Post by Silver on Sept 2, 2021 22:57:38 GMT
So I've (finally!) started writing Dragon Age fanfiction. Here's my FF.net page: Phoenix's ff.net Page
Story list
- A Lord Seeker and A Divine [Completed]
Lord Seeker Lambert wants a word with Divine Justinia. Near the end of Asunder. Inspired by rap battles. One-shot.
- A Damn Good Name [In Progress]
While Hawke is at Skyhold, Varric invites her for a couple of drinks, over which she learns that her old nickname has been given to someone else. So they must find her a new one. What follows is a crazy night inside the castle walls, in which the two team up with characters like Harding, Iron Bull and Alistair - and try to play some Wicked Grace on the side.
- Meatball [Completed]
On the streets of Val Royeaux, Leliana meets a young dwarf girl. One-shot.
- Thoughts of Adamant [Completed]
Adamant was painful, for Hawke more than for anyone. One-shot about her time on the fortress walls, her mind on nothing but her brother. Cole recalls her thoughts in that moment. Completed.
________________
Endure and Survive. The Little Phoenix XIX BCB News Reporter
A Typical Party
Thedosian stereotypes.
Story list
- A Lord Seeker and A Divine [Completed]
Lord Seeker Lambert wants a word with Divine Justinia. Near the end of Asunder. Inspired by rap battles. One-shot.
- A Damn Good Name [In Progress]
While Hawke is at Skyhold, Varric invites her for a couple of drinks, over which she learns that her old nickname has been given to someone else. So they must find her a new one. What follows is a crazy night inside the castle walls, in which the two team up with characters like Harding, Iron Bull and Alistair - and try to play some Wicked Grace on the side.
- Meatball [Completed]
On the streets of Val Royeaux, Leliana meets a young dwarf girl. One-shot.
- Thoughts of Adamant [Completed]
Adamant was painful, for Hawke more than for anyone. One-shot about her time on the fortress walls, her mind on nothing but her brother. Cole recalls her thoughts in that moment. Completed.
________________
Endure and Survive. The Little Phoenix XIX BCB News Reporter
A Typical Party
Thedosian stereotypes.
“I am disappointed, to be frank, at the seeming lack of slaves. Are these- are these people getting paid? Why, that is outrageous! Surely we must… hey waiter! Waiter! Get some slaves in here to make this a proper party!”
Vint paced around the room, a mixed look of confusion and arrogance upon his face. “What an uncivilized event is this,” he yammered, as he passed the buffet. “No slaves… no wonder the food is lousy to speak of. Nothing but stinking cheeses. It was a mistake coming to Val Royeaux.”
He was met with a few stares from behind Orlesian masks at his remarks. He sniffed, put his nose in the air and strolled on. “Maker damn what they think,” he said to himself. “I’ll just go on back home.”
But then he felt a tug at his sleeve, and looked down to see a smaller man staring back up at him. His face was almost entirely covered in red hair; a braided beard made up most of it. “What do you want?”, Vint said.
“I must say,” said Dwarf, in a deep voice - he burped before he continued, and Vint could clearly smell alcohol on his breath. “I totally agree with you. I don’t give a nug’s ass about” - he burped again - “the cheese around here, and let me tell you, the ale is no Paragon’s piss either!” He smiled, revealing what could only be described as a brown wall.
Vint nodded. “You have some meat between your teeth, little man,” he said. “I’ll be going now.” He trailed off, only to bump into something a lot larger merely a second later.
“Bas,” it said. “Why must you block my path? Move!”
Vint laughed, and put up his hand. “Clearly you have no understanding of hierarchy. I am a mage, who can obliterate you with a flick of my fingers, so you take orders from me. Not the other way around.”
“The Qun,” said the Oxman, and he drew his sword, “demands you move!”
His incoming blow was met with a push of force, and the Oxman flew backwards through the room, right on a group of city elves, who groaned beneath the weight. Vint stormed over, dragged one of them out from under his opponent, and cut his throat with a small knife.
“I said there needed to be slaves,” he yelled. “Oh well.”
Blood gushed out of the wound, and then slowly rose into the air, to move around the mage’s hand in a spiraling fashion. But a moment later another blast of force hit the Oxman, and he flew backwards yet again, crashing into the wall. The resounding crack of his bones told everyone present that he was, in fact… dead.
Satisfied, Vint stepped over the corpse of the young elf. A moment later he fell down.
Out of his back stuck no less than ten arrows. And behind him, atop the table layered with cheese, stood an equal amount of archers. One of them held up a parchment, and began to read it aloud.
“By the decree of Antivan’s merchant princes - for Antiva has no king - the crows are hereby ordered to take out Vint, magister of the Tevinter Imperium, at the time and place of their choosing. It is strictly-”
“Stop, shem!”, a voice shouted. The crowd parted, and a single man, ears like knives and tattooed skin, stepped out into the clearing. In his grasp he held one of the city elves, who wept as he held a knife at her throat.
“This party is over!”, Dalish said. “Lay down your weapons or this… pet of yours dies.”
“She is but a filthy knife-ear!”, someone in the crowd yelled. “Cut her throat!”
A murmur of agreement filled the room, and not before long people started chanting the message. “Cut her throat! Cut her throat! Cut her throat!”
Dalish sighed, and threw the woman down on the ground. “I will not bow to the wills of shem! Now, you all die!”
“Wait!” A priestess ran up to him. “This is not the Maker’s will! Do not fight, for He will not let you into His embrace after death! Lay down your arms and-” She stopped and looked at the elf before her. “Oh, I’m sorry. Not you. The Make has no love for your kind.”
