open rp post

[troubleyan]

🏹 texts/epistolary 🏹 prompts 🏹 ota*

* pssst if we've threaded together on bakerstreet, consider this an open invite

Comments

ngl i laughed writing this

[firstbornstorm]

[ Some Tevinter magic wasn't horrible. Particularly the little crystals that allow folks to communicate over long distances. They've been in Crestwood for a few days, cleaning up after sealing that Maker-awful rift below the lake, and naturally, Bull had gotten restless and wandered off on his own to stir up trouble.

And who was tasked to retrieve their meddling ox-man? Right. The honest, good-hearted, kind Rivani assassin, of course. So imagine the surprise when the Inquisitor's crystal begins to softly chime, signaling an incoming transmission.

Which happens to be a very out of breath and very pissed off Daemon, trying to keep his voice steady. Not all that easy when wrestling with a bellowing Qunari and a fuckmothering dragon! ]

--anytime you and that Tevinter mage wanna show the fuck up, I'd greatly fucking appreciate it! [ There's a roar, and a plethora of curses laced with animal parts, and Bull yelling right back at the wyrm. And Daemon, grunting with struggling effort. ] Move your fucking asses! I can't sit on him for much longer or we're gonna get fried!

lemme join you

[troubleyan]

[ A girl can't talk to the local herbalist in peace without one of her companions wandering off on their own, apparently. Evelyn isn't exactly busy, but dealing with the villagers of Crestwood is a delicate kind of affair, since now she knows what happened with the rift below the lake and all.

She's just managed to take down the details of a wyvern that's been harassing the locals in a cave up north when she hears a very loaded summons coming from the crystal in her pocket. ]

What the fu - excuse me, miss. We'll come back - probably - Dorian!

[ She's rushing out the door and getting her mage from where he is currently clipping embrium in the herbalist's backyard, with an incredulous look. ] You sent Daemon after Bull? You couldn't just tell me to get a move on - will you get a move on?

[ It's not hard to spot the dragon, not when she's trashing about and roaring loud enough to wake up the entire valley. At least it's a run downhill, not even Dorian protests to that one; they jump on her horse together - it's faster than your fussy foal, shut up and get on - and gallop down to where it's safe to get off the horse. She slaps the horse's arse and sends him galloping away again, to safety, and runs there the rest of the way, firing long shots with her bow as she goes.

A dragon. Fuck.

At least Iron Bull is having fun with this, though she might need to have words later if they make it through the fight. She's a beautiful beast, but a tougher nut to crack than the one in the Hinterlands was. Those lightning bolts sear through them, and she makes the victory hard won.

Honestly? After walking through and working with the worst of human misery in the old Crestwood, this feels clean. When the great beast finall falls, Evelyn is sore everywhere and covered in blood - hers and the dragon's possibly - but her heart is pounding from the adrenalin. ]

Fuck - okay. Camp's up that hill, you two go get the requisition soldiers to come down here and help harvest this girl.

[ Iron Bull grabs Dorian's arm on the way up the hill, with a rumbled little come, kadan, let's go for a walk, and Evelyn just stares at the backs of them for a moment before turning towards Daemon. ]

They're totally going to find the biggest boulder and fuck behind it, aren't they?

[ She sighs, half-tired and half-fond, (she gets it, something about killing a dragon makes her horny too) and walks up to where Daemon is to hand him a healing potion. ]

Nice job on those hind legs attacks, by the way?

by all means. and mobile html is hard also the snark and sass in this is gonna be exponential, lmao

[firstbornstorm]

Being covered in blood was nothing new, really. But hot, stinking, acidic dragon blood was something else entirely. The sand helped; at least his skin wasn't burning so badly anymore. And the offered healing potion was accepted with alacrity, uncorked with his teeth, and then swigged in two long gulps before getting tossed away and the assassin resuming his task of shaking off all of the red, sandy dirt that was just fucking everywhere in Crestwood.

Then he squinted, eyebrow cocking up to watch Bull and Dorian saunter off, and he had to snort. "Probably." But he had other priorities, such as rifling through the loot for anything useful, and had to grin when the hoard revealed a few very nice daggers - we'll be cleaning those up to use later, thank you. But then the Inquisitor handed him a compliment, and Daemon paused, mid-riffle, and squinted up at her.

