#if you want any clips just hit me up again hehehehe thank you so much for choosing me TT_TT

[theoriginalladya]

Dragon Age II - Meghan Hawke/Nathaniel Howe, Sebastian Vael *ears perked* *grabby hands* :D for your WIP folders?

Hehehehe   Thought that might get your attention! :)

Okay, so let me start with Meghan and Nate.  Meghan is the only Hawke I’ve ever played (dual wielding rogue).  I ended up playing her twice because on my first playthrough (romanced Fenris) the save I tried to import didn’t work, but I didn’t discover it until Alistair showed up and I knew that language I needed to hear, and I didn’t.  Okay, not so bad.  So I reimported it, it took this time, and I romanced Sebastian second time through in the game.  Great - now I have some baseline on both of those romances.  

That said, I already knew Meghan wasn’t going to be with either of them in her story - she ends up with Nathaniel Howe who she meets when he is still a squire for his lord in the Free Marches.  In fact, they meet in Kirkwall as he is waiting on the ship that will take him back to Ferelden.

Going to put under a cut because this got long really fast! lol

(And I do not vouch for any of this as I first wrote it about six years ago, possibly longer! lol  I’ve certainly learned a LOT more about writing since then, so these will inevitably get cleaned up before I think of posting them in future)

Deep in thought, Meghan left the table and returned to the bar.  She waited to be served another and was considering looking to round up a game of Wicked Grace to entertain herself with when she was unexpectedly and quite rudely hit in the back.  The move shoved her belly first into the bar counter, and the edge caught her just beneath the ribcage.  “Ooof!” Her breath was forced out of her lungs, and for the briefest of moments, Meghan thought she saw stars ….

“Maker’s breath, are you alright?”

Blinking back pain and trying to suck in enough air to breathe let alone reply, Meghan coughed harshly and finally resorted to nodding.  Her vision wasn’t quite back to normal yet, but a strong hand at her back pounded a few times in an offer of help -- help?  How does this help?  

Almost as if he sensed her thoughts, the hand grasped firmly at her shoulder and he guided her to sit on a nearby bench.  She recognized that it was a he, despite still being doubled over from pain.  His voice had that soothing baritone feel to it, very similar to the voice her father once had.  

Once seated, he left her side, returning a half moment later.  He dropped a tankard on the table beside her with a not so gentle thud and both he and she ignored the suds and ale that sloshed over the side, dripping down to form a ring around the vessel.  “I must apologize,” he told her, dropping to a knee in front of her to bring them to eye level.  

Meghan lifted her head, still searching for enough breath with which to speak, when she met cool, steely grey-blue eyes.  Blinking, her mouth worked again, but still nothing escaped that even remotely resembled words.  At best, a rough grunt slipped past.  His eyes narrowed in concern and he moved to her left as if to pound on her back again.

Meghan reacted instantly.  Straightening, she lifted her hand, warding off his actions, and finally drew in a deep breath.  “No, thank you!” she rasped.  She pulled in another immediately following, and then another.  Absently, she rubbed at her ribs where they’d hit the counter. “I’m … good.”

“Are you certain?” he asked.  The look of concern on his face didn’t fade.  If anything, Meghan noticed, his brow seemed to furrow more deeply.  “I would hate to think that I --”

She managed a lopsided smile, waving her hand back and forth between them.  “I’ll be fine,” she promised, this time with better vocal projection even if it was still rough around the edges.  “What -- what happened?”

He grimaced. Glancing around, he pointed towards a mild brawl taking place that was now moved onto the far side of the tavern. “I guess I walked into the middle of something.”

Meghan’s eyes followed his direction and she spotted a pair of vaguely familiar faces in the center of the tussle.  Sighing, she shook her head.  “Willis and Farlan are always in the middle of some ruckus,” she assured him.  Her voice was stronger now and she straightened further.  Reaching for the tankard, she took a careful drink.  Tilting her head slightly to the side, she observed, “You aren’t from these parts, are you?”

