Giveaway Fic - A Unique Proposal

At long last, I deliver the giveaway prize for @frenchy-and-the-sea​! In which our respective original works collide, with her Captain Alex Sheffield (Seven Cities) meeting my broke disaster, Delver (Stonebreaker).

What is this, a crossover episode?

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Divider, his collar felt tight…

Swallowing, Delver ran a finger beneath the stiff fabric, drawing it away from his neck for a blissful moment of reprieve. The heat was sticky, this far east. He supposed it matched the rest of the ramshackle tavern.

The person he needed was sitting at a table to the side of the room. Her left boot rested on its edge, the sole worn thin from months striding swaying decks. She drank and was deep in conversation with a tall man in the seat across from her. As she tipped her head back and laughed, her coat shifted slightly, revealing a flash of something distinctly metallic on her hip. A warning if ever he saw one.

Wonderful.

Well, it wasn’t like any other ship was going to magically appear. Not in such a quiet port.

Delver approached with all the confidence of a man with nothing to lose. You’d think it would have been more impressive.

“You own that ship out there?”

The woman stopped mid-sentence, her gaze snapping across to him like a hawk spotting a mouse. He felt tiny, in that moment, despite towering over her. Funny, how little size actually mattered...

“Depends,” she began suddenly, the words dagger-sharp. “You always ask questions you already know the answer to?”

Shifting Tides

At long last, the final giveaway prize for @ribbonsandnightshade, featuring Logan Trevelyan and Dorian Pavus realising there might be a little more to their hard-won friendship after all...

“Dorian?”

A smile crept across Dorian’s face immediately at the sound of his name, but when he turned it was with carefully crafted coolness, his hand coming to rest on his chin as he inspected the new arrival. “Ah, Inquisitor. To what do you owe the pleasure of my company?”

The handsome man snorted, shaking his head fondly as he ambled towards Dorian’s desk. The surface was a mess of papers, as usual, stacked distractedly and with surprisingly little finesse for one with Dorian’s attention to detail. Typically that sort of thing would not bother him – such was the nature of research, after all – but Dorian found himself strangely embarrassed for once, as though the mess was some kind commentary on who he was as a person.

“Ah, pardon the mess. Long night.” Regardless, he shifted to place himself in front of the most offensive stacks, blocking them from Logan’s view, distracting him with spread hands and a smile. “Now, as much as I enjoy your manly grunting, that was far from a coherent answer.”

Logan cocked an eyebrow, pausing a few feet from Dorian and planting his hands on his hips. He regarded the small space with mild interest, eyes flitting over the papers, the array of empty ink pots, the piles of books. “I was just… checking in. Making sure you were still alive in here. You’ve been cooped up for days, you know. People were starting to worry.”

Dorian blinked. “Have I? Maker, time flies when buried in books.” He said it in the lightest possible tone, but Dorian couldn’t quite fend off a pang of surprise at the news. Days? Surely not… “Come to spirit me away, then? Bundle my up in those big strong arms like a swooning maiden in need of rescue from a literary dragon?”

The warrior rolled his eyes, mouth still curved into a smile. “Sure, yeah. Is that before or after you turn me into ash for trying?”

Take A Shot

Giveaway prize for @carverly, featuring Samris Lavellan and the Dawn Squad sampling an array of weird and wonderful shots at the Herald’s Rest. Never put Cyrus in charge of monitoring people’s drinking...

Content warning: alcohol consumption.

“All right, come on, sit down and listen up.” Cyrus’ voice rang as he slapped both hands down on the table with a percussive thud. The surface juddered for a moment, and the jarringly sweet note of clinking glass drew his audience’s attention. Slowly, the members of the Dawn Squad turned their gazes towards him, the slowest and least eager being that of their leader, Hanin. Cyrus still wasn’t sure how Ralon had managed to convince him to join them, but there he was, about as enthused as a bear stirred from hibernation. “Sure, we learn all this shit about swinging swords and hiding behind shields, but it’s about time you lot experienced the most important thing about being a soldier.”

Hanin arched an eyebrow at that, arms folded tight across his chest. “Enlighten us, then.”

With a wicked grin, Cyrus raised one of the many bottles lined up by the wall at the table’s edge, swirling its contents pointedly. “Drinking.”