"I'm sorry, what was that? I think I might have had some blood in my ear or something." He sat back on his heels, smirking like a fiend. "Did you just...compliment me? Gasp!" He stood back up and teasingly clutched at his breast, falling back against a nearby rock. "Oh, no! It's going dark! I think...I think...I'm dying!"

you're right this is easier

[troubleyan]

He was so annoying sometimes, and he probably knew it. Probably did it deliberately. She can't help herself, but respond with a dry remark: "Cool, die somewhere clean so I can loot your corpse."

See if she has anything nice to say about his fighting form again, if he's going to be a sarcastic prick. Her gaze still cuts to him quickly, long enough to take in the shape of his ass, while he's riffling through the corpse of an long dead templar who fell to the dragon they just vanquished, before.

It's a very nice ass. Not the first time she's wanted to bite it.

[firstbornstorm]

Of course he knew. And he absolutely did it deliberately. Just to get a rise out of her. Life was so fucking grim and dour now, and it was far too easy to let that get in one's head. He'd seen it before, been there a few times, and had found that good, old-fashioned sarcasm was the best way to keep one's perspectives clear.

Which was why Daemon pushed off of the rock, gave the Inquisitor a shit-eating grin, and went right back to his perusal, finding a few sovereigns in the dead Templar's robes, as well as an interesting looking figuring that might be worth something back at Skyhold.

"Nah," he tossed back over his shoulder. "Think I'll expire down in a darkspawn horde. So you'll have to really work at it if you want to filch any of my pretties." He wasn't immune to her interest - it was one of the reasons he gave her as much shit as he did. And he knew he was attractive; his swagger wasn't only due to his skill with his weapons.

But, priorities. Especially since their companions had no doubt taken a detour to do a little "reconnoitering" themselves. So he stood, wiped his hands on his trousers, and whistled for the horses. "C'mon, Legs, we better get back to camp and get Harding and her grunts down here, before the wolves show up."

time travel shenanigans ig.

[naharel]

[ She was not trusted, when she first arrived.

There is no denying that, perhaps, the others were more suspicious of her than Fen'Harel himself had been; he was more curious. It was the nature of her arrival, her strange means of dressing, the way that she looked and the ways he spoke - all of it made him want more information rather than any real desire to punish or imprison her. He had questions for her, about the power she seemed to house and how familiar it was.

Time unfolded between them and they became... Friendly, if not close, with dinners shared and some questions answered, if not all. She is reticent to give him too much, which he can respect in of itself, but he does desire to push. To learn more. To demand more.

Tonight is that purpose: he has invited her to share dinner, to come to settle beside him with the hope that she will share something more with him. He almost lounges, as many do here, his dark eyes watching her every movement as she settles down, finding some comfort. ]

How have you been faring, da'len?

oh damn it's good

[troubleyan]

[Fucking. Dirthamen.

She blames him fully for the fact that she's been trapped in the past, in a gilded palace of a gilded people, having guarded conversations with an oh-too-fucking-familiar elf. She blames herself, too, for touching yet another orb - because you roll a ball at her feet, and Evelyn Trevelyan goes oh, let me pick that up for you, clearly - which was clearly cursed or designed to act as transportation because: here she is.

Stuck in the past, a human among elves, among gods, and chief among them Solas. She can't believe she didn't see that coming, the whole morale of Varric's stories: the villain was hiding in plain sight, right beside her, all along.

It has been weeks here, and with all the maneuvering of the truth (the Elves play a higher Game than Orlesians ever could) and adjusting to the fact that she may never go back to her time since there's no orb back, she finds that not slipping and calling Fen'Harel by his future, secret, name is the hardest thing to do.

That, and she wishes she'd learned the language better. Then again, Sera refused to engage with the elvish parts of her heritage and would've had her throat if Evelyn had called it heritage, and Dalish had frankly laughed in her face when she'd asked the Charger for a dictionary or lessons; and Solas just sounded old fashioned, she'd been told.