The concern finally eased from his face, but Meghan wouldn’t say it softened his features at all. Dark hair, light eyes, and eagle like features even down to his unfortunately large ‘beak’.  Still, he wasn’t entirely unattractive, and Meghan had to admit the caramel smoothness of his voice more than made up for any perceived deficiencies so far.  

“I’m not, no,” he agreed.  Rising, he took a seat on the bench next to her, his eyes drifting to follow the activities across the room.  “My name is Nathaniel Howe.  I’m a squire for Ser Rodolphe Varley.”

Meghan frowned, searching her memory for any information on that name.  She’d heard it a time or two, but had no first hand knowledge. At the same time, something about Nathaniel dropped into place for her.  “You aren’t from the Free Marches, are you?”  When he looked startled, she smiled.  “Your accent -- Ferelden?”

Slowly, he nodded. “I’ve worked hard to disguise it,” he admitted, “and thought I’d made progress.  Obviously, I was mistaken.”

Dropping into the Fereldan tongue, Meghan gave him a sassy grin and extended her hand. “Meghan Hawke, lately of Lothering. My family and I fled to Kirkwall when the Blight started.”

“Lothering?” His look of astonishment faded into a half smile of amusement.  “Your accent, on the other hand, is quite good.”

“My parents were originally from Kirkwall,” she explained.  “They moved to Lothering before I was born.”  She took a healthier swallow of her ale.  “Can I buy you a drink?” she asked after a moment.  

Nathaniel chuckled softly and shook his head.  “It is I who should be buying you one, I think,” he told her.  

Meghan jumped to her feet, only the slightest of tightening at the corner of her eyes indicating any residual pain left from her injuries.  “Nope.  This round is on me.”  She left him before he could protest, returning a couple of minutes later.  Handing him the tankard while regaining her seat, she reached for her own and lifted it to clink against his.  “We Fereldens have to stick together.”

Now, let me tell you a bit about Sebastian in this world.  I adore Sebastian, good parts, bad parts and all the in between.  I’ve always thought he got the short end of the stick on some things too, and I wanted to include him more predominantly in this series of fics, so I’ve sort of broadened his horizons, so to speak.  

Now the clip i’m going to share technically is a part of Serafina and Alistair after the Blight, but it happens in Kirkwall (long story there, too), so I sort of wedged it in on this side of things to make it easier to find in my notes.  You see, he and Serafina met years ago when she is visiting Orlais.  Neither has seen each other since then - about five years previous to this moment.  This is how they bump into one another after all that time...

Their path took them into an open courtyard and for a moment, Serafina’s steps slowed.  

“Did we take a wrong turn?” Alistair asked, his eyes searching the area.  

“I think we must have,” she replied.  “Oh, wait. There’s the Chantry.”  She pointed across the way.  “I think we need to head that way.”  Her hand drifted to a stairwell to the right of the building.  

Alistair’s eyes lifted to view the large building looming over the city.  “You know,” he mused in a tone only she could hear, “I’ve always heard how the people of Hightown think themselves above those in Lowtown, but I didn’t think it was so literal.”

“Hmm?”  Serafina glanced around.  Smiling gently, she nudged him in the arm.  “There is a lot of history here,” she agreed, “but most people tend to forget the simple yet more important aspects of it.”

“Oh?  What do you mean?”  He stopped walking, pulling her over to the center of the courtyard near the Chantry Board.  

Casually, she pointed to the exits to the immediate area.  “What do you see?” she challenged.

Alistair blinked. “Stairs?”

Serafina nodded. “Where do they lead?”

He frowned. “Down?”  

She nodded again and waited, her eyes meeting his.

“To … Lowtown … Oh!” Blinking, Alistair tilted his head to his right.  “Stairs lead up and down.”

“Exactly.  They might find themselves above those whom they think they are better, and their history certainly provides enough reminders that even the bloodiest of battles have not reached these heights,” she pointed out, “but the fact remains that when that happens, they are still stuck. Those stairs are their only way out. If a siege can be held long enough, they have no means of escape.”

“Thankfully,” he muttered for her ears only, “Denerim isn’t set up the same way.”

“There is that,” she agreed.  Then, walking out into the middle of the square, she turned in a slow circle, eyes lifted and surveying the architecture and situation of the buildings surrounding them, “On the other hand, it’s difficult to argue that it isn’t a pretty view.”

