I Had Time To Finish Jaws Of Hakkon Over The Weekend

Can I say something that blows my mind about Varric and Solas’ relationship? Imo Varric was THIS close to actually convincing Solas. we all talk about romanced Lavellan almost getting him to admit everything and possibly give up his plans, but we neeeeddddd to give Varric props like this man was really about to convince a whole ass god (literally named Pride) that he is wrong, that going through with some self destructive attempt at rectifying ur mistakes by destroying the world is Not the proper way to process ur grief, and Varric doesn’t even know he’s doing it. Varric really is the party bard fr the charisma score on this man………..

yes I’m talking about the man on the island banter. Every time I hear it I tear my hair out because VARRIC you almost HAD HIM he was CRUMBLING I just KNOW IT

Have heard claims that they originally intended Inquisition to start with you at the Conclave and walking around and talking to the attendees before everything blew up but decided against it because “Oh it’s too slow-paced to start, we need something more dramatic and engaging” but the thing is like. That really could have done a lot to establish the Inquisitor as an actual character with a life-history and relationships as well as averting the whole “No one fucking went to the Conclave” thing

One day my DA4 will come 😭

Lipsync practice with that electric dreams scene

Odysseus' Homesickness (Alexander Rothaug, 1910)

shapeshifting lessons with the gf

[minor tw: blood] / repost. general tumblr issues etc guy with something really wrong with him (machiavellian insurrectionist mailman with brain damage) X guy with something really wrong with him (sadistic robot who is forced to pretend to be a cheery masochist)

Herren the Desire demon.

So one of the best minor twists in the original Dragon Age Origins, is the reveal that Herren is a desire demon, a reveal you will only ever learn if you play through the alternate timeline campaign Darkspawn chronicles where the main PC Warden dies and the darkspawn wins.

I love how this one, simple revelation completely turns over everything that the first game tells you about demons and spirits on it's head, something which would be expanded on in later games, but also how it fits in perfectly with everything else shown in the game.

While abominations creates absolute hideous monsters when formed, Desire demon abominations march to a completely different drum, as we see with Connor, where the demon leaves him perfectly physically healthy.

Desire Demons also are the only ones in game who flat out does not need an outside body at all to function, as shown with Kitty not having possessed a cat, but instead taken the form of one.

They also have far more well thought out and logical plan making than any other demons, capable of making plans that could actually work in the long run.

Which brings us back to Harren, the lover and business partner of the genius blacksmith who forges your best blade in awakening, and dragon armor in origins.

Here we see a Demon that has integrated completely into human society, has found an actual relationship with a human that satisfies his needs, and as shown with the way he acts exasperated by his lovers eccentric nature, he has clearly grown beyond the basic nature of a desire demon, into a human who at the end of the day, still retained his demonic powers(as we see in the darkspawn chronicles.

In other words, he is a demon version of Cole, introduced long, long before Cole was a thing.

I love how you can go back to the start of Dragon Age, and realize that they really had figured out the rules of this universe from day one.

Going mad over Silver being told “The crew will look after you” in the final episode of season two as the crew’s surgeon is about to cut off his leg despite Silver’s repeated pleas that he doesn’t want him to, and part of it may be due to the unbearable pain he’s in, but I don’t think that’s all of it.

Randall died one episode ago. When Billy introduced Silver to him at the beginning of season one, he said that Randall had been injured while in service of this crew and that the crew owed it to him to take care of him despite his infirmity — because of his infirmity. As a disabled man, Randall has no future outside Flint’s crew in the harsh world they live in.

Silver knows this. As we approach the end of season two, he’s slowly becoming a true member of the crew, “I” becomes “we” and “the men” becomes “my men” or “my brothers,” but he can still walk away from them if he chooses to do so. By cutting off his leg, even with the best intentions in the world, the crew is tying him to them more securely than any contract or blood pact to these men and — for the time being — to Flint’s captaincy. His very ability to walk away from them is literally being limited, which we see in the beginning of season three as he struggles with his new wooden leg.

Silver has gained the infinite loyalty of these men at the price of his leg and maybe even of his independence — he can still leave them and try his luck elsewhere, he knows how to make himself useful, but no matter how charismatic he is, the first thing people will probably always see is his wooden leg. He has become Randall. Despite being in the throes of immense pain, I think Silver realized what he was about to lose. Even if a part of him had still been entertaining the possibility that this was just a temporary situation, from this point on, he has no choice but to serve these men to the best of his ability because now they’re in a symbiotic relationship.

