Stonebreaker Sideblog

Hello darlings!

Just in case anyone happens to be interested, I have created a sideblog for my original fantasy work, Stonebreaker. You can find it, as well as links to its tag and character page, HERE.

While I’ll still answer some Stonebreaker-related prompts on this blog, majority of my original writing or unprompted pieces will be on the new one. This is mainly because it is indexed much better and gives me a space where I feel more comfortable playing around with my characters and story without fear of annoying people who didn’t sign up for it (which is totally fair - no judgement here). 

Anyway, if you’d like, please feel free to join me over in the Stonebreaker sideblog! Also feel free to leave a reply if you have an original fiction project/sideblog as well ;)

Happy Varlentines Day <3

So I was just stuffing around in the CC last night and made a m!Dwarf (because I seem to rarely dabble in the stout folk - a true crime indeed). So… here he is! 

If you happen to like him, you can find his sliders HERE. No mods were used, so he’s also console friendly ;)

A Matter Of Time

Thank you @bladeverbena​ for the prompt (and sorry it took so long to deliver)!

In which there’s trouble at the Miller Farm, Cyrus puts himself in danger, and Darren finally figures out how to explain why he is not okay with that. (Approx 6000 words, set five years post-Inquisition. First kiss fic).

Cyrus had overstayed his welcome. He knew it. They knew it. Everyone knew it. Even though he kept trying to ignore it, he couldn’t shake that stomach-sinking sensation that today, surely, would be the day. The day the Millers paused when they saw him and shared one of those long, heavy looks. The day they apologised profusely and wrung their hands; an attempt to ease the final blow.

This was it. It had to be.

Today would be the day they finally asked him to leave.

It had been two months since he’d found himself at the freshly painted gate of the Miller farm, hovering uncertainly before the wooden partition. There had been no one in sight, but Cyrus had been bone-weary and exhausted, his boots falling apart on his feet, his coin pouch empty, his stomach twisted into painful knot of hunger and apprehension. In the end, he’d taken a risk, opting to beg forgiveness if he couldn’t ask permission. He hadn’t known what else to do. Even months later, part of him still remembered the way his heart had pounded as he approached the quaint, picturesque farmstead. It had been loud. Violent. Terrifying.

Now, as he descended the stairs from the second floor, he felt that same rhythm like a kick to the chest.

It told him to expect the inevitable. Told him that he was a burden. A strain. Cyrus knew nothing about farming; he was certain that whenever he tried to help he just slowed things down. He was another mouth to feed in a town that had suffered average to poor harvests two years in a row. Another body to clothe, clad in Darren’s old shirt and trousers. They hung loose and comfortable off his leaner frame. He had lost weight since parting ways with Ralon and Lyrene in the Free Marches.

In the end, one thing was acutely obvious. Cyrus had nothing to offer besides himself.

Maker, what a piss-poor deal.

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One Last Chance

Part 1 - The Letter  |  Part 2 - Cope

Part 3 - The Arrival (AO3 Link)

Blond hair, long enough to tumble past strong shoulders, long enough for Hanin to thread through his fingers as Athran lay against his chest. The hunter’s breathing was slow and calm, his eyes closed, his face tucked into the hollow beneath Hanin’s chin. There was something to be said about slow nights. They were the kind that lingered like an uncertain touch, reaching out yet unsure of how long to stay. How long to hold on. Instinctively, Hanin shifted, tightening the arm he had draped around Athran’s waist, drawing the man closer. Athran murmured something in his sleep, but did not wake, choosing instead to nestle against Hanin and welcome the shared warmth.

Slow nights were difficult to come by. Perhaps that was why Hanin had grown to love them so much.

The sound of a horn startled Hanin from his reverie, his horse skipping a step forward as he accidentally jerked the reins. Glancing about, adrenaline spiking at potential trouble, Hanin waited for an additional signal. One that would tell him what to do.

“No need for alarm.” A deep, almost melodic voice sounded to Hanin’s right, drawing his attention across to Tahl. The Avvar was dressed in his usual furs and leathers, although a somewhat lighter version than was typical, given the warmer climate. “The forward scout has spotted your city. Perivantium.”

