I’ve reached 300 followers and decided that it is my civic duty to perform a giveaway!
5 people will get a character of their choice (regular restrictions apply) done in concept art like our dear commander is modeling below.
Pretty fun, right? WELL, one ultra lucky person will receive….
That’s right, a free doll to cuddle on could be yours! The winner will be responsible for shipping, however.
The “rules”:
Likes and each reblog count as an entry, but please be considerate of your followers
You don’t have to be following me to be considered, but gosh that would sure be nice
Standard restrictions apply, so any doll that Sanshee has an official design for is off limits. Alterations (like doing Winter Palace Cullen instead of Commander armor) are juuuuust fine
Non-humanoid characters are acceptable on a case-to-case basis
Open to all fandoms (and if you want a real person, we can try)
Winners selected by random number generator
Entries are accepted from November 2, 2018 until November 15th at 11:59 pm MST
Because I have now hit 500 followers (whaaaaaaat), I’m increasing the drawings to 10 winners for concept and 2 winners for a doll!
He’s not expecting the person who comes to see him after his outburst. She’s silent as she joins him at the balcony, leaning on its railing next to him.
“Is Josephine angry?”
Leliana huffs a laugh. “She’s trying to smooth some ruffled feathers. She might be a little perturbed after, but she respects you. And that includes your opinion.”
Flynn sighs, letting his head fall forward. He hadn’t meant to let his emotions get the better of him.
“I am sorry. I just … maybe in the beginning, the Chantry was something that helped people. That didn’t tear them apart or turn them on each other. But the Chantry I know is corrupt, greedy, and doesn’t feel any guilt at inflicting suffering on families. Or other races or those who don’t believe.”
The hood usually casts Leliana’s face in shadow, but she tilts her head, letting the soft light of the evening show him the curious expression on her face.
“You lost someone to them.”
He twists the ring around his finger and nods. “They took everything from me, in a sense. But it started with my brother.”
“I am sorry.”
“Thank you. I’d like to imagine the Maker exists and is more … generous and kind than they make him out to be. That maybe he’s just as disappointed and frustrated in what the Chantry is. That he wants to help us. I certainly don’t like the idea that we’re in this alone. I don’t think he appreciates what humans have turned the Chantry into. Maybe that’s foolish.”
“You know, many would call your insights wisdom.”
“And many more would call it heresy,” he laughs.
“You are the Herald of Andraste. You speak for her and the Maker.”
“Maker help us if that ever becomes true. We’d be beyond any help.”
They stand in silence, mulling over their own thoughts as the sun sets. Flynn hated the Chantry before, and this entire journey with the Inquisition has only enforced that hatred. It’s almost worse than the Orlesian court and their political machinations.
At least the mages are free and under his protection.
“I agree with you,” Leliana murmurs. “The Chantry should be a force for good. It’s lost sight of all it preaches. They are empty words now. We can only hope the next Divine will set them on the right path once more.”
“You have more faith than I do,” he grumbles.
“It is not a bad thing to have, Inquisitor. Faith and hope are some of our most powerful tools. With enough, we could very well change things for the better.”
Sidni stands across from Sera, a loose grouping of soldiers between them. They stare one another down, smirks playing on their faces. The soldiers glance uneasily at each other.
“This is not a good idea,” Cullen mutters from the sidelines.
Bull laughs, clapping him on the shoulder.
“Relax, Cullen. They both know what they’re doing.”
“We can’t afford either of them getting hurt.”
“Aw, come on, Cully-wully. Don’t trust neither of us with this?” Sera taunts.
“I trust you’re both mad.”
Sidni glances at him with a smile, knowing it will be the opening Sera is waiting for. But she keeps herself loose, appearing unaware that Sera will attack.
Her bow is in motion, an arrow firing toward Sidni. She dodges easily, giving Cullen a reassuring nod as the soldiers begin their play acting battle.
Sera does her best. She’s good, Sidni will give her that. Their time together has shown how true her arrows fly, but Sidni has several more years’ experience of refining her reflexes and eliminating possible weaknesses under threat from her father. She knows how to use the others’ heights against them.
She flings a throwing knife, weaving closer. Sera dodges it, firing another arrow. She feels it disturb her hair as it passes. One of the soldiers swipes at her, but she takes his knees out, collapsing him into one of his nearby comrades. And while it takes out some “enemies,” it also eliminates her cover. She drops to avoid another arrow, grinning at Sera’s exclamation of “Piss!”
They spend a little longer taking out each others’ “allies” and dodging one another. Sidni sticks to her general plan, watching for openings. When she sees it, her moves become more aggressive, eyes trained on Sera’s erratic attacks.
Everyone freezes when she catches an arrow and leaps, tackling Sera to her back and holding the point at her throat.
“Maybe next time,” she says.
Sera lets out a laugh and accepts Sidni’s hand. Bull is laughing off to the side while Cullen rubs his face with his eyes cast skyward.
“You might be able to do it if you stopped yelling,” Sidni adds as she collects her blades and circles the fence to take Cullen’s hand. He shakes his head, begging her to stop taking unnecessary risks. Somehow, she knows claiming it was fun won’t set his nerves to rest.
“I don’t know what to tell you, salroka. Ain’t seen her around in over a year.”
The shopkeeper stares suspiciously at her scarf covered face. She knows her eyes are wet above it. No one, no one, has seen Keeva since shortly after her father had taken her from here two years ago. With the brand now across her cheek, Dust Town’s inhabitants don’t want to speak to her. She’s had to take to hiding her face to get information from people she once interacted freely with.