It’s a very grim answer to the question his entire season two arc is asking: where does he belong? What is his place in the world? In the end, he who held most of the cards in his hands at one point is not being given a choice: he’s staying here, with this crew, echoing the question Flint asked him earlier in the season — where else in the world would you wake up and matter like this? It’s the only place left in the world where he can matter now. The infinite possibilities have collapsed down to one. The man who wanted everything, who could be anyone, is now forced into a single role and can only play it genuinely.

It's been a while since I've submitted anything, but no pressure ^.^

Romances react to Fem!Inquisitor dealing w/ debilitating chronic pain. They hid it for so long because they were worried they wouldn't be an effective leader if it was known they were always in pain. (I am dealing with it myself so if you want specifics, hip and shoulder pain. Frequent migraines.)

Cassandra: She sees it right away.

Seekers of Truth have a calling to watch for magic, and that is their primary duty. But in that pursuit the martial and combat arts have always featured heavily, and in her tenure with the order Cassandra has trained more than one apprentice to the sword and shield and fighting arts. Young people are so impatient to learn and eager to show their prowess, even in the face of injury; women tolerate pain better and hide even more, already feeling the difference on the field.

All of that experience means that Skyhold's seeker sees the short swings and tighter movements, the subtle winces and how their lady inquisitor always sits just close enough to the fire on even the warmest nights. There are no injuries to cause this, and after a life of combat Cassandra is well versed with the sapping radiating ache of chronic and untreated pain.

"You are a herald, not Andraste herself. You must tell me or one of the others if you are in pain. We will support you. Come with me-- I will show you how to wrap your shoulders and we will find a new stance to help your hips. I have a tea that will help your head."

Varric: Ten years of fighting the good fight in Kirkwall can leave anyone with a few aches that just don't go away, and his keen eye for detail does not miss the signs. Blondie hasn't been around to tend those joints and muscles for a long time (not that Varric would trust him anymore regardless), and so a shopping list goes out to those merchants who specialize in a few key purchases.

Its after a late round of wicked grace, when there is no one else to save face for, that Varric briefly blocks her path and heaves a crate into his arms.

"This might be a poor story for heroes, Herald, but that doesn't mean you get to martyr yourself before the final act. Don't ask what is in the muscle balm, you don't want to know. Burns like bad whiskey but it works. Got some servants putting cushions on that throne for you, and Dennet has a good padded saddle like the jousters use. Few other things too."

He doesn't let them demur, and instead takes the crate to their quarters for them to avoid an argument. "You give enough, sunshine. Let us give back."

Solas: Chronic ailments are the most frustrating to manage, for there is no simple cure. When her pain follows her even into the Fade Solas can feel it, and when there is time he sits with the Herald and is gentle but firm.

"There is no reason to suffer-- your silence does not make the pain noble, no more than asking for help is callow. We will find a way to make this better for you, if you will only let us."

They establish a routine of slow healing spells to reduce the worst of the pain, and Solas coordinates with spirits of healing and valor to ease her sleeping mind and guard her dreams. Better rest and continual treatment are the best he can offer-- his guilt at aggravating her suffering he will carry in silence.

Sera: Hurting is stupid. Hurting when there is no injury is stupid. Stupid bodies are stupid!

Without any solid healing training there isn't much Sera can do to cure the symptoms. But the softest cushions and pillows find their way into the inquisitor's quarters, and the not insignificant portion of Skyhold's staff that coordinate through the Red Jenny keep her abreast (ha) of how their herald is doing. Sera ends up coordinating with those who can help, and heading off the most boring and unnecessary work so that their inquisitor can rest.

Blackwell: A hard life on the road adds up on any warrior, and the Herald is putting so much into a short amount of time. He knows the aching of his own joints enough to recognize it in her, but understands the need to hide any sign of weakness enough to not wish her embarrassment.

And so on the road he is less careful at measuring out the herbs to ease pain, and uses waste as an excuse to keep her cup full of the draught. He works with the others to make sure she has the best ground for her tent, and watches are coordinated so that she has ample time to rest.

When it finally does come to a head, his answer is simple and gruff-- but honest. "You alleviate enough suffering, my lady. Let me help when I can."

Vivienne: She is not fooled. Caretakers, when it comes to knowing the ins and outs of pain and the necessity of treating it, rarely are. The inquisitor is of course due her pride, and Madame de Fer can find no fault with keeping even the rumor of weakness at bay. The game is ruthless when it smells blood in the water, after all.

But that does not mean she lets the situation go unaddressed, and who but one of the most talented alchemists in Orlais to treat the Herald herself? The regiment starts off trial and error, as most treatments must, but in time the first enchanter isolates and perfects the tonics needed to lessen the worst of the aches and negate the migraines. Magic and herb work hand in hand, and few truly appreciate how much good can be done with just a shaving of root and leaf and the proper spells. She can even make them pleasant to the tongue.