The reaction was predictably mixed. Lyrene snorted dismissively, as though someone had just challenged her to hold her breath for three whole seconds. Ralon’s smile was wide and bright as ever, and he slapped a far more nervous looking Darren on the back. The boy appeared about as comfortable as a halla that had wandered into a wolf’s den.

“Be careful,” Connors warned, her expression as flat as her tone. She nodded curtly in the direction of the bottles. “That one can strip the stomach. Potentially.”

Cyrus just smirked. “It’s fine. You burn it off first anyway.” Cocking an eyebrow, he met the Darren’s suddenly petrified gaze and added, “Potentially.”

As Cyrus was setting up for the first round, the tavern door thudded open and a figure emerged in a rush of powdered snow. Shivering, he removed gloves and a thick scarf, then ran a hand briskly through his hair, revealing a shock of blonde beneath the layer of frozen white. To Cyrus’ surprise, Darren perked up, waving and leaning so far back that Ralon had to snag the front of the boy’s shirt to stop him from toppling off the bench. “Oh -- Samris!”

Stay

Giveaway prize for @krem-alicious-aclassi, who requested a heartbreaking Pavellan scene from their Faravel Lavellan’s canon. Angst ahoy!

Content Warning: Major character injury. Major character death. 

They say that when you die, your life flashes before your eyes. That you relive every moment; every trial, every pleasure, every regret.  Dorian has always found the concept rather foolish, all things given. After all, when one died, the gruesome process of death itself was likely to be at the forefront of one’s thoughts.

Yet, perhaps the phrase’s meaning had simply been confused, the way words tend to be when retold over the course of generations. As Dorian spun at the sound of his name being hoarsely screamed, there was no denying it. He could only watch as Faravel’s limping run halted with a sickening jerk, the elven man’s legs crumpling beneath him as he hit the ground with a ragged gasp.

It was in that moment that Dorian’s life flashed in a spray of red.

“No!” The word tore from his throat as his feet tore from the ground, hurtling him forward, staff clutched tight. Dorian’s magic flared on instinct, the few remaining airborne arrows striking a sudden barrier of iridescent purple and glancing off, scattered amid the trees of the Emerald Graves. Their massive forms stood watch like silent wardens as Dorian skidded on his knees to Faravel’s side, eyes wide, pupils narrow as pinpoints. Three arrows jutted from the elf’s back to greet him.

“Oh Maker.” His hands hovered inches from the wounds, shaking, uncertain as blood began to well up and spill around the wooden shafts. This was not… he couldn’t… how was he supposed to…? “Faravel? Amatus? Don’t move, yes? J-Just stay still. Breathe.”

Check Mate

Giveaway prize for @scorched-lungs, who requested a Cullrian story in which Cullen is questioning his orientation, and he and Dorian have a heart-to-heart.

There had been a time when Cullen wouldn’t have wanted to be in the same room as Dorian Pavus, yet alone sitting directly across from the man. It had taken time, he supposed, to shake off that niggling sense of doubt every time those fingers flexed over the chessboard. Every time that glimmer in his grey eyes spoke of humour rather than trouble. Cullen had told himself he would be different. That he would be a better man than his past self. But old prejudices were damn difficult things to unseat. Each step was like moving through mud, but he intended to keep taking them. He had to.

After all, he wouldn’t be surprised if Dorian felt much the same way about him. The fear. The doubt. Certainly a valid thing, too, for a mage in the company of a Templar. Former or otherwise.

They were an odd pair to anyone passing by. Most knew of the backgrounds – the way they clashed almost intrinsically. The former Templar-turned-Commander. The former Altus-turned-pariah. Perhaps that was what drew them both to each other, in the end. The constant sensation that they were imposters pretending to fit in where they do not belong. It was harder for Dorian, Cullen had to admit. With everything happening with Corypheus, it was a bad time to be even reminiscent of Tevinter, yet alone boldly proclaiming it. But he had to admire the man’s courage to stand up, spread his arms, and say this is who I am. He could barely begin to imagine how difficult a journey that must have been.