She died even before she could turn around, and her body slumped into a heap of flesh and robes as it hit the floor. What followed was an outburst of cries, and not before long the entire room was filled with chaos. More tattooed elves erupted from the crowd, stabbing everyone they could get their hands on. Dwarves, drunk as they were, went into the counter-attack, and behind their backs the Orlesians tried to flee, their pockets filled with cheese from the Heartlands. It was utter chaos. At one point, Templars joined the fray, shouting “Apostate!” as they threw themselves upon the elven Keepers.
Within the hour, the entire room was coloured red, and the floor littered with nothing but bodies. On the buffet sat a lone man, face covered in mud and dressed in rags, arms around his knees. “I think it’s over, Dog,” he said. “Maybe it’s time we go home.” The mabari next to him barked, and the man smiled. “At least they did not kill you.”
As they left, they stumbled into the Nevarran ambassador on the way. He seemed surprised at their sudden departure, but, shrugging it off as nothing, entered the room anyway. Opening the door, he apologized. “Sorry I’m late, but I was stuck at-”
They say a look of pure delight spread across his face as he stumbled into the room, almost completely speechless. With stretched out hands he smiled from ear to ear, and it took him several minutes before he could utter a single word. He said three.
“Best. Party. Ever.”
Vint paced around the room, a mixed look of confusion and arrogance upon his face. “What an uncivilized event is this,” he yammered, as he passed the buffet. “No slaves… no wonder the food is lousy to speak of. Nothing but stinking cheeses. It was a mistake coming to Val Royeaux.”
He was met with a few stares from behind Orlesian masks at his remarks. He sniffed, put his nose in the air and strolled on. “Maker damn what they think,” he said to himself. “I’ll just go on back home.”
But then he felt a tug at his sleeve, and looked down to see a smaller man staring back up at him. His face was almost entirely covered in red hair; a braided beard made up most of it. “What do you want?”, Vint said.
“I must say,” said Dwarf, in a deep voice - he burped before he continued, and Vint could clearly smell alcohol on his breath. “I totally agree with you. I don’t give a nug’s ass about” - he burped again - “the cheese around here, and let me tell you, the ale is no Paragon’s piss either!” He smiled, revealing what could only be described as a brown wall.
Vint nodded. “You have some meat between your teeth, little man,” he said. “I’ll be going now.” He trailed off, only to bump into something a lot larger merely a second later.
“Bas,” it said. “Why must you block my path? Move!”
Vint laughed, and put up his hand. “Clearly you have no understanding of hierarchy. I am a mage, who can obliterate you with a flick of my fingers, so you take orders from me. Not the other way around.”
“The Qun,” said the Oxman, and he drew his sword, “demands you move!”
His incoming blow was met with a push of force, and the Oxman flew backwards through the room, right on a group of city elves, who groaned beneath the weight. Vint stormed over, dragged one of them out from under his opponent, and cut his throat with a small knife.
“I said there needed to be slaves,” he yelled. “Oh well.”
Blood gushed out of the wound, and then slowly rose into the air, to move around the mage’s hand in a spiraling fashion. But a moment later another blast of force hit the Oxman, and he flew backwards yet again, crashing into the wall. The resounding crack of his bones told everyone present that he was, in fact… dead.
Satisfied, Vint stepped over the corpse of the young elf. A moment later he fell down.
Out of his back stuck no less than ten arrows. And behind him, atop the table layered with cheese, stood an equal amount of archers. One of them held up a parchment, and began to read it aloud.
“By the decree of Antivan’s merchant princes - for Antiva has no king - the crows are hereby ordered to take out Vint, magister of the Tevinter Imperium, at the time and place of their choosing. It is strictly-”
“Stop, shem!”, a voice shouted. The crowd parted, and a single man, ears like knives and tattooed skin, stepped out into the clearing. In his grasp he held one of the city elves, who wept as he held a knife at her throat.
“This party is over!”, Dalish said. “Lay down your weapons or this… pet of yours dies.”
“She is but a filthy knife-ear!”, someone in the crowd yelled. “Cut her throat!”
A murmur of agreement filled the room, and not before long people started chanting the message. “Cut her throat! Cut her throat! Cut her throat!”
Dalish sighed, and threw the woman down on the ground. “I will not bow to the wills of shem! Now, you all die!”
“Wait!” A priestess ran up to him. “This is not the Maker’s will! Do not fight, for He will not let you into His embrace after death! Lay down your arms and-” She stopped and looked at the elf before her. “Oh, I’m sorry. Not you. The Make has no love for your kind.”
She died even before she could turn around, and her body slumped into a heap of flesh and robes as it hit the floor. What followed was an outburst of cries, and not before long the entire room was filled with chaos. More tattooed elves erupted from the crowd, stabbing everyone they could get their hands on. Dwarves, drunk as they were, went into the counter-attack, and behind their backs the Orlesians tried to flee, their pockets filled with cheese from the Heartlands. It was utter chaos. At one point, Templars joined the fray, shouting “Apostate!” as they threw themselves upon the elven Keepers.
Within the hour, the entire room was coloured red, and the floor littered with nothing but bodies. On the buffet sat a lone man, face covered in mud and dressed in rags, arms around his knees. “I think it’s over, Dog,” he said. “Maybe it’s time we go home.” The mabari next to him barked, and the man smiled. “At least they did not kill you.”
As they left, they stumbled into the Nevarran ambassador on the way. He seemed surprised at their sudden departure, but, shrugging it off as nothing, entered the room anyway. Opening the door, he apologized. “Sorry I’m late, but I was stuck at-”
They say a look of pure delight spread across his face as he stumbled into the room, almost completely speechless. With stretched out hands he smiled from ear to ear, and it took him several minutes before he could utter a single word. He said three.
“Best. Party. Ever.”