Sure enough, as Tahl finished his sentence, two short blasts from the horn set the procession of soldiers and representatives at ease, postures immediately relaxing in saddles, hands drifting away from the hilts of blades. Their destination had been sighted. If all went well, they would arrive by nightfall at where the meeting was to be held.

The estate of altus Talveron Idaris.

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One Last Chance

Part 1 - The Letter

Part 2 - Cope (AO3 Link)

The week moved so slowly Hanin thought he might go mad. His routine, which had once brought him the comfort of familiarity, suddenly became an arduous chore, each step taking too long to complete, each piece not quite fitting into its proper place. Morning training with the squad passed in a blur, the rest of the day little more than a series of back-and-forth pacing, the letter in his pocket a weight he could not ignore. Meetings occurred, majority of which he was invited to attend. Majority of which he had no memory of once they adjourned. Frustration followed, knowing they were important. Frustration remained, knowing that didn’t seem to matter.

It was the day before their scheduled departure that Hanin was summoned to Riven’s personal quarters.

He had just finished up the morning spars, giving the squad the rest of the day off to pack and ready themselves for the journey north. The usual messenger arrived, breathless and red-cheeked, although far more used to Hanin’s gruff acknowledgement than he had been on their first meeting. As a result, the exchange was mercifully brief, and soon Hanin found himself at Riven’s door.

“You asked for me.”

The Inquisitor, who had been sitting at her desk pouring over a stack of papers, started slightly, apparently so absorbed in what she had been doing she had not seen Hanin’s shape darken her doorway. “Oh, yes. Come in, lethallin.”

She rose as he entered, crossing in front of her desk, their paths meeting at the centre of the large rug that adorned the floor. They stood there for a moment, Hanin looking down at Riven, Riven’s eyes raised to meet his. There was a tension there, but neither seemed to know what to do with it. 

It was a tension of questions left unasked.

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One Last Chance

I had some lovely people asking about Athran’s situation and the possibility of Hanin embarking on a rescue mission of his former lover. So, without further ado… here it is (or, at least, the first part of it).

Inquisitor Riven Lavellan and Tahl Hildessen, of course, belong to @chaitea09​ (who I would also like to thank for beta-reading this for me)!

Part 1 - The Letter (AO3 link)

Most mornings for Hanin were spent in a kind of simple routine. First, he woke, stretching out stiff muscles against linen sheets, arching until he felt his spine reach its natural limit. Rising, he would wash his face, a bowl of water ready and awaiting his attention, letting the water run slightly down his neck and chest before wiping it away with a cloth. That done, he would dress simple and clean, his shirt and trousers laid out from the previous night, ready to be slipped into at a moment’s notice. His boots were much the same, unlaced and waiting, the worn leather begging for replacement. Another thing to tend to that day.

But it was Hanin’s hair that always took the most time.

It was the only thing he could not prepare in advance. Before sleeping, he would release it from its braided knot, finding it far simpler to start afresh than attempt to resurrect a night’s worth of wear. That meant in the morning, dressed and awake, he spent at least ten minutes sitting cross-legged on his bed, his hands working away, his eyes attempting to catch his reflection in the glass of the window by his bed. Some days were easier than others. Luckily, even on the days where the sun made seeing himself nearly impossible, muscle-memory served its function.

It was during one such process, just a few moments from finishing, that Hanin received a sharp series of knocks on his door. Surprised at the frantic pace - he was unused to even being disturbed before noon now that Corypheus had been defeated - Hanin stood, fingers still working at his hair. By the time he reached the door and opened it, he had secured it in place with a final twist of his tie.

Before him stood one of Leliana’s scouts. Hanin’s expression immediately shifted into a frown and the man tensed, standing a little straighter, moving into a shaky salute.

“S-Sir Lavellan, uh, sir!”

Creators preserve him.

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Mistakes

So I was thinking about what caused Athran and Hanin to part ways (and Athran to journey away from the clan for a bit), and I guess here it is.

In short, Hanin is a poor communicator, Varsarel is a terrible person, and Athran has just… had enough. (Approx 2000 words).

“Damn — I’d hate to see the other guy.”

Hanin winced as Athran dabbed a damp cloth against his brow, the blond cringing in sympathy with the motion. “It’s fine,” Hanin said through gritted teeth. “Just a few scratches.”

