There was a mouser in the tower named Mr. Wiggums. Only company I had when the templars locked me up. Miss that beast a lot, sometimes.
Not okay.
SOMETHING TO REMEMBER when the whole
AANnnDURZZ LuVZ KITteNZ KFLSkfdlasiilLISD takes over your brain
while he does indeed love them and appreciate their cattish ways and the kind of affection they share, the haughty kind of nudges they give you when they are cold or hungry, you should try to keep in mind that while he loves them - and there’s no debating that -
they probably remind him of being alone
they probably remind him why he’s better off in the company of animals and outcasts rather than actual human beings
they probably remind him of being treated as subhuman, less than alive, less than a person
they probably remind him of clutching quietly in the dark for a furry belly and hoping he is not alone this time
just keep in mind that (while he loves them), they probably carry a lot of meaning for him and it’s not all sweet fluff and forgetting and safety and being kept warm
sometimes it’s coldness and darkness and starving together on the stone floor of a dark cell and waiting to be remembered by someone other than a cat
can you imagine the resentment as the cat comes and goes, slipping in and out of the cell when it suits him, when it pleases him, with no thought given to his comings and goings? to be unpoliced, unnoticed, domesticated but fundamentally free? i am certain he loves cats (of that there’s no doubt) but sometimes there is more to things than whiskery kisses and kneading claws and whisper-quiet pawpads on the cold stone floor
Not that I don’t agree much with the above assessment—but at the same time, I’m not sure his feelings are as bleak as all that. I think Anders loves cats not just because they offered him companionship in solitary, but also because they offered him hope. That cats could come and go as they pleased meant that there was always a world beyond Anders’s cage; and that as long as that was true, then there was also always the hope that he might someday return to it. They reminded him of freedom, at a time when he most needed reminding.
Cats gave Anders something to cling to in the darkest of times, and the memory of hope is always inextricable from the memory of pain, because generally you don’t bother with hoping unless you have a fate desperately wish to escape. And yeah, it hurts sometimes, but hope is always, always something worth cherishing.
no but seriously it’s been almost two years and I’m still not over the line “I have made this place a sanctum of healing and salvation; why do you threaten it?”
This was more of a pain than it was meant to be
yeah
it’s true
i like to think about a dystopian kirkwall (which, let’s face it, kirkwall itself is dystopian low-fantasy; is there any landscape more pre-and-post apocalyptic than the view given by the city of chains?) with torn jeans instead of torn trousers; moth-eaten hipster scarves; thrift-shop rings of power; the mage underground is a culture, with its own music, its own fashion; and anders, in secret, is known as the doctor of darktown. you can find him in the sanctum of healing, clinic by day, magical speakeasy by night.
(when the neon flickers on, the refugees start coming.)
and he’s got these tattoos, and when his magic flares, they go from black-and-blue to bright, white light.
rage against the templar machine. disobey the qun. foster the apostates.
and he wears this necklace, the sign of the templar brand, to remember the fallen.
and he’s impossible to talk to, but there’s something about him…
you just keep falling under his spell. not literally. …you hope. but it’s all too easy to see in the shadows why mages are feared.
and one night, you work up the courage to talk to him. to mention, off-handed, that you wouldn’t mind sucking on his fireballs.
(he doesn’t laugh. so you ache for years, wondering how to teach him to laugh again.)
Flutiebear: Rambling My Way Through Thedas: Dragon Age question!
Does anyone know how ‘genlock’ is pronounced. Is it said genlock or jenlock? This is seriously bugging me
I say “jenlock,” and I’m pretty sure we hear it that way in canon, too. I can’t remember exactly when, but there’s…
actually, i think it is ‘genlock’ with a hard g. i just rewatched the scene where anders talks about sir pounce a lot and he said it as ‘gen’ not ‘jen’
(I don’t understand I just played this last night god flutie your age is really starting to show)
Does anyone know how ‘genlock’ is pronounced. Is it said genlock or jenlock? This is seriously bugging me
I say “jenlock,” and I’m pretty sure we hear it that way in canon, too. I can’t remember exactly when, but there’s never been any doubt in my mind about pronunciation, and I think it’s because it is said occasionally in the game. (SOMEONE PLEASE CORRECT ME IF THIS IS WRONG).
If it’s spoken out loud, my guess is it’ll probably be in Ostagar when the one officer (I assume?) is making a little lecture out of a darkspawn corpse? I always default to hard Gs unless demonstrated otherwise, though, and if it is in-game it’s been a long time since I’ve noticed. (If it is a soft G I need to know because I want to retrain how I say it myself.)
I can confirm it’s canonically pronounced “jen-lock”; Anders pronounces it “jen-lock”, when he talks about how Ser Pounce-A-Lot once swatted a genlock’s nose (when you first meet him).
I just played this bit last night, so it’s fresh in my mind.
