Dragon Age Fan Event Listings

I keep drawing her in nice clothes even tho I think in some respects they would make her uncomfortable sometimes lmaoooo my musings do not reflect her actual fashion choices I’m sure

lia & zev <3

I think ina is very family-oriented… being able to protect her family (and her community) is a really big thing for her…!!! she’s willing to stand up against a human lord and kill (prob her first kills tbh now that I think abt it ….) to save her cousin and she’s like what … 16…!!!! and she loves her family a lot and I think she feels bad that she had to leave them behind even though it wasn’t her choice. she’s doing her heroic stuff and getting recognition for it, and she’s experiencing things she would’ve never experienced if she still lived in the alienage (like being able to afford fancy clothes and proper food, etc.) and she feels bad that she can do all that stuff knowing that her family is still back in the alienage, living off of rats and whatever they could find. and even though she had that encounter with that spectral shianni in the temple of sacred ashes, she still hasn’t reconciled with the fact that she did leave them behind, and her life will continue without them. like I think throughout the origins plot she gets sooo homesick and she misses her family a lot..! like that was her whole life you know, and she’s still young despite everything that has happened. and I think tabris would’ve wanted children too — obvs not in her current age, but some day in the future she would’ve wanted her own kids and I think she would’ve grown to love nelaros too I mean I make her wear the wedding ring you can loot off of him until zev gives you his earring, but now she can’t have them bc she’s a grey warden, and she can’t even look out for her own family bc she’s a warden and she’s not supposed to have those ties anymore…. like it’s so bad for her! but she has to make her own peace with it … and I think she has enough sense of responsibility to take up that mantle of being a warden, and she’s willing to save these people (the very people who looks down on her bc she’s an elf) but it doesn’t mean she has to like it, or she’s happy about it, she just has to do it, u know…. but if such a choice was possible I think she would’ve wanted to go back home. but she can’t go home anymore so it is what it is … 😮‍💨

Shared tarot for my Tabris and Surana because they’re cousins and in the same world state

death • rebirth

The Hero of Ferelden

wanted to do a fun little piece of my Grey Warden, Ida Tabris, and I’m very happy with the result! I’ve really missed playing Dragon Age, and was able to get back into it a little this year!

City Elf Appreciation Week

Day 5: Alienage

As the eldest Tabris cousin, it is Novhen's familial duty to show his younger cousin Shianni the ropes around Denerim, and in his rogueish mind, this obviously includes how to scam the city's human population. 2666 words.

and a thank you to @cityelfweek for putting all this together (and giving me the motivation to finish this fic) ^.^

In Confidence

( Arianwen Tabris/Zevran Arainai | 2,392 Words | AO3 Link | CW: Fantasy racism, past parent death, emotional hurt/comfort)

“Where are you taking me?” Zevran asked, keeping pace with his Warden as they scaled the side of a building in the alienage. It was not a difficult task, though the state of the scaffolding they were climbing did give him pause. 

“You’ll see,” she told him, grunting slightly when she caught the board over her head and pulled herself up. 

Only fifteen feet separated them from the top—or so he hoped. Meeting her family had been trial enough on its own. He had not anticipated this sort of exertion afterward or he would have eaten far less at her father’s table. 

“Almost there,” she added, and there was the faintest note of an apology tucked beneath her usual impassive tone. If he had not known her so well, Zevran might not have heard it at all. 

“I am in no particular hurry,” he told her, and she stopped climbing to cast him a skeptical look. 

“Well,” Zevran amended, glancing below. “I must admit this is not how I thought we would be spending our evening.” 

Below, the vhenadahl swayed in the evening air off the Drakon River. People stood in clusters, their voices ringing off the stone, and food peddlers had staked out rival ends of the courtyard. It surprised him even now to see the condition of the alienage; he supposed that it explained something of his Arianwen that she had grown up in such a place. And yet—these people had built something here, among the ruins. He could see the bright hair of Tabris’s cousin bob through the crowd, pausing near one cluster of people and speaking for a time. They opened to her reluctantly, but even from this distance Zevran could see some of them begin to nod. Perhaps they would yet rebuild their community, even after what the slavers had done to them. 

