jaebility: (beatles // relaxed john)
Fortunae Plango Vulnera (series) by eag

Furiosa, War Boys, Wives, Ace, world-building, angst, pre-canon, post-canon
Wow. Wow. Even if you aren't in the Mad Max fandom, you should read this fanfic.
Through connected short stories, eag explores the world and characters of Mad Max: Fury Road. Not just explore - eag builds them. The depth of these stories, the depth of these characters! I've read each of the parts... six? Ten? Maybe a dozen times and each read-through I learn more.

And damn, is there a lot to read. As of January 2016, the series is over 160,000 words. This is a tome-sized fanfic. And it's just as complex as well-written as any professional piece of fiction. If it were published in a book, I’d buy the hell out of it. I can’t rec this series hard enough. The complexity of the characters’ growth, and the joy of their triumphs and pain of their suffering gives them all such a pathos - Especially when you know their ultimate fate.
jaebility: (da // aveline)
Title: Six-String Soldier: Chapter 13
Fandom: Mad Max Fury Road
Rating: PG13ish
Warnings: No warnings for this chapter.
Author's note: Lots of women interacting with women in this one. Cheedo's play, Angharad breaking everyone's hearts some more, and a quick date.

Link to AO3
jaebility: (da // yeeaaah)
Title: Six-String Soldier: Chapter 12
Fandom: Mad Max Fury Road
Rating: PG13ish
Warnings: Swearing and not very graphic violence
Author's note: New chapter! This is another from Nux's perspective.

Link to AO3
jaebility: (zelda // battle)
A Toast to the Future by juliettdelta
Slit/Toast, romance, world-building, post-canon fix-it, 23/?? (incomplete)
juliettdelta is another author that writes consistently amazing fic. This one is probably my favorite because the world-building is so fascinating. Gastown and the Bullet Farm are really great - creepy and horrible, with juliettdelta’s own unique spin on those places and what happens there. And Toast! And Slit! I really love how they’re both trying so damn hard, sometimes struggling or even fighting to get what they can out of the harsh environments that make up their lives. But they always remain interesting and sympathetic. I think they can both be difficult characters to write, but juilettdelta nails it.
jaebility: (beatles // paul in glasses)
Wifed by redcandle17
Slit/Toast, romance, humor, post-canon fix-it, 17/17 (complete)
redcandle17’s Slit/Toast stories are always awesome so it was hard to choose just one to rec, but I’m currently obsessed with “Wifed.” It’s a funny premise: Slit gets trolled by the women when he “gets” Toast as his wife, but then the story progresses and the two learn more about each other. I really like the way their relationship develops without them losing their core personalities. Also there’s this one line: Toast says about Slit, “The worse something is, the more he believes it’s true.” That really encompasses the absurdity of the War Boys, and it’s cute and sad and ridiculous all at once, and dammit do I love these guys.
jaebility: (digimon // daisuke nap)
“I want to do more,” he told Furiosa. He was standing without a crutch and without wobbling, but she could see how he still listed, still learning how to shift his weight onto his new metal leg.

Her missing hand ached a bit as she looked at him, ghost fingers curling. Even though they spent most of their days in the garage together, she hadn’t seen much of Nux - They were both too deep in the cars to do much more than pass tools and parts. She was proud of him in a way that she tried to dampen, so she just gave him an abrupt nod. “Yeah. So where are you gonna start?”

“Fighting, guns - defense only,” he added quickly. “Rifle, maybe snipe, for scouting. How to get out fast, how to take the other guy down before he does it to you.”


“Not how to do war,” he insisted. He leaned to the other side, over compensating, and had to take a step to balance himself. “But how to stay safe. And maybe win - or at least not lose. And that’s all right, right? They should know. And if I can do it, they can too. And they’ll be better, all black thumbs over their chrome.”

“Yeah,” she said again.

“Especially Capable,” he couldn’t help but add and then looked even more satisfied.

The brand on the back of her neck itched and she ran her callused fingers over it, then up into the bristles of her hair. The scars she’d picked up on Fury Road were almost gone already, pink lines fading like the whole thing had been a dream after all. Furiosa didn’t exactly sigh, but she exhaled a breath that seemed to come from some deep, dark place in her chest. She’d always been focused on the immediate - the road right ahead of her - and faced with options and ideas and possibilities, she felt like she was jammed in the mud again, with wheels spinning and not enough gas to get out. She might’ve mused on it more, now that she had the time to, but she caught him staring, waiting, with his big eyes wide. So she started her brain back into motion as she considered in earnest his suggestion - running over routines, remembering what she’d been taught and what she had had to learn on her own. “Defensive fighting first, then guns. They’ll need to be strong enough for the kick-backs.”