Or, she corrects herself now, old. Millennias old.

She is walking on eggshells here, is the point. She has Fen'harel watching her every move and trying to suss out who she is, and she hopes to the Maker that he won't see her Fade mark react and come to some terrible conclusion. Murdered in the past by a past version of her apostate ally (friend?) was going to be hard to put on a tombstone.

But also, fuck: what does da'len mean again?]

Fine - well. Thank you. It might be the nicest place I've been held prisoner by far, I mean the bed actually is comfortable.

🫡

[naharel]

[ Watching her is something like a game.

She is tentative in everything that she does, often times, as if one misstep might somehow lead to her doom. The other leaders here might be a little less willing to tolerate idleness or the desire to learn, but Fen'Harel has kept them at bay as much as he can. He enjoys having her as a guest, if nothing else, and he wants to unwrap all the layers of her secrecy and find the truth of it all.

She is hiding something, and while he cannot blame her, he wants to know what it is.

There are servants bringing them dinner (and it is likely noticeable that it is servants, not anyone bound in chain or magic), and Fen'Harel waits until they're gone and the two of them have some measure of privacy before he begins the conversation again. He doesn't want any prying eyes nor ears to overhear what they're to discuss, after all, even if they're using the common tongue. Better to be safe. ]

You're not a prisoner. You and I both know you are free to go whenever you wish.

[ There is simply no place for her to go, and he had realised that perhaps a little too late. ]

Please, eat and drink. Then we can talk properly.

[troubleyan]

[ Just because his servants don't wear chains or aren't marked - and gods, is that what the markings of the Dalish of her time were all along? - doesn't meant that it's the same for all his fellow high elves. Sylaise, Dirthamen, Falon'Din - she runs over the names in her mind every time she sees them.

Who is Fen'Harel, in all this? Who was he to the pantheon? Who will he be? ]

Are we not talking properly now?

[ She eats, but slowly and methodically, as if a knot in her throat tells her this one could be her last. Who knows what he'll do for the truth.

(How ironic is that?) ]

Unless you wish to converse in your language, my Lord, in which case I will have to disappoint.

♚ one exile ends and another begins ♚

[firstbornstorm]

Leliana shrugged lightly, folding the small parchment and handing it off to Hunter, who fastened the capsule to the raven's leg before departing with a nod. "I really can't say, Inquisitor," she told Evelyn then, putting down her pen and capping the small inkwell. "I first met him in Antiva several years ago. Before I became the Divine's Left Hand, actually."

The spymaster smiled, rising from her seat to lean against the stone window sill that overlooked Skyhold's interior courtyard. The subject of their discussion was currently guiding Cole through the process of grooming the horses, showing the boy how to brush, curry, and comb with his own large black stallion, the horse calm and quiet under his master's sure hands. The former spirit followed the older assassin like a happy puppy, eagerly drinking up every single word and gesture.

"He and his companions had been hired by a rich landowner to track down a group of thieves and return the stolen items," Leliana told the Herald, gesturing down below. "They did so quite quickly, and were very thorough in their chastisement." Then the redhead chuckled, mirth quirking her lips and the corners of her eyes. "Daemon allowed us to live, though," she added, twinkling at Lady Trevelyan. "So I'm very grateful for his judgment."

[troubleyan]

Evelyn asks most of her companions about themselves without even an inkling of embarrassment - Blackwall has been questioned about his past as a Warden, Cullen has been interrogated about how celibate Templars were meant to be (an important question, really, since her own father had wanted Evelyn to go into the Order after the Conclave), and she has made sure to speak to everyone else equally. Some of them keep their cards close to their chest, but none moreso than Daemon - and since he's been recommended by Leliana, here she is.

Trying to snoop.

Her eyebrows shoot up, and she looks out the window towards the assassin. "You were the thieves? No wonder you're fond of him, Leliana."

A pause. "He's very nice to look at." The admission slips out, her cheeks pinkening immediately. She turns away from the window and walks over to the table. Shuffles some paperwork. "So, uhm - we trust him, yes?"