“Are you coming?” Arianwen called down, and he realized that she’d made her way to the top while he’d looked below. Zevran climbed instead of answering, and reached for her hand at the top when she offered it. 

“We used to play here,” she told him, bracing to pull him over the edge and onto a wooden platform. “Shianni and I. Before and after it burned. It was our secret place, just the two of us. Poor Soris was never one for heights. He’d wait until he heard us climb down and then we’d all wander together. When his parents still lived, he’d grown up in the building next door. I used to hear his mother singing while she made dinner, back when I used to wander the streets looking for strays.”

“Ah—I see,” Zevran said, glancing around. 

The two of them stood in the burned shell of a house three stories from the ground. He had thought that they’d reached a platform at the top of the scaffolding, but he saw now that he’d been wrong. They stood on all that was left of a wooden floor, the edges blackened and crumbled away. Arianwen stood to the empty doorway, patting the wall beside it fondly. There was little else to see here—only the remnants of a bed, piles of fabric in the corners of the room that might once have been blankets or clothing, holes in the floor where the structure below had given way. He did not struggle to imagine two young girls finding this place out of curiosity, for he had done much the same when he’d been a boy. 

“Ready?” she asked while he was still considering this. She vanished through the darkness of the doorway before he could answer, so Zevran had little choice but to follow her into the hallway beyond. 

“How did this place burn?” Zevran asked, ducking a fallen beam and testing the floor before he went on down the hall. 

“Humans,” Wen said, and her face was shadowed when she glanced back at him. “It burned the night Soris’s parents died.”

There was a heavy silence then. She stopped long enough for him to catch up and caught his hand in hers. This was still new—Arianwen reaching for him, for comfort. Zevran did not know quite what to make of it yet. 

“She tried to escape the building after they set it aflame. One of them kicked her back inside. The man who—oh, nevermind. You don’t need the details,” she took a sharp breath, her hand squeezing Zevran’s, and went on down the dark hall. “A few days later, my ma was gone all night long. They found his body washed up on the river, cut to ribbons and bloodless. I didn’t realize until far later what that meant.”

“She was a fighter, your mother?” Zevran asked, for it seemed the safer topic of conversation. Tabris dropped his hand to climb under more debris. 

“She taught me everything I know,” she sighed, “I tried to forget it after she died. My body remembered for me. I’m grateful to it. But—here. Look.” 

They’d found the end of the hallway at last. Arianwen pushed the door open and revealed—

A closet. 

Zevran looked at her, brows arched high in question. To his surprise, she laughed. That was new, too—hearing her laugh when they weren’t in the heat of battle. It was a tired laugh, but that mattered very little in the run of things. 

“Watch,” she said, and turned the coat hook on the back wall. The wall fell away at the pressure of her hand, swinging open into the room beyond. 

“However did you find this?” Zevran asked, stepping into the room behind her. This room was lit by the lone window on the far wall, through which moonlight poured. In the cool light, he could see her clearly enough to read her face. Wistful—yes. She seemed wistful. 

“You know—I don’t remember,” she said after a moment. “I don’t know which one of us opened the door, or even when it happened. I only remember it being our place, Shianni’s and mine. Here.”

She lit a candle and held it up to the wall. Messy colors snaked up the crumbling plaster, handprints followed by rough drawings and holes in a familiar shape. 

“Throwing knives?” he asked, making his way to her side. Arianwen nodded silently, her lips parting and pressing tightly together again. 

Zevran knew that look. She was fighting some battle with herself, weighing what she ought to say to him. They would both be better served if he gave her space. 

“May I…?” he asked, gesturing to the room at large. Tabris nodded again, stepping closer to the marks on the wall, and Zevran slipped away. 

The corners held stacks of books here and there, all adventures set in distant lands or histories of Ferelden. He found only two that he supposed must have belonged to his Warden: a book about animal physiology and one about the care and keeping of various household pets. Zevran smiled at the sight of them, leaving a streak in the dust covering each volume, and moved on. 

Most of the wooden walls bore the marks of her blades. Many of the marks had been thrown wide from their fingerpainted targets. He could follow the progress of her skill by those holes, could trace the time spent in this room by the neatness of the circles they fell within. 