He nodded eagerly and she continued, engine finally running clear, “Don’t waste energy. Stick with basics: the stance, dodging, where to hit. After that, loading guns, any you can get your hands on. Then easy targets. Get the Milk Mothers, too.”

“Yes, Imperator!” he responded and straightened under her orders, a reflex that he hadn’t routed yet.

“You can handle it?”

Nux nodded again even as he started tilting. This time Furiosa was faster than him and she grabbed his arm with her mechanic hand to pull him upright. Without the white paint, she could see him flush - good, type O-negative, high-octane blood still in his veins - and he stammered something apologetic. “Never shiny but I’m not rusted yet. Fixed.”

“You weren’t broken,” she said and he shook his head, but he stayed silent when she glared. War Boys, she thought - They barely lived out their half lives, but here he was. Here she was. Not fixed, but better.

She hadn’t let go of him, although he’d steadied himself, and with an anxious-to-please expression he raised his own hand and clasped it over the bars and tubes of her wrist. He waited for her to shake him off and when she didn’t, he said quietly, “I’ll follow you, Furiosa. And not because I have to.”

And then, like he had before, he added an after-thought. “After Capable. She comes first.”

She snorted and released him, and Nux practically danced backwards. “I never was a lancer, but I’ll do it for them.”

Walking he did fine. Better at moving than he was at rest - That was a War Boy trait, beaten into them from their War Pup days. He was halfway down the hallway when she called out to him again, “Nux! How come you aren’t teaching them to drive?”

She could see his grin through the dusty lighting. “Gonna for Capable! She’ll be my driver and I’ll be hers, and she’ll lead your Citadel wherever you want. She’s a beacon, she’s a light in the dark like - like a nitro flame!”

“Only Capable?”

“Front seat only sits two. And she needs to learn the engine, plugs, me and her under the hood.”

“Smeg. You teach ‘em all - Anyone who wants to learn.”

“Yes, Imperator.” His reply came prompt enough but the smile was gone.

“Smeg,” she said again. “Fine, Capable first. But then all of ‘em.”

“Yes, Imperator!”

He clasped his hands together - a v8 engine in her honor - before disappearing into the dark. She rubbed the back of her neck again and then returned to her tools. Cars, bikes, trucks - The whole fleet needed work, from the wheels up. They needed a rig first, that was obvious. The two spares weren’t half the rigs that hers had been. There were a thousand other things that needed to be done - ten thousand other things, a million other things - but at least this time she wasn’t doing it alone.

mad max!

Jun. 12th, 2015 09:14 pm
jaebility: (zelda // battle)
He goes back for a car. The bike the Citadel gives him is... fine - it roars under him like it reads his thoughts - but he wants more wheels, an engine he can slid under, a roof to get the damned sun off his face. So Max goes back, the third time on the same trail. For a car, he thinks like a mantra, for a car.

There's no storm and there are no armies, so he makes good time and before long the cliffs rise out of the sand like they were waiting for him. And smoke that gets in under goggles and through the bandanna, but Max doesn't slow down even when his breaths start to burn. Nothing's chasing him this time - at least, nothing that's still alive - and there's no reason for him to ride the bike hard and fast enough that the engine burns along, too. He could've stayed at the Citadel - they would have let him, and maybe even wanted him to - or he could've found some place in the desert, waited out a few days until whatever War Boys had survived had crawled off to die someplace else.

He needed a car - that was his reason. The smoke was a signal all right, and the other gangs would be coming to take their own bite of the war party's remains. So he'd left as soon as they'd arrived. He'd come to get what they owed him, what he'd started with.

Max slows down at last, giving the disaster a wide enough berth. Everyone could be dead, he considers, but Max has never been a positive thinker so he reaches down to touch the two guns at his hips, pulls one out. He has a shotgun on his back like a second spine and a rifle behind him, strapped over his water. He slows down bu doesn't kill the engine, just quiets it enough to listen - And wait, and wait, while the fire crackles and eats guzzoline, and metal shrieks as it bends.