“And clean,” Alistair interjected as his eyes followed her.  Granted, certain parts of Ferelden’s capital city were better tended than others.  He wondered how much that had to do with the Blight and civil war or simply because Cailan had been king.  His eyes fell back to her after a moment and he stiffened when he realized …  “Watch out, behind you!”

Serafina, eyes still on the buildings around them, stumbled as she stepped backwards into someone. She caught herself awkwardly, but didn’t quite lose her balance.  “I’m so sorry!”  A strong hand at her arm helped her maintain balance, and she dropped her eyes … to an unexpectedly handsome and familiar, if somewhat older, face from her past. Gasping, her own eyes widened.  “No!  It … it can’t be!” she breathed.  “Sebastian?”

Startled, the man released his hold on her and took a step backwards.  “I’m sorry.  Have we met?” he asked.

It was all Serafina could do to break her gaze from his.  When she did, her eyes trailed over the rest of him.  He stood before her, just as vibrantly muscular and male as she remembered, now dressed in armor that clearly had Chantry’s influence in the design.  That, perhaps, answered a question.  However, some things remained the same.  The blue of his eyes.  The velvety roll of his voice and the soft burr as he spoke ….  

It stung a little that he didn’t recall without some prompting, but considering the circumstances that led to that night, it wasn’t much of a surprise.  “Five years ago in Val Royeaux,” she murmured quietly.  “There was a masquerade and …”

Recognition hit him instantly and he took another quick step backwards from her.  “You!” he gasped, face paling with shock.  

She nodded slowly but remained where she was.  She didn’t realize Alistair had joined her until his voice, quiet but urgent in his concern for her, penetrated through the fog of surprise.  “Are you alright?”

#WIP Folder meme #ladya writes #Dragon Age II #Meghan Hawke #Nathaniel Howe #Sebastian Vael #Serafina MacKinnon #Alistair Theirin #my writings #thank you so much for asking about them!!! #shadoedseptmbr

[raccoonsinqueen]

So Close, Yet... Part 4

Summary:  It's a little hard working two jobs, but you manage.

Notes:  Sorry no skelebros this chapter like what am I even doing

“Eyyyyyyy, dame.” The crass monster slurred as you set down his food. He was beyond wasted as his eyelids were half lidded and he was having problems remembering he had a tongue in his mouth. “Wwwwhat time ‘ou gettin’ off t’night?”

This was actually more than common. Mobsters that come in here would get drunk to drown out their criminal tendencies and moral ambiguity, and they would either pick fights, hit on you or Grillby, or bust into tears and tell you their life stories. You much prefered the latter one, seeing as it not only provided you with info, but you also liked hearing other’s problems and being there for them. You know, when they're not murderers or rapists.

But today it looks like you were going to have to deal with your least favorite. The ones who think their being suave.

“Much later than you will be awake for, sir.” You smiled.

“Awwwwww nah, com’on!” He swatted the air a couples times, and then a couple times more. “Ima show ‘ou the time of ‘yer lifffffffe.”

“I'm fine, thank you.” You rolled your eyes. Despite his non threatening appearance, you still couldn't help the unwanted feeling that his advances left up your spine.

“Heheheh...” The monster blinked at you. “‘Ou are fffiiinnnee. Very very fiiiinnneee.”

You almost laughed, “Thank you, sir.”

“Come wit’ me tonight!” He said, joyously, before he started hushing himself and leaned towards you. “I can chhhhaange your worrrlldd.”

“Uh huh.”

“Eva hearda pink botttles, dame?”

You wanted to laugh so bad, but you held your tongue as you heard Grillby call you in the back. “Y/n? Can you come here?

“Sorry, sir.” You winked at your patron. “Boss’s calling.”

“Noooooo,” The drunk monster protested, his forehead smacking to the table. “Come baaaaack!”

You ignore the protests that came from the monster and walked back to the counter, where your boss quirked a brow at you.

“What is it, boss?”

“I don't get why you talk to them, just ignore them.” Grillby said, his even voice ever so stern.