This exchange is the main reason I can’t romance him with a Marian. (Interestingly, you don’t get this dialogue as Garrett, but you do learn about Anders’ relationship with Karl.)
(via brennacedria)
Let’s see if we can find a few more deposits.
Let’s see if we can find a few more deposits.
Let’s see if we can find a few more deposits.
Let’s see if we can find a few more deposits.
Let’s see if we can find a few more deposits.
Let’s see if we can find a few more deposits.
Let’s see if we can find a few more deposits.
Let’s see if we can find a few more deposits.
as promised, anders in a cat cardigan. have a beautiful day
THE NOSE AND THE CAT EYEBROWS AND THE LITTLE PAWS AND THE LITTLE STUBBLE AND I CAHNT
I CAHNT
i think it’s time for me to re-read shimmy’s sanctum and healing
Dear MAKER I love the DA2 art style so much.
(via katiebour)
I have to admit, I had a serious - WTF? - moment at this point in the conversation. And I still don’t know if I’ve come to terms with it.
Considering how Hawke already paints the streets of Kirkwall red with the blood of templars/slavers/gangmembers/crooked cops/blood mages/elven revolutionaries to keep his/her favorite apostates safe, I figure this is just Anders trying to speak on Hawke’s level. To put his affection for him/her in terms Hawke will understand. :)
If any of y’all are Dragon Age fans, let me take this opportunity to recommend my favorite fanfiction of all time: Sanctum and Healing, by spicyshimmy.
Also Mud and Sand (and its sequel, Gods of Antiva) are likewise exquisite.
Happy birthday to spicyshimmy!
Your fanfic all are great! I will never forget the feeling the first time I saw your fanfic for my DA2 stuff, I almost cry ;u; you are so amazing.
well, i am crying. these two. this moment. hard faces and hard lives softening in the shadows they carry and the hands they hold.
oh, they’re not perfect on their own, far from it; maybe they’re not even all that good for each other. but they’re proof that first love can come long after the first fires of youth are all but burnt out, just a few fireballs lobbed in the night to light the way. hawke isn’t a healer and anders doesn’t know how to heal himself and neither of them knows how to accessorize, obviously, or how to stay in one place, or how not to burn cities to the ground. or stay out of the underground, or keep themselves from inviting the darkness in, toying with light too bright, too bright.
one big hand, one small hand. one awkward coat, one silly house-robe. one cat person, one dog-person. one feathered, one regularly furred. one beard and one not-a-beard-at-all. eyes open or eyes closed.
but the most wonderful thing about it is how little they match and how much they love each other anyway. how in need of family they both are. how they can pillow each other. how they’re all patchwork like a stitched up bolero with bandages wound around the torn-y bits, or like armor that’s pieced together out of odds and ends. they don’t make much, but they make memories.
hawke doesn’t have to wait ten years, a hundred years from now.
and—without realizing it—anders doesn’t have to, either.
they hurt each other, they lose sight of each other; they lose sight of other things, and don’t lose their edge. they lose their way. they lose their grip. they lose some love but it isn’t finite. it replenishes. it’s a narrow river and a deep, uncalm sea. and anders’s fingers brush hawke’s knuckles so that two empty hands aren’t empty anymore.
stupid, frustrating, desperate, stubborn, tragic, lonely—the recipe for a potion like love. they get it right, somehow, despite being so wrong all the time. maker knows they wouldn’t ask for a different path, hexes twisting and turning and smells and smog and everything. there are some people, people like aveline, who stand for all of them.
and there are some people who—for better or worse, in sickness and in health, possessed by spirits of justice and demons of charisma—stand with each other.
they all thought hawke was the champion of kirkwall, but that wasn’t the truth at all, not really. or anders was kirkwall and kirkwall was home and, on the run even when they were by a hearth, they made shapes like family, and one whole shadow.
oh
oh wow
Andersi? Andersium? Anderocity? Whatever. It’s glorious.
omg is it request time? Yay! Modern AU! Carver taking Merrill to go see the Avengers. Maybe there’s cosplay involved. GO. :)
Oh Carver stop being so embarrassed you’re totally into the tshirt…
Aaah I just saw this now! Thank you for messaging me about it I would have missed this gem!
I am going to put it into my Drafts so I can look upon it always
this is just wonderful, I love all the little details (the bicep! Mrs. Marethari! looking at her lips! AND GARRET OMG you would and the car and hammers and oooh maker)
asdfdfbgg Let me just melt into a puddle of gratitude and fffft man I would really love to see this story continued that involves hemlet-grabbing
ifyoukknowwhatImean
or you know I can just draw it and leave it up to imagination that works too
betcha dont think its such a silly getup NOW huh Carver? This is worth dealing with your brother
AUGH! I love it! So here’s a sequel (of sorts) to this:
Carver had been wrong: Garrett hadn’t planned on sitting next to him and Merrill at the theater. Oh no, his troll of an older brother sat behind them instead.