Even from his distance it's easy to see how it happened: the rig came through and the Doof Warrior's stage crashed in behind it, and the trailer took down the rocks and the sand, and anyone else too close to brake. He finally turns off the engine, even scratches behind his ear to show what a good target he is, but there's nothing in the smoke.

"Max!" says a voice that he shouldn't be hearing. They'd been quiet for once, or maybe the noise of the chase had blotted them out, and although he tells himself that he shouldn't be surprised that his ghosts haven't been purged, he still feels sick and damp from it, slick with sweat that doesn't evaporate despite the heat.

He climbs off the bike and takes the rifle, but there's nothing threatening enough for a bullet. Just rock and sand, fire and smoke. He makes himself study Furiosa's rig, then forces himself to consider if it's worth saving. No real conclusion there, some good reasons to save it, some good reasons to keep going, but either the ghosts start pushing or his feet don't listen to reason, because Max keeps walking up to it.

"Why'd you leave, Max?"

"So I could come back," he says to the blood on the ground.

A ghost hisses at that. It might just be the sand as it pours from one end of the world to the other, but Max thinks that it's too deliberate to be accidental. It's the ghosts again, digging out from where he'd buried them. He's better prepared for them now, though, and Max digs his boots in to keep himself from running.

"Why, Max? Die die die - we died, Max. You should be dead too!"

He shrugs under his coat. "I will be."

"Not soon enough!"

Furiosa'd built the rig good, damn good, built it strong enough to survive the apocalypse all over again. Max ducks down to peer at the metal skeleton of it, bent but not ruined. The whole top of the machine was gone, but it had allowed sand to get in, smothering the flames. it was luck, or maybe it wasn't - Max can't tell and he isn't going to start laying bets.

"Why don't you die?"

"She decides, she witnesses. I did it for her, for them, for her, even though it hurts. s it supposed to hurt this much?"

"I don't know," Max says and almost dislocated Nux's arm as he pulls the War Boy out.
jaebility: (da // yeeaaah)
The news of you Lord Dorian's betrothal collapse - and thus social collapse as well - moved at the speed of wildfire through the Minrathous elite; and like a fire it was destructive, laying to ruin no only Lord Dorian's reputation, but that of his long suffering parents, Lord and Lady Pavus.

Far from sharing their devastation, Dorian was in a mood that some who saw him at his club described as delighted.

In fact, Lord D-- commented to Lord C--, in a voice he didn't attempt to lower, "No honest lady in Tevinter will have him now." And later, discussing the moment with friends over whiskey, both men were positive that Dorian chortled into his drink.

There was no recourse but to leave the city. Unfashionably early the Pavuses made haste for Qarinus, where Dorian promptly left the Pavus summer estate to spend far too much time (and allowance) in the taverns in town. His parents sequestered themselves in the library and with a health libation of Antivan wine, discussed their dwindling options. Lists of names were drawn, argued over, tossed into the fireplace. Copies of family histories were piled into unstable towers. upper and then dinner were ignored, to the consternation of the kitchen staff.

Orlais was out of the question. Antiva was a possibility, though one that made both their aristocratic noses turn up. Nevarra had been exhausted. Ferelden was not even mentioned. The Free Marches, they finally accepted with unhappy sighs. If Dorian's marriage situation had not been dire, they wouldn't have considered it, but the burden of children is the lot of any parent, and the Pavus were determined to shoulder it, at least until they could unload it onto his wife.
jaebility: (Default)
just a drabble i'm working on.

"It's a wild goose chase - that's what you southerners say, yet?" Dorian strolled through the library - small - with his fingers trailing lightly on the books as he read their spines. "I can hardly expect that you'd have even a censored copy of what I need."

"So why did you come?"

Dorian glanced over his shoulder at the other boy, who was following a polite distance behind him. "Well, to be honest, I think half the reason was just so Father could get me out of his hair for a season. Might be more than half the reason."

"Did you get in trouble?"

He barked a laugh and the other boy's eyebrows raised in surprised. "You could say that. In any event, down here I'll be safe from temptation. Oh, is that Rine Valente? ...No, of course not."