Athran rolled his eyes. “Yeah, and I’m Fen’harel.” The gaze Athran levelled at Hanin was flat and outright unimpressed. “But seriously, what happened? Obviously nothing you want anyone to know about, seeing you came here instead of to the healers.”

There was an unmistakable note of hurt in that statement. Athran seemed to want more and more from Hanin, lately, and for good reason. He deserved more. Deserved better.

It had been over two years, and Hanin still just… wasn’t ready.

“I… argued with someone.”

“Who?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It was Varsarel, wasn’t it?”

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Surprise Me

I’m surprised you even remember Athran, nonny! Well, ask and ye shall receive! (Approx 2200 words). Hanin x Athran (c. age 19)

“Your hair keeps getting in my face.” Athran shifted slightly, nestling in closer, the sound of their small fire crackling a warm and singular comfort. He reached up, fingertips ghosting along the side of Hanin’s face, tracing the angle of his jaw, the line of his cheek, before finally tucking a thick lock of dark brown hair behind his ear. “It’s gotten longer, lethallin. Finally letting it grow, huh?”

Eyes closed, Hanin hummed, contently surrounded by heat as they lay on the spread-out cloak. “Not intentionally,” he admitted. The corner of his mouth flicked up as Athran’s fingers continued their absent passage through his hair, his arm draped protectively around the hunter’s frame. “I just forget to cut it off.”

Athran let out a huff of laughter, his breath a pleasant warmth against the side of Hanin’s neck. “What, you mean my compliments had nothing to do with it at all? I’m hurt.”

Cracking open an eye, Hanin turned his head slightly, gazing down at the hunter, careful not to move enough to disturb those gentle fingers carding through his hair. Athran’s eyes were also closed, so Hanin watched him for a moment in fire-lit silence, marvelling at the smoothness of his face; the steadiness with which he breathed. It was not always that way. Most days, Athran seemed a man on a stage, rising to every occasion, inserting himself in affairs Hanin would avoid with a similar degree of enthusiasm. He’d overheard one of the hahren say Athran’s smile could ‘shame the moon’, whatever that was supposed to mean. All Hanin knew was that he was bold and bright, capable of great things when he wanted to be. Before, a part of him had envied Athran. Resented the ease with which he moved through the world.

Now, he realised that none of it came without effort.

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Surprise Guests

@carverly this was just the sweetest prompt and I couldn’t resist! It got quite long though, so be forewarned! (Approx 3500 words, most under the cut)

When a bad bout of the flu swept through Skyhold, no one expected it to hit Cyrus so hard or so suddenly. What had begun with a simple case of the sniffles and drowsiness progressed rapidly throughout the day’s training.

Maybe it was just bad luck, in the end. Admittedly, that wouldn’t surprise Cyrus, given his track record. He had been feeling light headed when Hanin brought them out to the field for riding practice, but of course, he had said nothing. In the end, he’d probably spent a total of five minutes in the saddle before his vision began to blur, the pressure in his head mounting, the world darkening at the edges. It had been pure instinct that had driven him to tug on the reins, slowing his mount. At least, when he blacked out and tipped from the saddle, he had not been moving quickly.

Unfortunately, that did little to soften the fall.

The journey from the field to the infirmary had passed in something of a blur. Part of Cyrus was grateful for that, given what he had overheard from the healers when they thought he was asleep. Apparently, Hanin had carried his half-delirious ass across Skyhold. In that instance, being barely conscious had actually been a blessing. Otherwise, Cyrus might have outright died from the humiliation of it all.

Well, at least he had some time alone to lick his wounds. Nurse his pride. Do… whatever it was people did when stuck on bedrest.

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Skyrim AU - Varlen, Dorian, Hanin

This is a wild, unedited mess, but I think that is going to be the name of the game with these prompts. Here you go! (approx 2800 words).

No one could really say for sure what happened. One moment, there was a rift in front of them – or at least, they had assumed it was a rift. The next thing they knew, the ground crumbled to ash beneath their feet, sending Varlen, Hanin, and Dorian tumbling into the glowing abyss. Hanin remembered thinking they would end up in the Fade, or at least, somewhere similar. He remembered feeling grateful, possibly for the first time, that Dorian was with them, tumbling through the blazingly bright void.