“Don’t you think you’re taking this chaperone joke too far?” Carver hissed, not even caring anymore if Merrill overheard.
Garrett grinned viciously before rearranging his expression into one of mock horror.
“Never,” he gasped, splaying his hand over his heart. “It’s my solemn duty to be your lord and cockblock.”
Next to him, Anders choked on his soda.
“Our solemn duty,” amended Garrett. “Sorry, Anders. Not leaving you out. Don’t be angry.”
“You wouldn’t like me when I’m angry,” offered Anders.
“You’re walking home,” growled Carver. “Both of you.”
“Yeah right. Like I’d leave you two alone.” Garrett slung an arm easily around Anders, who shifted closer. “You’re not showing her your hammer again on my watch.”
Suddenly, Merrill slapped Carver’s bare bicep, her palm making a loud, unmistakable crack in the hushed theater.
“Carver!” she snapped, her eyes still glued to the screen. “Tease your brother later. The previews are on!”
Sheepishly, Carver turned back around and settled in his seat. Rubbing his stinging arm, he tried to ignore the snickers behind him—but it was easier said than done, especially when Garrett began kicking the back of Carver’s seat in time to the trailers’ swelling music.
As the last preview finished and the lights dimmed, Carver began to turn toward Merrill, only to stop short when he realized her mouth was much closer to his than he’d originally thought.
“Isn’t this great?” she whispered. Her breath fluttered on his cheek.
A piece of popcorn pelted the back of Carver’s neck.
“Awesome,” he grunted.
***
The movie went uneventfully enough, much to Carver’s dismay. Every time he tried to take Merrill’s hand or even shift closer to her, he’d be met with a shower of popcorn, or obnoxious soda-slurping noises, or Garrett’s whispered yet piercing commentary on the movie. Once, when Carver finally heard tell-tale smacking sounds behind him and thought his brother sufficiently distracted, he almost managed to get his arm around Merrill—only to have Garrett’s boot abruptly kick the back of his seat.
“That’s it.” Carver stood and wheeled on his brother. “Quit it, you—“
Carver’s voice died in his throat. As quickly as he had stood up, he sat back down again.
“Goddammit, Garrett,” he said, face burning. “You’re in a public theater.”
“Science boyfriends,” Garrett reminded him, and kicked the back of Carver’s seat again, this time on purpose.
“Carver, quit it, you’re missing the movie,” hissed Merrill. Steve Rogers was on screen, looking baffled by something, and she sighed happily. “Isn’t this just the best ever?”
“Awesome,” he mumbled.
***
Merrill’s house was on the way home from the theater. Carver parked as far as he could from her front door and still be in her driveway. Then he rushed out to open her door for her and walk her inside.
“Stay,” he commanded Garrett, who grinned back at him from the back seat.
“I’ll make sure he does,” Anders said with a smirk.
When they’d gotten some distance from the car, Merrill finally spoke. “I don’t know why you encourage him.”
“Me? Encourage him?” Carver felt his face grow hot again. “He’s the one who crashed our date, remember?”
“He only does it because you react,” she said, frowning. “If you just ignored him—“
“—he’d go away? Hah.” He shook his head emphatically. “You obviously don’t know Garrett. Ignoring him just makes him work harder.”
They walked a moment in silence. “Why do you let him get under your skin anyway?”
Carver frowned. “What? I-I don’t let him—“
“I mean, you’re bigger than he is. Stronger. Smarter. Better looking.” Merrill continued, rattling off the compliments like she was reading a grocery list. “You don’t have to feel inferior to him just because he’s older than you.”
Carver tried to come up with some witty response, or any response at all, but found he was having enough trouble just to remembering how to breathe.
“You really think,” he eventually managed, “I’m smart?”
Merrill smiled gently, her cheeks wrinkling the edges of her mask. “Of course. You fixed your car up from scrap, didn’t you? And they don’t make just anybody captain of the football team.”
Carver didn’t have the heart to remind her that he only became captain because Cullen sprained his ankle. Especially not when she was looking at him like that, her lips slightly parted, eyes wide and earnest.
“Merrill,” he murmured past the pain in his chest. “I think you’re really—nice.”
Carver grimaced. Nice? Nice? Thank the Maker Garrett was out of earshot. He’d laugh at him for that one for the next five years, at least.
But—Merrill wasn’t laughing at him. She wasn’t doing much of anything, really, just staring at him with those huge green eyes, pupils as wide as oceans.
Suddenly she laid a hand on his cheek. Startled, Carver flinched back from the gentle touch.
“Oh no you don’t,” she murmured.
In one swift motion, she grabbed both sides of his helmet and tugged him down, down, their mouths not so much meeting as colliding. Her lips were warm against his, soft, reassuring.
The kiss lasted only a moment, or forever, Carver couldn’t be sure.
“There,” she murmured when they broke apart. “Now wasn’t that great?”
“Awesome,” he agreed, and tugged her close again.