The other boy had ventured a little closer. Dorian hadn't gotten much of a look at him before, but now he studied him with mild curiosity. Mylas, that had been his name. He was probably around fourteen, though Dorian couldn't pinpoint his exact age: with his height he looked older, but those earnest expressions seemed so young, like Mylas was a child at the window of a candy shop. His red hair and pale complexion somehow seemed childish too - Freckles, for Andraste's sake, and not a trace of cosmetics. Mylas was probably dying to hear about blood magic ceremonies or maybe even orgies, or whatever other scary stories the Chantry sisters told the apprentices at night. Dorian wondered what the apprentice would say if he told him about his father finding the letter he'd been writing to Cero. "Anyway, don't worry. I won't corrupt you. I hereby promise not to cavort, challenge, or summon any demons while I'm hear. Maker knows with all your templars, I wouldn't get very far in that regard anyway. Maybe that's why they even let me through the door? Or does Ostwick usually play host to big bad mages from Tevinter?"

It was Mylas' turn to laugh, and it was more like a quiet snort. "I'm too boring to corrupt."

"Hm?" A second edition of Scrying Secrets by Colerus, not a bad find.

"That's what everyone says, and I suppose that's what First Enchanter Lydia thinks, too. I don't do... anything at all, really."

Dorian turned again. Mylas' long arms were dangling helpless at his sides. He was staring out the window, worrying at his lower lip.

"So you hunger for forbidden fruits, do you?" It sounded iodiotic even as he said it, and maybe even a little desperate, but Dorian couldn't stop the words from slipping out. He covered p his discomfort with another laugh. "Well, we'll see what happens over the next few days."

Mylas' face brightened and he smiled, wide and easy. "You'll let me be your guide, then?"

He had been rude about that, hadn't he? Dorian regretted the outburst - he shouldn't have hurt the boy's feelings, even if Dorian's ire had been directed at another target. "Well I promised the First Enchanter. And a Pavus is true to his word."
jaebility: (nature // maple)
As the second son, Mylas is free from the responsibilities that his older brother has heaped on his shoulders. And the glories too, but Mylas is ten and doesn’t care about girls or parties or hunting. He likes his brother’s stallion and like his brother’s armor - both things are much too big for him - but the rest Mylas happily leaves behind to play out in the woods with his sister or his friends.

But then Rience dies and all the family’s hope rise up with the smoke from RIence funeral pyre. After the mourning period finishes, Mylas’ routine is drastically changed. No more classes with his sister and their governess: he inherits his brother’s tutor along with Rience’s sword, his social connections, and duties. Mylas isn't forbidden from running around with his friends, not exactly, but there’s no time for it any more. His toys and books aren't taken from him, not really, but his shelves need to be cleared for scrolls on lineages, masks he’ll wear, and armor pieces he’ll need to grow into.

His parents are relieved that he’s a decent looking boy, and compliant enough that he doesn’t need to be whipped to obey. Mylas is quiet, but that isn’t the same as docile, and at night when the family and the servants retire, the boy climbs out of his window and throws rocks across the pond or aims for branches, knocking down unripe apples which he then also throws - at the house, at the barn, down into the street.

It goes on for two years. He grows taller, and at twelve is the same height his brother was at that age. When his parents pay attention to him, they’re pleased. At that aspect anyway - Mylas doesn’t have his brother’s biting wit that made the Trevelyans so fun at parties. Rience had been aggressive, even at twelve; Mylas prefers to reach compromises, talking his way out of fights where his brother would have dominated.

It goes on for two years. Mylas goes on for two years, smiling and nodding and holding his breath when his parents enter the room. It’s because of that control that it takes so long - He’s twelve when he cracks at last. Three other children - older than him, too tall to be children, really - corner him at a neighbor’s estate. He’s pressed against the wall while they jeer for him to duel Ser Erec, and he’s trying to explain that he’s only had a year of sword lessons and can’t possibly do it, and what if someone gets hurt? And they keep pressing and the stone wall is hard and cold on his back and the sword they’re shoving at him slices into his vest and his parents will be furious and -

Mylas shouts as he grabs the blade to shove it away. In his hand the metal freezes and the girl holding it yelps as she drops it. It’s covered in ice and so is her hand - She falls to her knees in pain and surprise while her two friends scramble away. The rest happens so quickly that he never has a chance to apologize and even if he did have a moment to breath and talk, he wouldn’t be able to explain.

Not that it requires much explanation: he’s a mage and that has ruined everything.

