimate the false hand–see it as a weakness and a liability. Assassins who play that to their advantage, use it to strike when it’s least expected. Assassins with retractible blades hidden in the wrist in such a way that would make Ezio envious.
Tempest rogues who coat their arrows with concoctions embedded in their arms. Who can release compressed smoke from hidden compartments. Fast. Chaotic. Pulling one alchemical mystery after the next out of thin air, rigging their prosthetics like the Artificers do–except this one explodes with fire and ice and fury.
Warriors with heavy-wrough prosthetics to suit their more aggressive fighting style.
Champions who have shields latched on to their arm–quick release built in, in case of emergencies. Who can throw their entire body in to a shield blow, because the shield is part of them now. Champions with prosthetics of gilded silver and gold that can be raised, gleaming to catch the light and inspire defiance in the face of overwhelming odds. Champions with prosthetics that are essentially an extension of their armor, throwing their arm forward to take the blow that would have slain a friend, and continuing fearlessly where their flesh would’ve other wise been torn asunder.
Reavers with prosthetics embedded with spikes. With rivulets carved so that streams of blood flow along it with grotesque ease. Reavers with prostetics permenantly stained with the blood of each enemy felled, who can work themselves in to the beginning of a frenzy by scenting the blood that has seeped so deeply in to the limb. Reavers who charge on ever further, ever more enraged if the prosthetic is damaged–their fury only fueled by its destruction.
Templars who–like mages–have lyrium imbued in to their prosthetic, and may call upon it when it is needed. Templars who have etched their crest or passage from the Chant in to their new limb. Templars who summon the Wrath of Heaven with their glowing prosthetic, lifting it to the air as the lyrium in it burns and sizzles, and then slamming it down with the pillar of light like the fist of the Maker himself.
Kiss Prompt #17 (height difference kisses where one person has to bend down and the other is on their tippy toes) with Fenhawke for @beetle-ships-it-all <3 ILU BEETLE (and I promise more!)
[side note: these kissfics are now being added to a series on ao3 that you can find here]
There were some things Hawke often forgot about: eating, if he was particularly busy and no one reminded him; watching his own back in combat, as he got preoccupied with his chosen target and assumed someone would watch it for him; and just how much smaller than him Fenris really was. The elf was wicked strong, wielding his two-handed greatsword with deceptive ease and charging with devastating force into ranks of their enemies, stunning or bowling over most he came in contact with. When they fought, it didn’t matter how tall Fenris was (unless Varric was their archer, he supposed).
And they fought a lot, especially in those early years, scrapping to make a living. And really, Fenris’s height had never mattered, not for a long time, because as interested as Hawke was in the captivatingly beautiful, hauntingly mysterious elf, he wouldn’t push him. Couldn’t push him without the chance of spooking him and scaring him off. Hawke wouldn’t take the chance of Fenris accepting his advances simply out of a feeling of obligation, a way to repay him for helping with the slavers that night they met.
So once it did start mattering, Hawke figured it was to be expected that he would sometimes misremember Fenris’s height. There were a lot of other things he had his mind on, after all; worrying about the state of the city and the constant clashes between Meredith and Orsino, the passive way Elthina watched from her Chantry, the people in the streets looking to him to solve their problems because no one else was doing anything. Which made things all the more confusing when he turned from his front door to bid Fenris a good night after a long day fixing things and found the elf’s face on a level with his own, soulful green eyes shining at him. He blinked. Fenris was this tall? That didn’t seem quite right.
“Shh,” Fenris said. He reached out with one gentle, spike-gauntleted hand to catch Hawke’s arm, still armored itself, and tug him closer.
Their lips met, cautious and tentatively seeking, this dance one they were yet learning all the steps to. Hawke moaned, the dry warmth of Fenris’s lips his undoing as they slowly parted to allow Fenris’s tongue to dart against him, encouraging him to open. He wrapped his other arm around Fenris’s waist, careful of the tendency the armor joints had of pinching flesh and snagging garments. Fenris hummed, a low, pleased sound, and shifted his grip from Hawke’s arm to the gorget under his chin. Hawke had a moment of confusion before Fenris pulled, dropping down and forcing Hawke to dip his head if he wanted to keep kissing Fenris. Which he did, he really did.
So he ducked his head, craned his neck, snugged Fenris closer to his breastplate, and stolidly ignored the crick forming down the top of his spine. He peeked though, twisting his head to look down at Fenris’s feet. Flat on the ground. Huh. Right. Fenris was short, he reminded himself, the top of his head coming only as high as Hawke’s chin. Which, he’d found to his delight a week ago, was perfect for resting his chin on to elicit an amused grumble after a battle.
Fenris hmm’d a questioning sound at Hawke’s movement, nearly pulling away before Hawke came back to himself. He used the considerable strength coiled in his arm around Fenris’s waist to lift the elf onto the edge of one of the planters outside the door. It honestly didn’t matter to him that his mother had begun the process of digging up the old plants and putting in new ones; all that mattered was that it put Fenris, flat-footed, even with Hawke.
He broke away, kissed the corner of Fenris’s mouth, and smiled at him when the elf opened his eyes. Fenris shifted his feet in the dirt that had spilled out of the planter, creating a cleaner spot to stand in, then smirked, threaded his gauntlet through Hawke’s hair, and slotted their lips together again.
it’s so much harder to hate a character when you ask yourself “but what would the warden commander think?”
because u can bet ur precious ass that the warden commander would shower them with gifts for no other reason than you mentioned this thing once so i got it for you nbd nbd also here are a dozen other things that made me think of you and i thought you’d like them do you like them? here have ten
the character could literally attempt to murder the warden commander, and nine times out of ten warcomm would still punch anyone who dared suggest they weren’t a valued member of the warcomm’s team straight into next week.
the warden commander would unlock their tragic backstory in a week, tops, and defend them to the grave knowing all of their flaws and foibles
okay kids here’s the deal. the official maps we’re given are tragically lacking in detail & ridiculously underpopulated. so to continue my legacy as Map Nerd Extraordinaire, here’s my non-canon & much busier map of ferelden. feel free to take as much or little of this as you like, just gimme a credit if you do!