[firstbornstorm]

"Oh, don't believe that he didn't trounce the lot of us," Leliana replied, shaking her head slightly. "But I saw right away that this wasn't some mindless, dead-eyed killer, little more than a weapon to be used." She shrugged again.

"The contract didn't demand our lives, just the merchandise returned. So, he took back what we'd stolen and let us go." Her mouth tilted again. "Without our weapons, clothes, or any sort of transportation." She laughed. "We had to walk naked to the next village and beg for scraps of both food and clothing."

The spymaster's eyebrow went up at the Herald's next comment. Nor did Leliana miss that soft blush that gilded the woman's pale cheeks. Nor the sheepish shuffle of parchments on the desk. "I do trust him," was her calm response. "Even though he claims to be of Rivani descent, I know he isn't, nor or those who travel with him, but despite all of the mystery surrounding him, I do indeed trust him."

She glanced over at the Inquisitor, a knowing little expression on her face. "Do you?"

[troubleyan]

Evelyn's expression is serious, accepting no contradictions. "More than you would think it prudent, probably. But yes, Leliana, I trust him - with my life and the life of others. It's why he keeps coming on journeys with me, he knows what he's doing."

Definitely isn't because she likes to watch the impossible muscles of his back move as he carves through an enemy, or because he meets her in verbal banter like she's a real person, not a symbol, not a hero. She loves the fact that being with Daemon - twice now - has made her feel free and mischievous and wanted and hot.

Good girl, Evie. A shiver runs through her at the memory and she swallows around a knot in her throat, clears it.

"Which is why he'll be one of the three I've chosen to come with me to Halamshiral. If anyone can sneak into the shadows while I am supposed to play diplomat for the Empress, he can."

She pauses. "Cassandra and Vivienne will be the others."

you know the thing

[dirth]

[ Solas wakes in the night with what feels like a nightmare burning through him.

It is not a nightmare, however - it is a memory. He can feel it as though it happened to him only moments before, and he has to face the sudden realisation of knowing exactly where their Inquisitor had disappeared to after so long. With the memories attacking him now... He can only assume that means that she has returned, and he rises from his bed to seek her out.

Wandering through the keep, he seeks out the burn of magic, the scent of the Fade, and it doesn't take too long to find it - not when he is so actively searching, and had been for such a long time. Pausing in the doorway leading to the small garden around the back of Skyhold, he spots her figure in the distance and feels a swell of... Something.

Something he shouldn't name, and yet... ]

Inquisitor.

I know the thing

[troubleyan]

[ Falling through the Fade this time hurts, because she's made the mistake of falling first. A silly and impractical thing for her to do, more reckless than allowing Fen'Harel to so thoroughly seduce her because she felt like fucking a god.

In the five-six seconds between Fen'Harel activating an orb they absolutely, totally stole from Dirthamen together, and the Fade and time splitting open around her, she thought oh Maker no, I wanted more time with you.

And then the she's in Skyhold, her Skyhold, in the middle of the night. Skyhold's inner garden, emptied out of all the Chantry sisters this late at night, shines bright green as the Inquisitor is returned to her time.

Her Inquisitorialness needs a moment to catch her breath, and not feel like her world is spinning. Like her heart is somehow empty.]

Ugh, so stupid... [She's going to have such a report to write, given that she's ended up in a different place than where she disappeared. She's not sure Cullen will accept a It's all fine, don't worry about it! as a report from her. Maybe from Sera.

Maker, how long has she been gone? Is Corypheus still -

And then, that voice. From the side entrance to the Keep, soft and familiar. She turns and faces him, and wonders - for a moment - how he feels about the fact that she is dressed in the dark leather armour of one of Fen'Harel's agents. (They did commit a heist together after all.)

But also, fuck it. What she's wearing is irrelevant.]

Ah. Well. [She looks at him for a very long time, and then takes a step towards him.]

Hello again.

[dirth]

[ This is the last thing he expected, and also one of the worst things that could have happened to all of his plans.

Solas does not want to imagine what else might slip into his mind once she has settled back into this reality a little more comfortably, and his teeth grit together. Now that she's aware of his identity - because there is no hiding the fact that he is Fen'Harel, not when she had been with him so intimately - he will have to be all the more careful, and he will have to ensure that she does not spread it.