Mylas is grabbed by an adult, passed off to a guard, passed off to a templar. He’s allowed to return home to pack because he’s a Trevelyan, but he has two templars with him, watching as servants jam clothes into a trunk for him and his parents and sister stand with frozen expressions by his bedroom door. The templars march him to the Circle, Mylas slouching and red-eyed between them.
jaebility: (da // annnnders)

When the Inquisitor judges Samson, his justice is merciful and he doesn’t heed the calls for blood. Cullen turns to ice when Samson turns to him. The Inquisitor has spoken: there is to be no death but a natural one, no pain beyond what life provides. Samson, fallen, fugitive, a human face in an unnatural war, is given to Cullen. A bleeding, burning reward for Cullen’s faithful service.

Not all the scarlet is gone, but Samson no longer crackles with or from the red lyrium. He’s dull without it, and within days of his imprisonment, Cullen has learned all he can from Samson. Empty of his secrets, Samson waits in his cell, a danger no longer. Though he still gives Cullen nightmares that leave the commander sweating and gasping out of sleep.

Cullen’s patience is not the same as the Inquisitor’s. Cullen’s is learned, practiced, beaten into him through repetition and structure. Cullen holds back, swallows hard, commands himself into calm. And so it’s the Inquisitor who comes to Samson when it’s clear that the templar is finally dying, and Cullen flattens himself against a wall in the prison when the Inquisitor and Samson speak the Chant together, their voices low and slow.

But Cullen isn’t cruel, and when Samson asks, Cullen brings the request to the advisers instead of immediately dismissing it. “He wants to see the sky again,” he tells them, and then adds in a heavy voice, “I don’t think he has much time left.”

"No," says Cassandra immediately, but she turns to the Inquisitor despite her proclamation.

"Are you all right?" he asks gently, because everything about him is kind, even regarding death.

"Yes," says Cullen, and that’s his answer.

So at dawn, when the courtyard is almost empty, Cullen escorts Samson to the gates. The templar walks on his own until they get to the bridge and then, when Cullen unlatches the unnecessary shackles, Samson stumbles. Cullen pulls him up on his shoulder - their faces are close enough that Cullen inhales warm air from Samson’s breath. It’s an arduous journey away from Skyhold and as soon as the keep disappears behind the clouds and mountains, Cullen releases his grip on Samson’s thin waist.

Instead of dropping to the ground, Samson clings to Cullen’s armor, weak and sliding down, until Cullen has no choice but to rearrange their arms to hold him again. “Please,” Samson begs, “let me just touch -“

His cold fingers tentatively trace Cullen’s jaw (clenched), then his lips (pressed), then his eyes (squeezed shut). When he kisses Cullen, out of surprise Cullen nearly drops him. Samson’s mouth is hot and his lips are dry, and Cullen tries to twist away. Before he can, Samson drags his tongue over the scar on Cullen’s mouth to capture another taste.

"Lyrium," Cullen says dully, realizing what Samson is desperately searching for. "I don’t-"

"Shut up." Samson’s hiss is as sharp as the wind. "You don’t understand. You never did. You could have been - We could been -"

Samson shivers so hard that his body quakes, and Cullen tightens his hold to prevent the templar’s body from shaking apart. He lowers himself to the ground, pulling Samson gently along with him, then lets the man tuck himself under Cullen’s chin.

To kiss Cullen’s neck, scrape his teeth over Cullen’s throat. Samson’s fingers work themselves into Cullen’s hair and quiver there against Cullen’s scalp. Cullen allows him these trespasses and then more that he closes his eyes against. But when the sun moves behind a snowy peak and their surroundings grow colder in the shadow, Cullen stops him - stops it - and hauls them both to their feet.

"Leave me here." Samson tries to laugh, but the sound is weak and the wind steals it from his mouth. "Save yourself the trouble."

Cullen shakes his head. “I have my orders,” he says and forces them to march back through the snow that is so white in the morning sun that it burns their weary eyes.
jaebility: (da //  alistair <3)
Title: Magophony
Fandom: Dragon Age 2
Rating: PG13ish
Warnings: Not-particular-graphic violence, slavery
Author's note: This was my entry for [profile] dragonagebb. It could have used a beta, but I procrastinated like mad and barely got it in on time as it is.