“Did you call me here to judge me or to tell me something, Mr. Grillby?” You teased poking at your boss.

“Tonight.” He ignored your pokes. “A reservation is coming at ten.”

“Ten? Why so late?” You knew why. To keep discretion.

“None of our business.” Grillby simply stated.

This could give you an opportunity. A reservation for Grillby’s Bar? It had to be some big shot bosses, with that kind of money, not to mention a reservation means big talk as well. If you could catch even just a couple snippets of their conversation as their waitress, it could prove very very usefull. Drug shipments, money laundering, maybe even human or monster trafficking? You’d be able to destroy them .

“What do we need to do to help?” You smiled.

“Make sure everyone’s gone by 9:45.” Grillby said. “You included.”

Oh, poo! Grillby, why do you always have to ruin everything! “Why? Don’t you need help?” You feigned ignorance.

“No.” And that was that. The unfortunate thing about Grillby being a monster of not many words is that he leaves no room for negotiation.

“Fair enough.” You said with faux smile. “Don’t worry Grillby, your best gal is in the job! Everyone will be out by 9:45.” It was times like these when you wished you could have some sort of fancy spy tech! You heard that the police have these cool gadgets that let you listen in on peoples conversations, like the radio or something alike. But where would you get something like that? The grocery? You don’t think so!

For just a second, you could’ve sworn you saw some affection in his fiery gaze, “Thanks, love.”

“Love?” The smile grew on your face as you leaned toward your boss, your chest of the counter. “Don’t tell me... Have I finally grown on you, Mr. Grillby? I have, haven’t I?”

The affection soon turned neutral once again as he turned back around, “Make sure to lock the doors save for the front door when you usher everyone out.”

“Aw! Don’t be so cold with me, Mr. Grillby!” You called back to him, the smile still growing on your face.

“You sound like Sans.”

It was cold. The air was frosty. You didn’t mind it, it heightened your senses and kept you focus on edge.

You were in a dark warehouse. Faint voices could be heard beyond the crates behind you, and you dared to slip past another row. Said voices grew louder.

“Ya got the stuff.”

Oh boy. Now we’re cooking.

“If you got the money, we do.” Ew. That voice sounded like the person was gargling an octopus. Weird.

You could hear footsteps coming closer to you. Some grunt or guard of some kind. You hid behind one crate, counting his steps along with your own calm, low heartbeat. You can keep this silent.

1...

2...

3...

4!

Just as he stepped in your line of sight, you lunged for him as you grabbed his mouth and felt the flesh of his throat slice beneath your knife. He didn’t put up much of a fight other than haggard breath, but just as the deed was done, he went motionlessly, almost as if he was fast asleep.

Great, one down.

“Show me the cash.” You moved closer, slipping past one more aisle.

“Julius, come here.” You paused. Maybe that guy you just put to rest wasn’t Julius?

You looked at the body. There was a briefcase. So maybe he wasn’t just a guard, so what? People make mistakes!

“Julius?”

Nothing but silence.

You heard the gravel-like voice exhale, “I swear to... Tommy, Butch, go get him.”

Yes, please. You’d love to meet this Tommy and Butch.

Step after step you heard them... Closer and closer. The thrill was exhilarating, but you held no fear. You wondered why that was. But as said Tommy and Butch walked forward to their untimely demise, one seemed to have stepped right past your aisle without noticing a thing. You felt a little ignored, but you wouldn’t let it hurt your feelings too bad.

Mostly because the other walked right down your alley, as you hid behind your crate. Just as Julius you waited until he was just in your reach. The key was timing, the key was patience, you could only get those two from practice when it comes to exciting ventures like these.

And with one final step, you pulled Tommy or Butch down by the tie and slice straight up under his jaw. You were lucky he didn’t make a sound, but the skin under the jaw was always an easy access to the brain without having to deal with that nasty skull of his.

You set Tommy or Butch down slowly and silently, before maneuvering past your aisle. Now, you could let the other Tommy or Butch find you, but why do that when the hunt was so much more thrilling? Not to mention the fact that he might find Juli-

“What the f-!”