When he had met the Wardens on the road all those months ago, he had met a blade of a woman. She was hard and quick and sharp, flashing through the crowd of Crows like light through a fast-running river. There had been nothing of fear or weakness in her. She had seemed—impervious, somehow. As if nothing in the world could touch her, as if she had sprung into existence precisely as he saw her in that moment. 

Zevran knew better now, of course. He had seen her at her most vulnerable in the mornings when she slept, had watched her uncertainty upon seeing her father again. Two days ago, she had wept over Zevran’s body when she’d thought him dead by Taliesen’s hand. Today, standing in the dusty remnants of her childhood, he knew her better than he might have thought possible even a month ago.

Even so—it was surprising and endearing, somehow, to know that she had not leapt from her mother with blades in hand. Once, many years ago, she had learned her craft just as he had. Maker’s teeth, but sometimes Zevran wished they had known each other then, before the softness had been carved from them both. Who had she been? Who might he have been, in that other life that neither of them would ever live? 

“Here—this is what I actually meant to show you,” Arianwen said. 

Zevran blinked and found her beside him, though he had not heard her approach. She slipped her hand into his, lacing their fingers together, and pulled him with her to another door. When she opened it to the night beyond, cool air brushed over his cheeks. They had only been in the room for ten or fifteen minutes, hardly long enough to notice how still the air was. Even so, it was a relief to step into a fresher breeze.

“You can sit,” she told him, but leaned forward against a flimsy railing. 

They’d stepped out onto a narrow balcony of sorts. A broken pulley hung from the wall to their left and an alleyway stretched into the darkness of the alienage beneath them. It was wide enough for two chairs and little else, though the gleam of glass bottles beneath them suggested what this space had been used for most recently. 

“This was—” she sighed, and one fist thudded lightly against the wood of the railing. “I was last here on the night before my…before the wedding.”

Arianwen leaned forward until her shoulders hunched.  Her hands were joined into one fist, knuckles pale against the brown of her skin. Zevran breathed sweet night air and watched her. It was still difficult—to wait, to allow her to unspool whatever she’d been fighting. It would be easier to make some joke. Already, one stood waiting on his tongue. But—no. 

No, he found he rather wanted to know what she’d brought him here to say.

“Shianni was too drunk to climb down. I was too scared to try on my own. We dozed off here and dragged ourselves back home at dawn. I remember thinking that it would be the last time I ever came up here. I knew…I knew I would never want to share this place with a stranger. How could I?” 

Zevran nudged one of the chairs aside, wincing when he heard the bottles beneath tipping against each other. He found a spot beside her at the rail and rested his arms against it. Arianwen did not look at him.

“The night my mother died, I was here. I came home late because I’d argued with my father and I knew he would worry if I was out for too long. I was…punishing him. By the time I came back, she was already gone.”

A breeze brushed small, loose hairs over her forehead. Tabris reached up and pushed them back, frowning slightly. Zevran edged closer and leaned his shoulder against hers. After a moment, she bent to lean her head against his shoulder. 

“I don’t blame myself. It wasn’t my fault. This isn’t about that. This is—ugh.”

Zevran wrapped an arm around her waist, thinking hard, but there was little he could say. He had come to trust her slowly, had given himself over one careful piece at a time before he’d realized that he was doing so. It did not often pain him to tell her the hard things now. For her part, Arianwen had opened her arms to him readily enough once she’d begun to care, but it had taken longer to offer pieces of her heart to him in turn. Even now, he could feel her cutting them free for his perusal. 

“There is nothing that you must tell me. Yes?” he said, resting his shoulder against hers. “It can wait. A different night, some other place.” 

“No,” she said sharply. “I want to say—I’m glad you’re here. You should be here. I love this place and I hate this place and I miss it all the time. It was my secret, but now it’s yours, too. And that’s all.” 

Her eyes flicked up and away again, focusing on the dark alley below. 

“I’m glad you’re here, Zev,” she repeated quietly. “That’s all.” 

What could he say to this? Wen could be harsh and difficult and wore the intensity of her feelings like armor. Even so—she had brought him to this, the most vulnerable of places, the tenderest of wounds. She had brought him here and no other. 