Link to AO3
jaebility: (beatles // paul in glasses)
She pulled off her Nightengale mask to get a better look at it, reading the message a few times in case she’d missed something, something hidden between the neat letters. But no, nothing there but a death sentence. Or attempt, anyway. Didn’t say all that much for the Brotherhood, if a thief could out kill them.

Nadreshiel rolled the assassin’s note between her bloody fingers as she contemplated. The Guild was secure and everyone getting too fat and lazy to squeeze out of the sewer’s passages. The Guild was secure, but apparently she wasn’t - targeted by assassins in addition to tenacious guards and rival thieves. The bargain she’d made with Nocturnal was still a decent one and she could almost feel the weight of it, like it was some other piece of armor or some heavy loot in her pocket. But the other Princes… Other bargains…

She crumbled the note into a tiny ball, then swallowed it for some reason she couldn’t fathom herself. From it hatched a nebulous plan as it dawned with the growing strength of the sun rising, which is was, warming the Rift and gilding the leaves that moved around her.

Read more... )
jaebility: (da // aveline)
The storm blew the snow with such ferocity that the trees disappeared into the white and Farkas could smell only their damp furs and cold breaths, the scent of the fugitive they’d been tracking was lost in the wind and ice.

In front of him Ilessa tramped heavily through the snow banks. She was using her battered shield the block the freezing gusts, but the determination in her steps was wavering. When she stopped and shouted over the wind’s howling that they were going to make camp, Farkas wasn’t surprised, just pointed to where he’d caught sight of a rocky overhang in the brush. It wasn’t much shelter, but he’d survived worse nights. He caught a glimpse of her face, harsh and resolute, through the swirling snow and figured she’d weather it too, even if she was from Cyrodiil.

Farkas broke off dry branches from the trees they passed and when they finally ducked into the cavern, Ilessa yanked free the hanging moss. They put their backs to the cold stone and piled their wood and kindling at the cavern’s mouth. Farkas was rustling through his armor to find flint when Ilessa pulled off one of her gloves. “Here,” she said, and fire blast from her hand. “Magic’s good for something.”

"Not bad."

"I know that and basic healing," she said a she shoved her hand back into her glove. She added a defensive comment, like she was raising her shield, "Useful out in the field."

Vilkas probably would have had something to say to that, but Farkas was glad for the fire. It was something else she could do, something that none of the other Companions did as far as he knew. And it was another thing he liked about her.

She pulled off her hood and shook the snow out of her hair. It was as dark as a wolf’s pelt, and Farkas had something to say about that, about how he liked the color or it, the thickness, how it fell around her face, and how it and all of her smelled of blood and steel, of pine and clover honey. And he liked the way she wielded her axe and the strength in her heavy footsteps. And it annoyed his brother but Farkas liked the way she stepped up when Kodlak wanted help. He couldn’t say that though, or any of it without messing it up, so instead he said with a grin, “Don’t worry - I won’t tell Vilkas.”

Ilessa chuckled and shook her head. “He knows. And wasn’t impressed.”

"He is, even if he doesn’t say it. I am too."

The smile she gave him was a rare one and warmed him up more than the fire.
jaebility: (da // hawkward)
The first time Anders pulls the tie out of his hair and runs his hands through it, Varric watches Hawke fall in love. Or maybe there was a spell in his quick hand movements, what did a dwarf know about the methods of mages? (He liked the alliteration of that, methods of mages, and tucked it away for later use. Maybe he’d even add a couple of other words, string the repetition out a little more.)

So, there is Hawke, staring with all the attention of his animal namesake. (Varric considered making a joke about if Leandra had married into the Nugs, decided against it - it was too low brow.) Staring until Carver elbows him and the two brothers turned away together, Carver frowning and Tristan grinning again. He bends down to sling his arm over Varric’s shoulder and says, “Nothing like a walk on the beach, eh, Varric?”

"If you consider the Wounded Coast a beach, then sure."

"Damn good idea you had, taking this job." Hawke says and glances over his shoulder. Anders has pulled his hair back up but Hawke still has mesmerized look in his eyes.

It would make for an interesting story. Who doesn’t love a tale of forbidden romance, of danger and strife? The book practically wrote itself. Not a book, Varric corrects himself. A serial. Draw it out, more opportunity for readership. He grins back up and says with an easy shrug, “Stick with me, Hawke. We’ll write this adventure together.”

