The Insanity Continues

Some other characters from my Avalon12 au

Did a thing for the soul and peace of mind

Okay big Dushan (he/him) lore dump before I move on with my wips (1/?)

He's my main Inquisitor oc and comes and goes in my art. So if you like him or DA content specifically, stick around, it pops up every few weeks

He's in his mid 30s/early 40s, House Trevelyan is technically on its last breath by the time their only acceptable heir (Dushan) is born. Him being afab opens an opportunity for arranged marriage with another noble family, with an ultimatum that the contract will only sets in motion if the marriage successfully brings a child to join their names and blood. With that nuance Trevelyans (as a bit too fanatically religious house) can't send him off to grow up into a templar or a chantry initiate. It leads to him being brought up in a cult-ish environment to become his family's sacrificial lamb (or foal. Bc get it, Trevelyans) Homeschooled church kid, if you will. Sometime before the marriage his younger sister is born and sent off to the Circle as soon as she walks. At 17-18 the marriage goes through but doesn't last long

Dushan is terrified of both his now-husband and the idea of carrying a child. The years of pent up fear and abuse make the generally quiet kid go off the RAILS in one night, killing his husband, beheading his father and declaring himself the only son and the new head of the house. There's not much anyone can do about it with his mother being long gone, the family being in shambles and him indeed being the next in line

He's heavily pro-mage not even because of mortality of the question but because his sister in the circle is his closest and only beloved family left. He spends years clearing and building up their family name through dirtiest play so his sister can have proper noble privileges. In the process of it, through revenge, assassinations and more dirty play, the house ends up almost completely wiped out. Including the sister herself

By the time of the conclave he's broken. He has the name, the power, the skills, the flourishing land but noone left by his side. He serves and sponsors the Ostwick chantry his family was affiliated with, attending the conclave under its name

He himself lost his faith years ago and being forced back into it by the whole herald thing makes him gasp for air anywhere he can. Between living in the goddamn Haven, being trapped between soldiers of the chantry that don't really give a fuck about him at that point, he clings to Solas and his talk of fade and spirits and wonders that are so hated by the chantry he fears. They bond frankly inseparable in the first act

(drag) queen of gotham

Thinking about my Dragon Age art tonight

"Oh. Hah."

Elias makes his way in without much commotion to it. There's certainly enough space around Jon's somewhat limp body sticking out like a sore thumb in the middle of the doorway and he makes use of it, eventually stopping to neatly fold his coat. Jon is not entirely sure he finds it in him to be surprised. Or scared. Or, maybe, he just doesn't have enough will of his own left to feel pretty much anything.

"Take the shoes," he clears his throat out, trying to find his voice. "Take the shoes off. Georgie doesn't—"

"I know."

Of course.

"Of course," he blinks first and shuts the door second.

They go by a kind of move-stare-follow protocol while Elias proceeds to make himself at home. Although it's mostly Jon doing the staring, Elias doesn't look at all. He walks across the flat blindly, like his muscles remember the floor and the corners. Jon supposes they might, in some omniscient and messed up way.

"Charming," Elias proclaims dryly at the thin mattress Jon came to inhabit.

"Indeed," Jon echoes.

Seeing the man plop down gracelessly in his thick flannel suit doesn't have the same effect anymore. Jon used to think it was some weird corporate thing, something they'd teach you at a workshop about great leadership. Make yourself approachable. Sit down with them on a dusty curb in the back alley, share a cigarette, address them by their names. Crush a man's scull into a purée in their office. Make them feel. Make yourself human.

"Don't," Elias said softly as Jon takes a breath in.

He reaches out a hand that Jon doesn't take. Instead, he sits at the opposite end of the mattress, feeling a sudden vertigo. Elias drops the hand into his lap, palm up. "You're burning up."