What he had not expected was to land in a heap of freezing snow.

It was powdery, but that did little to cushion the impact of their fall. Their arrival was announced by a resonate crack. Like a bolt of lightning striking a tree, the sky split and the three of them tumbled from the blinding fissure into the waiting field of white. Immediately, freezing wind slammed into Hanin, cutting through the too-thin layers of his gear. Coughing, groaning, he struggled to his knees, wrapping his arms around himself in a vain attempt to stave off the cold, heart hammering, his eyes narrowed as the wind stung his skin.

“Varlen?” he called, climbing to his feet for a moment before staggering and falling back to one knee. “Dorian?”

There was no reply for what felt like an eternity. An eternity Hanin spent desperately scanning the snow, barely able to see past the veil of white carried by the wind and the blur of his vision.

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On Three

In which a chance encounter with some demons leaves Cyrus in a bad way, and Darren to pick up the pieces (approx 1300 words) <3

“Darren, you have to go.”

“No. I won’t.”

“Damn it, listen to me— ”

— “I won’t let them hurt you!”

The force of Darren’s response was enough to sever the rest of Cyrus’ protests. As he lay against a tree, his leg a bloody mess, every sound of the forest seemed a promise of death in the dark. Glancing down, Cyrus paled at the sight of the injury, his leg torn in three long, deep gashes. Even in the dark, he swore he saw the white of bone among the red. Shuddering, head spinning, he forced himself to look away. “Bit late for that,” he whispered, throat bobbing with a dry swallow. “Shit… I really fucked up.”

Whether it was the words or the waver in his voice, Cyrus wasn’t sure, but Darren glanced back at him, his face a mask of worry. “They came out of nowhere. It’s not your fault.” His blue eyes flicked back out to sweep the trees, grip tightening on the hilt of his sword. “I thought demons were only meant to be near rifts?”

“Yeah. So much for that.”

As an experiment, Cyrus tried to shift. Pain exploded in his leg, shooting through him until his vision went white for a mindless, terrifying moment. He must have made some kind of sound because Darren was beside him by the time his sight returned, frantic hands bracing him, cupping his cheek, blue eyes searching his face. “Cyrus? Are you alright? Oh Maker, say something…”

“Ugh, stop it. I’m fine.” Cyrus pushed Darren’s hands away, sucking in air through gritted teeth. As much as he hated to admit it, an unspoken truth lingered between them. Lingered to the point of festering. “Darren, you can’t stay here. I’m serious - go. Those demons… they won’t be far.”

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The Things You Miss

The thing about battles is that sometimes, you just don’t see things. Whether you are a soldier in your first year of training, or a veteran who has lived through countless wars, sometimes, you just don’t see things. When there are bodies all around you, pushing forward, blades swinging, armor red from blood and heraldry blurring past, your vision locks on the most immediate threat and the rest fades to a violent, heady pulse. You place a single finger on that pulse - a thread of your attention - and hope that it can keep you alive.

But sometimes, it just can’t.

Hanin locked blades with a one of Corypheus’ corrupted, grunting at the impact, straining against his opponent’s impossible strength. Lyrium punched through the creature’s skin, its features barely discernible from those of a demon, the socket of its left eye home to a sharp, bloody crystal growing straight down, tearing its cheek. Disengaging, Hanin spun to the side, using his speed to his advantage, the creature’s limbs no longer capable of swift movement as bone and red lyrium warred for space beneath its skin. He knew how to handle such enemies. He’d done it countless times before. Hanin was a veteran; the one people looked to for leadership in the mayhem of battle.

But this time, he just didn’t see it.

The corrupted Templar twisted awkwardly, its single eye swiveling to get a bead on Hanin’s location, and by doing so exposed its left side. Seizing the opportunity, Hanin raised his blade and lunged, the strike cracking through crystal and bone, Atisha’s golden point punching out its other side. It attempted to scream, jaw sliding open to reveal red growths crusting the back of its throat, severing its vocal cords. The sight, so close, so visceral, perturbed Hanin for a moment. He pulled back on instinct, an expression of disgust and pity flickering across his face. It was a moment too long.

“HANIN!”

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