"Think nothing of it, my dear. Though I do hope you will accompany me to my tailor's salon, next time we both grace Val Royeaux. There are better options for your comfort than...whatever they are having you wear now."

Dorian: Few physicians and even fewer magic users will ever gain the minute and detailed understanding of the human body quite like the necromancer. It is a study down to the cellular level, and understanding is key when knowing how much mana is required to reanimate bone and muscle. Many famous Mortalitasi were also famed healers, and for those who straddle the line between life and death it is the body that builds the bridge.

Dorian is no slouch in his own field, of course, but in truth it was the long months he spent with Felix that sharpened his novice healer's gaze. His late friend was never good at letting anyone know the extent of his suffering, and so the scion of House Pavus became a seer of suffering. The smallest shift or wince, or even the dillation of the pupil were enough to prompt rest or food or a restoration potion.

The Blight made all of his stud complex and hard to chart-- at the risk of down playing their leader's condition, chronic pain is childs play in comparison. She has only to lean back in her saddle at a certain angle (indicative of pain in the hips) before Dorian is bemoaning the Southern terrain and demanding a rest. The stoop of her shoulders after a long march will cut even the most important missions short, and Dorian is both vain and selfish enough on occasion to make all the delays entirely his fault.

The Inquisitor has chosen intelligent persons for her cirlce, thankfully, and after awhile the others catch onto his game. They still let his play the shirking violet, mostly for their Herald's sake, but as a rule the entire squad defers to the Tevinter's judgement on their inquisitor's condition. And that self same anatomical knowledge means that on the worst days Dorian calls heat into his hands and works the muscles and joints in theraputic massage until at least the edge of the pain is gone.

(The lack of rumors following the sounds of those massages might annoy the inquisition's resident necromancer, but the simple fact is everyone has heard him and the iron bull by that point and no one is fooled.

Shame.)

The Iron Bull: Having only one eye does not lessen his attention to detail, and like Dorian the Ben- Hassrath agent learns to read their leader's tells quickly. Stitches will be glad to have someone who actually wears the poultices for once, and when they are in the kind of terrain where horses cannot go (and he sees the pain wearing lines in far too young a face), he is the easiest solution.

"Now boss, come on! Think of the mayhem you can unleash from ten feet in the air! You'll be at rift height, really get them sputtering. Say, think if you get at the right angle you can get a rock into the Fade?"

Cole: "Like glass in the joints, can't get comfortable, no good angle. How can I lead if I can't even make my body listen? Too much pain, on and off but always on, no one will listen to a weak Inquisitor. But you aren't weak! You keep going even when it hurts, so that others don't hurt more. It helps! You help. And I can help you too.

Sleep."

Josephine: Once she is made aware of it, there is no stopping the Inquisition's ambassador. Doctors and healers and any number of resources are brought in. Work is reassigned and assistants are hired, soldiers are assigned so that there is enough gear for comfortable accommodations on the road. It takes hardly any time at all to arrange, but Josephine does make sure the pull their herald aside first. Her tone is as compassionate and unyielding as when her brothers were sick but still wanted to be outdoors and active.

"Your are important to Thedas, yes. Maybe even vital. But your health is even more so. You must let us be there for you, Your Worship, as you have been there for us. It is easy enough to manage, and no one shall begrudge you. Now, would you prefer down or wool for your cot padding?"

Cullen: He understands. Maker does the Commander understand. Withdraw leaves him with pain in every muscle and headaches that can last for days. Much of what he suffers is the consequences of his own choices and actions though, and Cullen cannot imagine how much worse it must be to have no understanding of why-- and no idea how to cure it.

His support is quiet, a bulwark against her duties. The medicines and treatments that help him are shared, but sometimes simply knowing that another deeply understands your plight is enough. He hopes, for her, that is helps.

Leliana: Divine Justiania hurt, sometimes. From her understanding, it was a combination of arthritis and age, but the pain was frequent enough that intervention was sometimes necessary. Justinia believed firmly that what was eaten affected who ate it, and the personal chef of her office had made careful notations and created a diet designed to ease the worst of her suffering.

When she asks, blunt in the way she can only be with those who understood the Divine, his answer is full of common sense and compassionate suggestions. These are sent to the people who can best use it, kitchens and servants and those members of the inner circle who can help.

The Herald will never need to know who it is that realized how much fish helped instead of red meat, or who ordered the green tea of Rivian that reduces inflammation in the joints. She need never be told of the letters, full of blackmail and threats, that silence those nobles who claim the herald unfit to lead, or keep the deliveries and ingredients to help off of manifests and inventories.

Her work is in the shadows, and she does not need to show it. But it feels right, somehow, that even gone the Divine might help the Herald. And her Left Hand shall make it so.

Mod Fereldone