Jon cracks a hysterical laugh, heavily propping himself up. He feels a tug at his chest, a yearning for a solid form beside him, spitting "fuck you" in the viper's face — a sad, childlike desire, to call for Tim like he'd make all the monsters go away in an instant. Jon squints at the hungry void across from him, all alone, he's so alone, and the monster creeps closer. Elias takes his still burning, still bubbling hand in a firm hold and tugs until the void swallows Jon whole. He watches the fall of his own body, wet forehead pressed into the wooly fabric, bones twisted in an unnatural position. Elias jolts involuntary as Jon tumbles into him but sits still for the few excruciating moments Jon needs to collect himself. Mentally, mostly, because to recuperate his body on the ground — mattress, — and push himself up against the wall proves to be easier than walking.

They sit now, shoulders and sides touching, and Jon now can't see the void. He closes his eyes to be sure and pants heavily.

"What are you doing to me?"

"Nothing. You're just dehydrated."

"Sure."

Elias sighs and runs circles over his wrist.

"I might get sick," Jon adds.

"You are."

"No, I mean." He gestures vaguely, shaking off the cold fingers. "I mean puke."

"Mhm."

Jon makes an effort to pull his knees up and double over, curling in on himself. He breathes, fast and panicked, trying to will the nausea away and the cold hand returns to pet steadily at his back. Jon feels a very particular nothing about it being there.

"You..."

Killed. A complete sentence, not even an accusations, because Jon doesn't know how to finish it. Leitner. Gertrude. Sasha. You killed me, he wants to say, even when he's still hurting and breathing.

"Time and place, Jon. There's no use to try right now."

Jon squeezes his head between his knees and wants to wail. He wants to cry more and he wants Elias to be gone. He does get away, truth be told, the mattress shifts and pangs and Jon doesn't know if this twisted delirium of his is ever coming back until Elias carefully unfolds him.

"Don't get the wrong idea," he sounds almost amused as he cradles Jon close, pushing a bottle into his hands and palming greasy hair out of the way.

Jon drinks in gulps that hurt him more than the burning and drops his head onto the bony shoulder in some exhausted kind of surrender. Elias smells like the archives. Cologne and cigarettes, too, but mostly dry rot and dust. Never sweat. Never the must of a human body. Jon feels cold terror bite at his ankles and curls up again, this time pressing himself into Elias' rigid form, nose buried in satin. He doesn't knows gods, not the way his grandmother did, but he imagines this to be the smell of those catholic statues adorn in silks and left to stale for centuries on end.

Feed your god fearlessly and without hesitation, or it will feed on you.

He feels a gentle press to the top of his head. Might be lips or something else, Jon doesn't know, but he laughs coarsely, clinging to the shirt with bloodless fingers. "Don't get the wrong idea."

He doesn't really think there are any wrong ideas left between them.

Elias hums and it echoes all around. Jon speaks again. "Is this real?"

He's not sure if he's doing the thing, but Elias scratches at the base of his skull with repulsive tenderness and answers earnestly. "It is."

"What do you want?"

"At the moment?"

"I... Yes."

"For you to sleep, preferably."

"Why?"

Jon feels his pitying gaze. Like he's a blind rat staggering in a labyrinth under a watchful eye from the above.

"There's a job to be done, Jon."

Jon pushes away with a sigh, not meeting much resistance, and buries himself into the scattered sheets. Maybe this is the kind of acceptance the underground woman felt in the face of death. He never understood it before, not before a kiss touches his temple and slips onto his cheek. He's not sure he wants the touch. He's not sure if he resents it. Papers slide across the floor, a statement he won't read, not now, not in this room. He kind of expects footsteps and shutting of doors now, but instead Elias gives them some distance and seemingly settles for good, prickly eyes creeping up Jon's spine.

"Do you want to hurt Georgie?"

"No."

"Are you lying?"

"Not to you, Jon."

Jon turns his back on the monster in his bed and doesn't find it in him to care if he doesn't wake up.

Young love

the missile is eepy. the missile has had a very long day of splashing bandits and wants to take just a small sleep.

Almost three months on t, loosing my mind every time I look into the mirror