Zevran swallowed around the thickness in his throat and nudged her hip with his. She looked up at him, the moonlight snared in her eyes, and what could he say? 

“Do you suppose any of these bottles still have wine in them? Some wine, a fine whiskey, perhaps?” 

Arianwen snorted, shoulders loosening slightly. 

“None that I’d chance drinking,” she said, but tugged a slim, dented flask from her pocket. “Here—I’ll share. But only because you asked.”

“You have my most sincere thanks, dearest Warden,” Zevran told her, voice smooth and dripping with charm. She snorted again, tapping his chest with the flask, and he took it. It was warm, held tight against her side all this time. He treasured the feeling of it as he unscrewed the cap. 

When they walked back to Eamon’s estate later, all but alone on the street, he sought better words. It was easier when she wasn’t watching him. It was easier when they were away from the place that had hurt and raised her. 

“I am glad I am here, too, mi vida,” he told her, watching the ragged road ahead. “Thank you.” 

Her hand slipped into his, palm warm and rough. Zevran wondered if she knew that the words were meant for more than just tonight. He wondered if she understood how far back the sentiment could stretch, that he was grateful for more than a secret shared and glad for his continued existence in a broader sense than glad could encompass. 

“Thank you,” she echoed quietly, and held on tight.

(For Zevwarden Week Day 2: Secrets, Kept and Told. Thanks @zevraholics for organizing this!)

How about 'pulling them closer into their arms' for whoever you want to feel somft about??

Okay yeah, here’s some tent snuggles for Rhiannon and Zevran. 💚

I could warm your bed.

“Not like that, Zev,” she told him.

“What better way is there?” asked the son of a whore, raised by whores.

Rhiannon thought of his mother — who had never gotten to hold her son, to teach him another kind of touch. The others had tried, she was sure, but there was only so much they could have done. And then the Crows came.

So she pulled his hands away from her hips and looped his arm around her waist instead.

He was only slightly shorter and smaller than she, but she still pulled him close as if he weighed next to nothing. His body was tense, only for a moment, then relaxed as she settled his head on her shoulder and put her nose to his scalp. All his tight muscle, rope-firm under his skin, became soft and softer still as she began to play with his long, soft hair.

What was absentminded for her was revolutionary for him. He didn’t seem to know what to do — it was only when she cuffed his wrist again and pulled it around to her back that he finally let his arm drape over her waist. He seemed like he was holding his breath, but then she scratched at a spot at the nape of his neck and he let out a huff of air beneath her ear.

“There you are, love,” she murmured, so quietly she could barely even hear herself.

He pulled back, but his body wasn’t tense — she turned to look down at him, just to find him looking at her with a soft expression in those amber eyes. It was completely unlike when he wanted to kiss her, or tried to turn on the charm. He blinked slowly, hummed as she continued to rub gently at his scalp, then let his eyes droop shut.

Rhiannon lost track of time. The glow of the fire past the canvas wall of their tent dimmed, and dimmed, then was gone. Only blue light remained to cast shadows on Zevran’s relaxed face and highlight each of his long, pale lashes. She lost herself in touching him — smoothing wrinkles from his forehead with the flat of her thumb, pressing the tips of her fingers into the tight, stressed muscles of his shoulders and neck, scratching her nails down his back, over his shirt, to soothe instead of rile up. At some point he began breathing out happy little hums of pleasure at the touch.

By the time she’d nearly drifted off, Zevran had fully relaxed, with his legs entangled with hers and his hand tucked beneath the hem of her shirt to rest against the warmth of her back. She sleepily pulled back again and looked at him, just to find him watching her from beneath nearly-shut lids.

“What?” she chuckled, then touched her nose to his.

He didn’t respond with words — instead, he smiled, then kissed her. Not on the mouth, despite her lips being so near, but on her cheek, then her chin. Then he tucked his face into the curve of her neck and pressed one last, chaste kiss to her throat before humming a contented sigh.

“I love you,” she whispered.

“And I you,” he murmured, “my Grey Warden.”

City Elf Appreciation Week - Last Day!

Thank you so much to everyone who participated this week! Today is a free day - anything that's focused on city elves is welcome, new and old! Please remember to tag @cityelfweek or use the tag #cityelfweek24 so your works can be reblogged!