With a swift and graceless movement, you jumped out to wear the late Julius’s body was and stabbed the other Tommy or Butch’s neck in. You had been careless, you should’ve gotten to him faster. But he was still alive. He weakly tried to grab your wrist in an attempt to survive, but you stabbed him again and once more before he finally stopped moving.

His blood was warm even against your gloves. The warmth didn’t reach through your mask, but you knew it was painted in it.

“Butch?” The gravely voice questioned.

“What’s going on?” Ugh, there’s that gargling octopus again.

“This isn’t apart of- .... ” The gravely voice hissed, before stopping himself. “I don’t think... We’re alone.”

How cute. His voice sounded determined. Like he was going to do something about it. Fat chance.

“Cops?” The octopus voice questioned.

“Maybe.” You heard the sounds of guns clicking and locking. You hated that sound. The steps went light and near silent, but you could still tell where they were.

“Or maybe not.” You couldn’t help yourself, you had to say it. I mean, what else were you supposed to do, stay silent and ambush them? Not likely!

And in seconds gun fire littered the boxes, almost poking a thousand holes in your lovely red cloak if you weren’t so good at dodging them. You rushed out from under the crates and dove past the aisle in front of you. In one glimpse, you caught the remaining silhouettes. Three on the left side, one on the right. You must’ve finished off the right side’s men. Good for you.

And then you were back racing down the second aisle, gun fire trailing your feet, the sound deafening. But you knew it wouldn’t last for long. Bullets are finite.

Deciding to skip the last aisle, you jumped past the last crate and landed behind the man by himself. He turned around alarmingly fast, but you were even faster, grabbing him by the neck and using his body as your shield from the other bullets. You thought you were doing pretty well for yourself, until a searing heat clipped your side. And then another at your legs. And another at your shoulder.

You faltered. You... got hit. And it hurt ! You would commend them if you weren’t searing with hatred . Okay okay, calm yourself. No need to be hateful. You probably deserved that one. Heck, taking on seven armed mobsters at once? Have some temperance!

And just like that, the deafening sound of bullets ceased and was replaced with the empty and useless clickings of their weaponry. You threw the lifeless body in front of you down, but was shocked to see what was in front of you.

“Monsters.” You laughed. “No wonder you sound like you're gargling an octopus.”

The leader, a monster that looked like tentacles were coming from his face, shifted at the sight of the body in front of you.

You stopped yourself. “Wait. Was that offensive? That was probably super racist... speciest? Right. Sorry.”

One of the monster grunts, this one with looking like a five foot tall rat, stuttered to himself. “R-Red Reaper.”

“Oh?” You said, delighted. “I’ve never even touched a monster gang before, and even you guys know me?”

Octopus-Throat took a hesitated step forward, a hand on his large knife on his belt. “That’s right. You’re monster friendly, right?”

“Monster friendly?” You smiled. Not like they could see, with your mask and all. “Of course! Why would I have any reason to harm you?”

You could see the relief on their shoulders. But that relief was short lived when you lunged for Octopus-Throat, a long slash across his chest. Surprisingly, without hitting any vitals, Octopus-Throat let out a sharp yell that shook the entire warehouse before disintegrating before your eyes, startling his coworkers. Guess what they say about Monsters is true. All you need is intent to kill them.

“Except, you know, the fact that you’re all rotten .”

It was an easy fight. The other two monsters had tried to run. You locked all the doors before you came in, so it wasn’t too bad of an issue. They seemed to die with one hit. They were either really weak, or maybe intent really was a scary thing for monsters. No wonder they always seem to run from you. You were just too good at your job!

But now you were facing another problem...

Piles of dust.

How were you supposed to perch these up against a wall? Should you... Draw a picture of them in the dust sitting peacefully? No, that’d be weird... And also probably offensive again. Didn’t Monster scatter the dust of their loved ones over their most prized possession? Maybe they had their prized possession on them? Maybe you should just... fold all their clothes and stuff?

You exhaled. You had no choice, that was what you were going to have to do. Maybe nobody will think it’s too lame...

#mafiatale #mobtale #so close yet... #raccoon with a book