Carver snorts and Anders appears over Hawke’s shoulder, asking what adventure? and had anyone seen the path recently? and Varric figures that between them and the pirate and the two elves, he’ll have enough material to work with for years to come.
jaebility: (da // characters)
Title: Heister
Fandom: Dragon Age 2
Rating: PG14ish for nongraphic sex
Warnings: Nope
Author's note: Charade is left alone when her mother dies. With the last coins from her mother sewn into her skirts, Charade goes after the illusive Keroshek, the gem that her father wasted his fortune on finding. Intended to be a response to the Women of Dragon Age Fandom Challenge, but missed the deadline.

Hesiter @ AO3
jaebility: (random // knt sky)
Charade became a courier before she could read. She excelled at it - not because a child couldn't have secrets, but because she couldn't be coerced into divulging them. Mara had always called her a stubborn child, a superlative her mother had always said like a compliment and not a criticism. Charade was stubborn and was good at dodging, at denying, and at flat-out lying. By the time she was twelve she had a reputation in the darkness of Val Royeaux's back alleys. L'ombre, they called her. Shadow.

Charade kept secrets, hoarding them like the nobles did gold. And she didn't need one of the ornate masks that the upperclass wore to hide her face. Hardly anyone noticed a thin, street-dusty girl anyway, and with her quickness they didn't have to see more than a flicker of cloth before she turned a corner.

As she learned to decipher the thin loops and swirls of the written word, she sometimes opened letters. Only the poorly sealed ones, those she could close up again without the recipient knowing. it didn't take long for her to realize that were really only three types of letters: I love you, I hate you, I'll kill you. Variations, of course, or funny combinations. She liked to imagine what happened after they were read, if the words ever came true. After dropping off a particularly amusing one, Charade bought an only somewhat bruised apple from her earnings and sat on a nearby staircase and decided that she'd never be mad over anyone like that. Never ever.

Letters didn't get delivered directly to the target, but to sympathetic butlers and maids in on the conspiracy. Charade never entered through the front doors, and instead slipped into kitchens or cellars like the servants. As she grew older, she spent more time with the kitchen girls and serving boys, flirting for gifts of wine and pastries with cream so light it seemed to float off the dough. She brought these gains back to her mother, who never asked where or how.
jaebility: (ffx // j&defeated!a)
Her dark robes puddled around her legs as she sat on the floor of her room, trying to meditate. Nadia had been working on clearing her mind for what felt like hours, attempting to ignore the clicks and whirls of the engine and the clank of boots across metal floors, but when someone knocked on her door, she gave up completely. It wasn't an excuse to stop, she told herself as she rose to her feet, it was simply being polite. Her knees cracked as she moved and she banished an angry word from the tip of her tongue before she started cursing.

When Nadia opened the door Felix Iresso, the soldier her master had plucked from the icy tundra of Hoth, grinned down at her. He was in his armor still, the white of Republic soldiers with orange stars on his shoulders. "Hey. I'm not interrupting, am I?"

"No, not at all," she assured him hurriedly. They hadn't spoken much, but she was pleased to see him and not Tharan Cedrex. "I was just... thinking."

"Probably have a lot to think about," he said mildly. "Congratulations on it. Your dad would be proud. So what do I call you? Jedi Nadia? Master Grell?"

Nadia waved her hands to dismiss the titles. "Neither. I'm just a padawan, not a Jedi yet. And definitely not a Master. Just Nadia is fine. Um. What should I call you? You were a Lieutenant, right?"

"Still am." He rubbed the back of his neck and Nadia could feel - through the Force like a real Jedi! - a wave of affection as he thought about his unit. At that moment she felt a closeness to him; she understood the confusing jumble of conflicting emotions that were created upon Master Sade's acceptance. There was no way to cut through the ties to one's old life, and even with all that a position on the Defender could offer, anxiety and regret still bound her. Nadia studied him with new interest and he grinned again under her inspection. This smile was more sheepish and made him look more like a big brother than a commanding officer. "But you're not one of my boys; you don't have to call me LT."

Nadia had heard Tharan and Zenith refer to him as Iresso, but Master Sade used his given name. Neither seemed right to Nadia, one too distant and one too close, so instead she echoed, "LT. I like it. Can I call you that? Is that ok?"

"Sure. Now, I came down to tell you that food's ready. You hungry?"

"I'll come up," she answered and followed him up the stairs.