“Th-thank you,” she hiccups, retreating from the shop quickly.
She ducks into a nearby alley, pulling the scarf over her face. Do not cry. Do not. Her breaths drown out the sounds of people passing and yelling. The hollow spot in her chest aches in a way she’s never felt.
She thinks of the way they left each other, their fingers grasping and voices echoing in pleading screams. All of which had fallen on deaf ears as they dragged her away and back to the surface. Back to her father.
Keeva has to be somewhere. Sidni will find her. She will.
Don’t be full of sod. Keeva is … no. No. How could her father do this? How could anyone do this? Her father can’t be that bad. He wouldn’t have killed her.
Of course he would have.
“Child? Are you okay in there, child?”
She drags the the scarf across her face to clean away the tears before straightening and looking to the strange dwarven woman at the mouth of the alley. She stares down at Sidni, thin face creased in worry.
They await letters from Alard with trepidation. Flynn’s parents accept the poppycock explanation that he’s been sent from Ostwick to Kirkwall because of his aptitude for teaching and diplomacy. Something else is afoot. Never mind that they all know the Gallows is the last place anyone should be sent. They know the rumors.
Flynn wonders exactly how much trouble he’ll be in if he follows through on his half formed plans to go rescue his brother.
The thought becomes increasingly prevalent as more and more time passes without any communication. He’s heard the whispers about the state of that Circle, the Templars stationed there, and the Knight-Commander. Alard shouldn’t be there. He shouldn’t be in a damn Circle at all.
Lady Trevelyan’s letters requesting news of her second son go unanswered. Despite it all, she maintains faith that the Chantry is looking out for Alard and making the best choices for his “condition.” Though Flynn wants to rage and shake her, he hasn’t the heart to destroy that faith quite yet. Some part of him still prays to the Maker that he’ll see Alard’s familiar writing soon.
It is only after Bann Trevelyan sends a vaguely threatening missive demanding news of his son that they receive a letter from a Knight-Captain Cullen and a short note from Alard himself. Its contents gut Flynn.
Tranquil.
After the initial confusion from his mother – But he’d already passed his Harrowing! Something must have happened! – and mild suspicion from his father – Something not right about that Circle, but they must have had reason. – they settle into acceptance. Even Emery begrudgingly accepts it must have needed to happen.
Flynn finally breaks.
In the midst of his tirade, his mother reminds him of his duty to the Chantry, the promised role he has been set to take. There is silence from his father and his remaining brother.
“After the wrong they’ve done? Their own laws they’ve broken? You’d still support them? Open your eyes, Mother!”
“They have their reasons! Magic is meant to serve man–”
The vase shatters against the wall next to her head. The tension fills the room until it is nearly suffocating.
“If you believe all of this, you’re bigger fools than I thought.”
“Son–”
He whirls on his father, fighting back tears and rage flaring back to life. “How? How can you just accept this? This is not the Chantry I was taught exists. This is … this is wrong! This is …”
Without a backward glance, he grabs his bow and quiver, taking to the forest behind their home. He tears through the foliage, bent low against Warden’s back, until he can no longer see the estate.
Leaving his horse to drink from the stream and climbing the branches of a familiar tree, he settles and finally lets himself weep for his brother. His fingers brush against the orange-jeweled ring Alard had given him before he was taken. He won’t forget and he won’t let the Chantry get away with this. No matter what.
Flynn could happily throttle Mother Giselle. “Repeating” rumors and accusing Dorian. If he wanted to be objective, he could understand why she said what she said. But he doesn’t want to be objective. At all. He doesn’t need to be. Not with her or anyone else who doesn’t know Dorian.
He may be brushing it off, but Flynn’s still worried she managed to get Dorian, might cause trouble for him amongst the Inquisition.
“Do what? Yours is the good opinion I care about, not hers. It does make me wonder … is my influence over you undue?”
Flynn grins. “Perhaps. I mean … it’s the kind of undue influence I enjoy … no, I just … it’s welcome–”
Now he just wants to throw himself over the railing and into Solas’s rotunda.
Dorian, thankfully, saves him from himself and says, “No one accused you of being politically astute.”
The smile lurking under his mustache is gentle, but full of mirth. He’s holding back his laughter, despite Flynn playing the fool. When will he learn to shut his mouth instead of letting it run away with him?
“Not today,” he mutters.
Dorian finally lets loose his laugh. It warms Flynn’s chest in a strange flutter. Of course, the way Dorian’s eyes are glinting in that dangerous way doesn’t help.
“I tease you too much, I know,” Dorian chuckles, to which Flynn responds with a shrug. “I’ll have to find something we can do that doesn’t involve teasing. Soon, ideally.”
Flynn doesn’t miss the suggestive way his tone has dropped. He feels the heat rise violently in his ears and cheeks. He turns his head quickly to hide it, lest he give himself away.
“Does it bother you? That they speak of you being under the scary magister’s sway?”
He doesn’t miss the faint note of uncertainty under Dorian’s normal boisterousness. But the idea that Flynn would care, wouldn’t see the man under the far flung reputation? The heat floods back into his face as he turns back to meet Dorian’s eyes.
“You think it bothers me? I don’t care what they think, Dorian. They can take their fucking opinions and save the world on their own.”
The smile Dorian gives him sends him scurrying away before he embarrasses himself further.
Maker's Breath 