Whatever he might offer, it will have to be a grand thing indeed.

The leather does upset him, briefly, but there are more important things to focus on. He has to judge how much she is going to give him, how far he might have to push her, what she is going to do with this knowledge - and how he is going to deal with the new sexual fantasies that have erupted in his mind, memories as fresh as they were only yesterday.

Lifting a hand to rub under his eyes, Solas sighs. ]

It seems your journey took you further than we had anticipated.

[ He doesn't move back and away from her, but... He is clearly cautious. ]

You are unharmed?

[troubleyan]

I am sure you're disappointed to learn that, [she says it quietly, all the secrets in between them that she is not speaking. Her awareness of who he is.

Who he was. She adds,] hahren.

[Dreadwolf take me, indeed, she thinks, holding the same piercing blue gaze, standing toes to toes. Here it is: she knew, even as she slept with Fen'Harel, over and over, who he'd be.

(Foolish for her to think she would come out of it unscathed.)

She used him - but perhaps it's mutual. Whatever Solas's intention has been, he has clearly been using her now too.]

I spent months living so far into the past that Thedas wasn't even a concept, but sure. I'm unharmed.

♛ Halamshiral ♛

[firstbornstorm]

Halamshiral. The Winter Palace. Place certainly looked large enough, but he'd seen bigger fortresses on the other side of the world. And these Orlesians, baby snakes playing in a pit; they were infants when compared to the politics of King's Landing or Mereen. Still, it was dangerous enough over here to get you killed, if you didn't play the game or watch your back.

Fucking bullshit, every single bit of it.

Even so, it was child's play to slip away from the Inquisitor's party and stash their weapons in a safe place, because no one was going to go into this cesspit without something sharp or projectile within relatively easy reach. He'd learned how to blend and move with the crowd; even the Inquisition's blazingly loud uniform didn't deter his skills, and when he did garner a second look, a crooked smile, a smooth compliment, and the occasional kiss to a hand left only fluttering heartbeats in his wake.

Daemon did refrain from parading out into the ballroom with the rest of Evelyn's escort when she was introduced to the Empress; the fewer who took note of him, the better. Which left him free to drift and listen, pretending to sip from the goblet thrust into his hand by an elven servitor. Every so often he'd catch one of his companions' eye, but he studiously ignored whatever order they might try to impart. He knew his job; he didn't need to be managed like some idiot waif.

Yet an imp of mischief prompted him to weave through the crowd until he approached the Inquisitor from behind, pausing just enough to murmur at her ear, "Quite a party, isn't it?"

[troubleyan]

Standing in the Winter Palace, dressed in what is essentially cleverly disguised armour passing as a military uniform, Evelyn has never felt so naked. It helps, however, that she is not without protection, although her group of Inquisition members attending is quite unusual.

She doesn't like that Josephine was right, that bringing Vivienne and Blackwall and Daemon was the right thing to do, because Orlesian nobility expects nothing but the scum of the earth to be part of the Inquisition, and here she comes parading all her exemplary humans. Blackwall and Vivienne, for how much they fucking despise each other, are playing along nicely - each stationed where they must be, keeping a keen eye out for everyone attending the ball. Daemon, who has the gift of slipping around unnoticed, is thankfully good at his job, which is more than Evelyn can say about herself.

She should be here working out how to save the Empress from assassination, not trying to recruit new spies for the Inquisition among her court, not seething from the private conversations with Brialla or Gaspard.

She is standing on the edge of a private balcony, leaning against the railing, and trying to figure out her next course of action when there's a sudden presence behind her.

"Andraste's tits," she yelps, in surprise, and then hisses. "Dammit, you caught me by complete surprise."

She turns towards Daemon, taking in the way the red uniform looks on him, trying to keep down the sudden desire to run her hands over his shoulders and play with the epaulettes. He is handsome, and - "Is that my ribbon holding your hair tied back? What scandal."

