to the anon(s) who prompted Farscape and the Dresden Files, sorry, I’ve been sitting here staring at those prompts for days but I just don’t really remember much about either series to be able to write fanfic about them
also i never finished Farscape so I don’t know or remember who Gilina is
Thank you! (: Here I am, taking a stab at it. This was initially much shorter and fluffier and…happier…but it kind of got away from me, so. Here we are! Takes place fairly early in Act 1.
The alley around the corner from The Hanged Man is dark and quiet, everything that the tavern isn’t, and the cool, grimy wall soothes his aching head. Carver can still hear the noise, a bit, in the distance. He fancies he hears his brother’s booming, crackling voice amidst the uneven shouts and cheers. Their last job had been more fruitful than the last ten combined; Garrett had jumped on the chance to celebrate.
Garrett is intolerable always, but he’s far worse when drunk. That smug smile becomes a full-blown, lazy smirk; he laughs too loud and spreads his arms too wide; and he makes impulsive purchases that seem designed to nettle his brother.
But, no; Garrett hadn’t been drunk for that. He’d just been his usual, oblivious self.
He hops down from the crate he’d been sitting on, a hand jerking automatically to the hilt of his sword, but in the next moment he recognizes Merrill’s silhouette in the mouth of the alley and lets his hand fall.
"Oh," he says, too blunt, not nice at all, "it’s just you."
"Mmm," she agrees, ignoring his blunder, and steps a little closer, and offering up the thing she’s holding: his battered old sword, the one he left on the table inside, the one that came with him from Fereldan, from Ostagar. "You left it," she says, not looking at him, but gazing around the alley instead.
He gestures over his shoulder, still too tired to be polite. “I have a new one. Garrett bought it today.”
She frowns, inspecting the weapon in her hands now. “Was this one bad?”
"No," he tries to explain, dragging a dusty, calloused palm over his face. "He didn’t ask me," he says. "He bought me a new one, and he didn’t ask."
"Oh," she says, her eyes widening, as if she’s surprised by this. "That’s very rude, isn’t it?"
omg omg this is actually the dictionary definition of perfect
This drabble spiraled WAY out of control, growing bigger and bigger by the day until I gave up and just wrote a full-blown fic. Oops. I do like how it turned out in the end, though. And I never would have attempted writing Velanna if it weren’t for this prompt, so thank you for that, nonny!
This fic takes place a few months after the end of DA2, during the arlathvhen, or the once-a-decade meeting of the scattered Dalish clans, which was hinted in Mark of the Assassin to be taking place very soon. I don’t know exactly what goes down at an arlathvhen, but I imagine it’s a little like summer camp for elves. Maybe they even have marshmallows. Who knows.
If you prefer, you can read this instead at AO3.
Velanna stumbles over a branch, once, twice, then pitches gracelessly to the ground. Around her the crickets fall silent. Great. She can’t even walk in the dark anymore without sounding like a halla stampede. Clearly, too many nights behind the inflexible stone walls of Vigil’s Keep have dulled and confused her senses. She might as well be a dwarf now.
Nevermind that she can no longer hear the forest like she once did, the subtle sounds of leaf and beast now overpowered by the dulcet thrumming of the darkspawn song in her blood.
She doesn’t like to let herself think about that.
Hell Bent for Weather (x)
Merrill marked it as more than an hour since they’d lost the trail in the driving rain. An hour since Isabela watched the governor’s roughnecks gallop out of sight like hell was on their heels instead of thunder. And maybe it was. She’d howled herself raw, firing a handful of do-nothing shots into the downpour like a banshee with a pair of Colts, all while Merrill scrambled to tie the horses down.
Merrill had seen her share of prairie lightning, but a storm like this was a killer, Lord knew. She was coming to know a lot of killing.
They hunkered under some jutting rocks in the short cliffside, pressed up against mesquite roots and probably some poor snake’s home, too. All the while the rain pounded, and with every shattering clap of thunder the horses stamped and whinnied nearby. She knew how to soothe them, but they didn’t worry Merrill like Isabela’s eyes did.
It’s been a long time since I had some good ol’ fashioned trolls in my inbox. I forgot how hilarious and out-of-touch these whiny little shitbabies really can be.
Maybe it’s a good thing? After all, with a real human baby on the way, I do need the practice dealing with explosive diarrhea.
actual real life picture of anon:
QUICK SOMEONE CALL THE WAAAAAHMBULANCE
FOR THE VILE FEMINISTS HAVE STRUCK AGAIN
like what the fuck even is this though. your response to matt rhodes was insanely civil and deeply heartfelt. your response among other in regards to his fuckup caused him to re-evaluate his position, apologize sincerely, and change his perspective for the better, so that he can be more mindful of these very real issues in the future. WOW FEMINISM IS SO HARMFUL IT ACHIEVED THIS REALLY INCREDIBLE THING. wow. how terrible. how fucking awful it is.
I think there was one person who was sending out the same troll-y message to everybody who called Matt out. Rinji got one too, with almost the same text word-for-word.
What really floors me about this whole situation is that, unlike 95% of the time when this happens, Matt listened to me and others calling him out, instead of listening to people like the above anon. He didn’t equivocate. He didn’t try to play politician and make everyone happy. He said flat out, “I screwed up, I apologize, and I’ll do better in the future”.
For over a decade, I have been criticizing and calling out sexism in the games industry, both as a professional and as a fan, and this is the very first sincere apology I’ve ever received on the matter. It really is incredible.
A very, very cool thing happened today, one I won’t soon forget.
In other news I have officially passed the 20 week mark, which means that barring any late exits, I am more than halfway done cooking this velociraptor in my belly. Yay!
You don’t realize you’re tone deaf until someone tells you that you’re singing off key. My comments earlier came from a narrow perspective (I’m a guy who thinks about design all day) and I’m honestly grateful to the people who graciously articulated how deep and wide this issue really is for them. My apologies to those I’ve offended. For someone in my position to come across as flippant is really shitty. It wasn’t my intent, but it’s still shitty and I’m sorry for that.
Additionally, I wasn’t trying to make fun of the Bingo game or the issues that birthed it. I thought it hit the nail right on the head. It’s important to be critical of these destructive tropes and cliches, otherwise they’ll stay exactly where they are. Wether they’re banished forever, or reclaimed by designers who treat the material and audience with respect, they’ve got to go. (In my artistic hubris, I do still believe that a handful of these squares could be reclaimed and subverted in interesting ways, but if I attempt to do so it will be done as personal work ONLY, not in my capacity as concept artist for Bioware.)
The issue of believable character design is a daily one for me. It’s been a ten year learning process. I’ve designed things I’m no longer proud of, but it has been open dialogue with passionate people like this that has helped me move forward. I’d encourage everyone to play the female armor bingo game when Inquisition comes out. Because of Bioware’s fantastic art team, I’m proud to say I think you’d be hard pressed to get a single square.
In closing, I’m sorry for minimizing an issue that means a great deal to people. My perspective is narrow, but I’m thankful to those who have been helping to widen it.
Wow. I’m floored and really touched by this apology. Thank you, Matt. As a long-time fan, I appreciate it very, very much.