Daughter of the Tides
Sten/Jeanne, any AU. Requested by hyperbali.
The Qunari had surrounded him in a circle of blades, ignoring the man that lay choking on blood under his heavy palms.
His hands were chained behind him to prevent casting even the smallest magics as they dragged him into the camp, even if he was only trained to heal, body and spirit.
For all the rumors he’d heard of the Ariqun, he had never imagined her to be the rare breed born without horns, much less have dark brown hair bound into a maze of braids.
omg a lifeswap
hold me I think I may faint
Happy birthday, Bali. I hope it’s full of big, strapping kossith.
squeals in undiluted basra delight
kadan!! oh, you know me so well~ <3
maybethings asked you: Sten and Zevran, sparring.
“Perhaps we did not entirely think this through, my stoic friend.”
No one could quite remember who suggested the match in the first place—Sten had been preparing for his nightly sparring set with Alistair, a ‘tradition’ he’d placed on the young man with a firm expectation of no argument. Alistair, for his part, emphatically protested the treatment every night for at least an hour before finally being prompted into taking up his sword and board.
‘The Qunari’s like to kill me long before the darkspawn ever do,’ he’d joked, and earned himself a stern look from the Warden.
Someone—perhaps it was Oghren, maybe Wynne or another—suggested that Zevran be the one to take on the duty instead for an evening. Alistair was nursing a wound from earlier in the day anyway, and the Crow had never tested his mettle against Sten, so to speak. After a back-and-forth wherein Zevran thought he’d been very witty indeed, the pair found themselves watching each other from across a short clearing, each tense and ready to strike.
It would prove to be a poor match. Sten was strong, like a force of nature, with his newly reclaimed Asala in hand—but he was slow, each arc of the two-handed sword taking too long to slice through the air. Zevran, on the other hand, was quick and careful with his attacks; unfortunately, he didn’t count on the kossith being so good with his defenses. Neither had been very successful in getting so much as a single hit against the other.
They continued for hours, long after the campfire dwindled and their companions had dropped off to sleep, one by one. Finally, only the Warden and Morrigan were left, sitting together on a fallen log as they watched the men swing away at each other in the growing darkness.
Neither wanted to yield, but their leader finally called a stalemate when both were starting to sag into the ground, streaked with dirt and sweat from their exertions. “Much fun as it is to watch,” Morrigan mused, eyes lingering on Sten’s shirtless abdomen for a moment or two, “your energy will be far more useful spent on our enemies rather than each other.”
They reluctantly agreed to let the sparring end—for the moment.
“You are…better at this than I would have guessed, elf.”
“Hah! Coming from you? No higher compliment have I ever received.”
Sten, Warden of your choice, comfort.
He had more than his fair share of opinions on the matter, none of them particularly positive—especially given the circumstances they’d found the higher they’d climbed in Kinloch—but she would hear none of them. Simpering attempts at solace and chastising remarks from their traveling party went unheeded as well. Instead, she stayed unusually quiet and dismissive, sometimes murmuring prayers to her Maker under her breath, rubbing at a band of skin on her middle finger as though for lack of something there.
If it meant a night of silence and solitude from her usual enthusiasm and ‘wit,’ then so be it—though he could not deny the unsettled feeling about him when he glanced at her and saw her deadened eyes, lips taut and thin; her demeanor reminded him too much of the Saarebas back home.
Eventually he pushed a bowl of stew into her hands when it was clear she wasn’t going to make an attempt at supper for herself; when she lifted her head to give him a questioning look, he just gave a faint grimace.
“If you give up now,” he ventured slowly, “they died for nothing.”
Her face pinched in a scowl, but he saw her mouth quirk slightly anyways—she recognised the echo of her own words, as he knew she would. After a few deep breaths, the mage sat up fully; her shoulders still sunk as though from an unseen weight, but some of her determination had returned.
“I never asked for this.” A voice strained with exhaustion and grief—now more understood, though still sounding petulant to him—seemed to lighten. “But I suppose there’s no avoiding it now, is there?”
“As it should be.”
A slight smirk, the first sign of the Warden he’d begun to know, finally surfaced. “Of course.”
maybethings replied to your post: Haha WOW I am literally in unholy amounts of pain…
Dragon Age. BUT FEEL BETTER SOON, MERAADAN DDDD:
(is it bad that Cullen wasn’t even the first to come to mind)
(and thank you, kadan <3)
(Funnily enough I had actually drawn something similar to the previous request earlier this week)