[firstbornstorm]

He grinned at her, swallowing a chuckle, then lifted his chin slightly, preening under her gaze. Oh, he knew he looked good; the scarlet and gold uniform fit him like a second skin, exactly as he'd insisted. Though it had come to blows between him and Qotho during the fitting; his second and best friend had found no end of amusement and entertainment watching his khal stand in the middle of the room and be wrapped in such ridiculous garb. It hadn't helped that the damned Herald of Andraste had been sitting beside the Dothraki bloodrider trying to stifle her chuckles and failing miserably.

The entire interlude had ended in true Dothraki fashion: with Daemon and Qotho rolling about amid the pincushions, loose fabric, and overturned furniture trying their hardest to pummel each other comatose. Thankfully Josephine had managed to intervene before any lasting damage had been done, save, perhaps, to the poor tailor's heart (the man had had to go for a stiff drink and a lie down afterwards, to calm his scattered nerves).

But the end result was worth it; his uniform jacket held enough hidden weapons that it was a miracle he didn't clank when he walked. Because no way in hell was he going to set even a foot into this crowd without at least five small knives. The rest were stored away with their armor, hidden safely out of sight.

And the rogue did snort an involuntary laugh at Evelyn's comment, giving his ponytail a saucy flip. "Thought it might save me time and these poor, desolate gals a bit of embarrassment," he teased, stepping up beside her to lean his arms on the balustrade. A derisive noise followed. "I have better things to do than say 'no' to every noblewoman who jiggles in my direction."

sob - I'm sorry for the delayyyy

[troubleyan]

"Not every noblewoman," she jokes back, seeking out some comfort in the quiet way she gets to nudge her shoulder against his.

She is technically nobility, of course he knows this. But she still wants to find some of those jiggly women and glare at them - please, as if she has any ownership over Daemon. Or rather, as if she has a right to be possessive.

"Here I was going to ask if you'd come to ask me to dance."

She nods towards the courtyard directly below them, where the guests of this ball conspire in broad nightlight, trading gossips and barbs.

"I caught wind of the Empress hiding something in her quarters. Do you think we can discreetly make out way there?"

[battlemaged]

Just another day at Skyhold. Rest and resupply, with plans to head back out the following morning. But apparently forty-eight hours was far too long for a certain few, because in the haze of a relatively warmer afternoon than most, Cole suddenly burst into Josephine's office, where she and the Inquisitor had been diligently pouring over paperwork, declaring in a high, excited voice, "The Champion and the Iron Bull! In the courtyard! Hurry!" Then the boy was off again, flying through the hall shouting the same thing over and over until all of the keep was buzzing with a mixture of curiosity, worry, and concern.

What had begun as a friendly competition of drinking and boasting had evolved, or devolved, depending on perspective, into an impromptu sparring match between the Champion of Kirkwall and the Iron Bull, with Varric taking bets from the onlookers, Sera hanging on the fence hooting, and even Blackwall serving as referee. Dorian and Leliana had emerged from their tower, as had Cullen, looking appropriately concerned; Solas and Cassandra managed to look appropriately disgusted, but neither deigned to turn away from the spectacle: Hawke and Bull sans their armor and weapons, both powerful, muscular bodies gleaming in the weak Ferelden sun, each trying to grapple the other into submission.

And despite Bull's obviously larger bulk, the Champion was hardly a weakling. Years of chopping wood and working on a backwater farm in his youth had granted Rowen Hawke a splendid physique, and the years of staying battle-ready and just as willing to bash an enemy with one of those large fists or the butt of his staff as he was to use his innate magic had kept him in perfectly top form.

Though the spectacle certainly looked vicious, Hawke was laughing as he grappled with the Qunari, boots digging into the soft sand to keep from being shoved back against the fence. He shoved Bull back and off, then delivered a solid right hook that no doubt rattled the ox-man's teeth, judging from the roar Bull gave, and ducked the returning haymaker, rolling beneath the blow and dancing back to his feet, cheekily tossing his sweaty hair back and smirking.

The crowd roared, excited at the show.