"Good excuse as any to put off training, huh?" he said over his shoulder at him. She ducked her head and mumbled something into her robes and he chuckled. "Don't worry - I won't tell your master on you."

"Thanks, LT." This time when he smiled at her, Nadia smiled back.
jaebility: (tutu // bad writing)

It's not quite dawn and when Sapphire climbs up and out of the guild's cemetery entrance the sky above her head is the same murky color as the water in the Ragged Flagon. The secret door grinds to a close behind her and she kicks her boot against the fake tomb to clean it. After those two movements the graveyard is silent - she listens, a thief's habit - and slides around the graves.

There's a crunch to her left and Sapphire whirls with a blade in each hand. Her target lowers the bread from her mouth and swallows loud in the still air. "Looks like I'm not the only early riser," the woman says with a low laugh.

A plan flits lightning fast through her brain: sprint forward, slice the woman's throat, and stuff the corpse in the Rataway before the guard's patrol. Another unexplained death, something for the Jarl to titter over, but nothing more. But Sapphire hesitates, and she never hesitates and she hates that she is now, and the woman speaks again, voice still soft, "The affairs of the living are no concern of mine."

The lack of fear - the lack of caring about it at all surprises Sapphire. The woman, perched on a grave like she's part of the stone, stares as Sapphire spins her knives and tucks them away. "The gravedigger," Sapphire says. She recognizes Arkay's priest, now that sun is beginning to flicker through the mist. Everyone in Riften knows of Alessandra, or knows as much as they're able. Arkay keeps the dead and His priests as close as dead as possible. Sapphire convinces herself that there's no risk in letting Alessandra see the passageway. "Who would you tell, anyway? The skeletons you sleep with?"

"No one keeps secrets quite like the dead," the priest acknowledges. She finishes her bread and brushes the crumbs from her robe. The dawn is bright enough now that when she looks up, Sapphire can see the glint of her eyes, the lines of her mouth. "I'd give you blessings, but it doesn't look like you really need them. If you ever do, you know where to find me."

When the priest turns away, Sapphire pulls a knife out again. A flick of her wrist and it'd be in Alessandra's back. But she keeps it in her hand, the metal cool against her palm, and watch priest's robes sway as she walks back to the temple. Sapphire almost follows - what does she have to do today, anyway? Something for Brynjolf, something for Maven, nothing important - but then she hears the scruff of boots on gravel.

The guard who turns the corner and walks into the cemetery doesn't see anything but graves and grass.
jaebility: (beatles // carriages)
I need to stop making alts.

In my headcanon, my SWTOR characters cross paths and form relationships with each other: Agent Asjary was at the same Academy with Quinn and competed with him to be the star pupil which resulted in some glorious hate sex; when they run into each other, she needles him unrelentlessly about being a Sith's lap dog and he mocks her low military rank. Warrior Kezmir hates that someone else has touched her property and is convinced that Vector is just a Quinn fill-in. Vector likes everyone.

Bounty Hunter Torv went to the Academy too, but got booted out early do to discipline issues. He has a crush on every boy - Lohkin, Vector, Quinn, Revel... - and has a habit of running into Trooper Ethrens, who keeps trying to get him to defect to the Republic so they can get married. Ethrens' older sister is a smuggler who does a lot of unsavory deals with the Empire; Cirawel had business with Asjary once, not realizing Az was an Imp spy. Not that Cirawel would have cared. She had a drunken fling with Kaliyo that left some scars and knows of Mako, but she's secretly glad that she doesn't have to work with either of them since they'd both upstage her. She's slowly becoming more loyal to the Republic under the influence of her crew.

Jedi Consular Sade keeps getting tangled in diplomatic issues that Vector is somehow always a part of, and she's convinced that Asjary is an assassin sent to destroy her/the Council. Az doesn't give a shit about Sade, though she has a passing interest in what Iresso has locked up in his head. They crash into each other as they're both escaping from some prison or something, and Sade's like, "you'll never get me, imperial" and Az is like, "brb loling forever."

Kezmir's run into Sade, too, and wants to crush her bones into a fine paste and spread it on crackers. Which is how she feels about most people, though, so Sade doesn't take it personally. Kezmir also wants to destroy Sade's padawan, but mostly out of jealousy because she doesn't have her own apprentice yet.


jaebility: (Default)
a jar of jae

November 2016


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