“I… take it your father has left Ferelden now?” Cullen said suddenly. The abruptness of the question was evident in the sharp raising of Dorian’s brows. “Sorry,” he added hurriedly. “I was just… thinking about your meeting the other week. At Redcliff.”

“Ah, so you heard about that.”

Soft Lines

Giveaway prize for @thetreeofyggdrasil​, who requested a story for @laskulls​. 

Featuring Mahalen Lavellan and Solas during a little down-time at Skyhold...

“Mahalen?”

The young elf stiffened, spinning on his heel, quickly tucking the object he had been fiddling with behind his back. “Solas,” he said, voice high with surprise. “I ah… didn’t see you there!”

Arching an eyebrow, Solas just regarded the Inquisitor for a moment. It was a look that said of course you didn’t. “You have grown fond of this rotunda,” he mused, pale eyes flicking about, trailing along the painted walls. “Few linger here, as it were. No doubt they find my apostasy... disquieting.”

Mahalen snorted at that, his dark red hair catching the torchlight, reflecting colour as though it carried a flame of its own. “Maybe they just don’t like the smell of wet paint.”

“Another possibility,” Solas conceded with a low chuckle, reaching his hands behind his back, clasping them loosely as he wandered further into the room. “Although I find the fumes dissipate rather quickly, given the nature of the space.”

A smile curved his lips as Mahalen tilted his head back, gazing up through the rings of floors that ended in rafters high, high above. So curious. It was good for one in a position such as his to still find wonder in the world. Enjoyment. For example, at the moment, Mahalen was wearing a cloak, its mantle lined with russet fur that was just a shade lighter than his hair. It was not particularly cold – certainly not inside – but Mahalen simply enjoyed wearing such things. That was well enough, Solas supposed. They suited him well.

“What is in your hands, Inquisitor?”

Mahalen froze, eyes slowly slipping back down to rest on Solas, a tinge of pink creeping across his cheeks. “Oh, I…”

“It is all right. Show me.”

A bet’s a bet...

Giveaway prize for @thedosian-cabbage! Featuring the wonderful Maedwyn Lavellan, my Varlen Lavellan, and a wager that may or may not actually exist...

“Now, I will have you know I am only here because I lost a bet.”

Varlen turned slowly, his gaze trailing up the length of the figure beside him before finding anchor on a pair of warm brown eyes. Eyes that Varlen recognised instantly and welcomed with a smile. “Mae,” he greeted, then frowned a little, cocking his head to the side as the man’s words finally took shape. “A bet? Huh. What kind of bet?”

Chuckling, Maedwyn nodded down to the bench and Varlen scooted across, still perplexed but not against having a little company. The mug of ale he had been nursing for the past hour was not particularly enticing as far as distractions went. Settling himself, Maedwyn released a gusty sigh. “The kind where the stakes are very high.” He glanced across and Varlen saw his face reflected in that dark, amused stare. “Or, as I like to call them, the only bets worth taking.”

Varlen glanced around the tavern warily. “High stakes...” he repeated softly, then leaned in. “Do you need an out? A getaway or something? Because I can have that window open in—”

Maedwyn’s laugh halted the offer. He shook his head, dark brown hair slipping over one shoulder with the motion. “No, no, nothing like that!” He flashed a reassuring smile and Varlen relaxed at the man’s easy confidence. “But I do try to make good on my wagers.”

“Sure. Makes sense. What was it?”

Mae hummed thoughtfully, fingers thrumming on the table. “Well... if I lost, I had to come over here and steal a kiss.” He cast his gaze skywards as if in silent appeal to the Creators. “Truly, some people have no imagination.” That warm gaze flicked back down to rest on Varlen. “But, well... a bet is a bet, as they say.”

WINNERS

Tier 3 (600 word fic)

@krem-alicious-aclassi

@thetreeofyggdrasil

@thedosian-cabbage

Tier 2 (1200 word fic)

@carverly

@scorched-lungs

Tier 1 (1800 word fic)

@ribbonsandnightshade (alas, I can’t tag you for some reason)

The random number generator has spoken! Thank you all for participating, and I will be sending the people mentioned above a private message shortly <3

That’s all, folks! 

Thank you everyone who participated in the giveaway! Winners of the six prizes will be announced shortly! <3