"Again!" the half-naked mage taunted, bright blue eyes gleaming. "Come on, big man! Come on!

ooo i have an idea, hold my beer

[troubleyan]

It's not like she was busy or anything, pouring over details of Josephine's contrived plan to ennoble a peasant so the assassins would cease trying to sneak into Skyhold to kill Evelyn's favourite adviser. It's not like she's been needing a distraction, because honestly Josephine worries a lot and Evelyn is going to be excellent at the politics, she promises.

But Cole barges in just as she's about to drop down to her knees and actually beg for a break, and in the nick of time.

Without pausing, and out of worry, she lunges out of her chair and is out the door in no time. Surely they would not be in danger - or fighting each other - right? The men are chums, all things considered.

(Well, as much as Rowen can be chummy with a reminder of the qunari that sieged Kirkwall three years back.)

The crowing crowd makes her know there's no attack incoming, and to make matters good, she sees down into the sparring ring all the way from the top of the stairs.

Brilliant. They are brilliant. Fuck.

She descends briskly, as both men lay into each other, her throat tight as her gaze traces their moves quickly - as quickly as they move. What a perfect display of power. You wouldn't think Hawke is a mouthy apostate, with the way he's built. Then again, you wouldn't think Bull is a spy, with the way he is built either.

She approaches the ring, stopping by Sera, arms on the fence at her hip.

"Oh, hey Inky," Sera quips, and does a double take before laughing and shouting towards both Bull and Hawke. "Watch out, boys, mummy's here!"

Evelyn swats Sera's thigh lightning fast, sending the elf into giggles.

"Don't worry, boss, I won't break him," says Bull, with a knowing smirk.

"I mean, it looks like he's asking you to, Bull," Evelyn says back, loud enough and smug enough to send onlookers tittering. She turns her attention to Hawke. "You know, if he's not fast enough for you, Champion, I'm always up for getting under your armor."

🍻!!

[battlemaged]

The Inquisitor's arrival hushed the crowd for a brief moment, all involved parties feeling a smattering of guilt, but the Herald apparently didn't mind the carousing; she instead delivered to the grinning Champion her own sally.

To which Hawke smirked right back, cocked her a sarcastic eyebrow, and quipped right back, "But I'm not wearing my armor, your Worship." Mouthy apostate, indeed. And a distraction that Bull was too happy to take advantage of, for while Hawke was smirking at his lover from across the training ring, the Qunari lowered his head, gave a hoarse bellow, and charged, bricklike shoulder catching the mage in the solar plexus and sending him careening right into the fence, back first, then shoulders, then his head slamming into the post with three bone-cracking thuds.

He dropped, motionless.

The throng gave a collective gasp, then went deathly silent. Bull backed away, looking a little abashed; Varric, however, didn't seem an ounce worried. Blackwall, giving Evelyn a worried glance, slowly approached the unmoving Champion, only to be knocked completely off of his feet as Hawke suddenly surged up with a dragon-like roar, bloodshot eyes blazing, to launch himself at the surprised Qunari, taking Bull right in the knees.

Bull yelled, both men going down in a whir of sand, flailing limbs, and landing blows. The crowd paused, then erupted in wild cheers as their combatants battled like titans across the too-small training arena. The next body to slam into the post was Bull, upside down, to slither to the ground like a cut rope, the panting mage slowly getting to his feet and shaking off the fine layer of sand that coated him head to foot.

[troubleyan]

He gets his wind knocked out of him, and in spite of how far she is from the post itself, she hears the cracking sound.

She's already up, feet on the fence, heart in her throat -

She can tell Bull is about to apologise too, and then the air...shifts. Crackles. Evelyn sucks in a breath, looking to where Hawke is not passed out but standing. Charging.

"Fuck."

She can tell there will be Templars writing letters to her about the dangerous apostates she keeps the company of.

When it starts to be bloody, she jumps into the ring and whips out two blades - palm sized - throwing them at the ground at their feet, pinning their trousers to the soil.

"Enough. Stop making wine of each other on my training grounds, you fucking wankers - Blackwall, call a victor or call the fight over."

Blackwall hesitates for a moment, then concedes: "Only fair to call it won by you, Inquisitor."

She looks from the Iron Bull to Rowen, two more blades between her fingers.

"If you start up again I swear to the Maker I'm shanking you both in the arse."