Adult-FanFiction.org : Games

Slow Burning Dreamer	By : Breathing2nd Category: +A through F > Dragon Age (all) > Dragon Age (all) Views: 3692 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I do not own Dragon Age, nor the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-1
- 2-2
- 3-3
- 4-4
- 5-5
- 6-6
- 7-7
- 8-8
- 9-Nine
- 10-Ten
- 11-Eleven
- 12-Twelve
- 13-Thirteen
- 14-Fourteen
- 15-Fifteen
- 16-Sixteen
- 17-Seventeen
- 10
- 11
- 12
She was alone now.
The servants, her advisors, Vivienne, all had gone ahead. They’d claimed they would fend off the ravenous nobility from accosting her at her door as she made her grand entrance, but Isala wasn’t so sure they could pull it off. After all, there were three of them and…how many had Josephine invited?
Isala took a deep breath and held it. Her gloved fingers were against the door that would lead her out into the Great Hall. She wished her quarters had more than a single entry point and that she could have slipped into the Great Hall some other way. As it stood, everyone would see her entrance. Everyone would have to behold her as she made her way off the dais and down the short steps. She would be on full display like some rare bird in a gilded cage. She thought to pray to Sylaise and even the all-mother Mythal for protection and guidance, but in this very shemlen driven affair, she doubted either would hear her.
Her fingers lifted the latch and she slowly let the door swing open. It was as if she’d opened some great seal. Like she’d been trapped inside a jar made of glass and had managed to wretch the lid free. Sound wafted into the inner room to her quarters like a swarm of insects flying inside. The chatter of countless voices, laughter, music, drinks being slurped and food being chewed. It all came flooding toward the Inquisitor before she’d ever even managed a step into it.
She exhaled that held breath in a stutter and fought to steel her nerves. She couldn’t back out now. It would be seen as some grave offence to everyone Josephine had invited and more so to the Ambassador herself. Isala didn’t know why it mattered so much to her to garner the approval of her companions. She’d known them not yet half a year. None shared her customs. None were true kinsmen and yet, every one of them looked to her as if everything they held dear rested on her narrow shoulders.
Isala clenched her hands into fists at her side. Her toes bit into the ancient stone floor beneath her as she prepared to take a step forward. Then a hand, fingers tanned and impeccably manicured, extended toward her in offered escort.
Dorian.
Even with the colorful mask covering half his face, she would have known him anywhere.
“Your Worship.” He winked down the length of his arm as he bowed in mock reverence. The way he’d said her sometimes-title eased some of the tension in her shoulders and she felt herself begin to breathe again. There was just something about the Tevinter that put her at ease. She couldn’t explain it really, but from their very first moments together, Dorian had always made her feel like a friend. He always knew precisely what to say. How to say it in a way that would make her smile. There were no illusions between them. No pretenses. No titles even. So, his current choice of words wasn’t lost on the Dalish elf. It was all a big show and Dorian was the cleverest thespian.
Her silken fingers slid into his waiting palm and he gently took hold of her hand and led her out onto the dais. He was dressed in the rich jewel tones of ring velvet and silk brocade. The attire was undeniably his own doing and yet, he somehow pulled it all together to appear before her like some exotic prince of a far off land. Which she supposed wasn’t too far from the truth. Even his mask seemed to project his ostentatious personality. A peacock, was it?
All that chatter. The swarming insects. It all seemed to die down to nothing as she stepped out into the blazing torchlight spilling down overhead. She heard some gasp softly. Others whispered to their neighbors behind their veiled masks. There was a hush over the conjugation and it made every hair on the Inquisitor’s body stand on end.
She searched the crowd for familiar faces, but it was hard to discern one from another with everyone wearing some version of a mask. Except for The Iron Bull. The big guy couldn’t help but stand out in a sea of silken frocks and frilly lace.
“Look at them all gawking.” Dorian whispered into her ear. “You’d think they just laid eyes on some magical creature or something.” His mustache tickled her ear as he smiled. Heat crept up her neck and a thousand butterflies beat their tiny wings inside her stomach.
They took to the steps, the train of her gown trailing with the soft hiss of sliding fabric against stone behind them. As they waded into the sea of guests, Isala took note of the distinct masks of her allies. She wanted to know she was still among friends. Needed to know that they were all here with her.
When they’d reached the center of the room Dorian turned to face her, still holding her hand. “You know, I find that the trick to these sorts of things, is to never allow yourself to be seen alone. Les the vultures begin swooping in.” He gave her a short bow that she managed to echo with a soft curtsy Josephine had taught her. The crowd had seemingly taken to either side of the hall to give them room and the musicians took up their instruments for a new tune.
“You are entirely too pretty to be eaten by vultures.” The Tevinter beamed and took the Inquisitor with his free hand at the small of her back. There was a moment where she was able to take a breath and then, they were dancing.
"Thank you, Dorian.” She said once she’d gotten the rhythm of the steps. Ballroom dancing was just one of the many things Josephine had insisted she begin learning. The Ambassador seemed to think that the Inquisitor would inevitably have to attend some social gathering that would require the skill and as a Dalish elf, Isala had no penchant for dancing. Though Dorian, seemed a natural. He was all strong shoulders and liquid grace.
“Don’t give it another thought. After all, you are the second most beautiful thing in the room. It would be a crime against Thedas for us not to dance.” He mused, twirling her around the room like a little doll. “Happy Birthday, Isala.” He smiled lavishly as the song began winding down. “Shall I fetch us a drink?”
“But I thought you said I shouldn’t be seen alone.” The Dalish elf asked, suddenly concerned that the other mage would leave her side.
Dorian bowed as they parted from the dance and winked at her. “I did, and so you shan’t.” He was looking at something behind her and Isala couldn’t keep herself from spinning around to see what it was.
He was wearing a mask like everyone else, but there was no mistaking the slope of his long ears and the smooth contour of his head. Even behind the guise of a wolf, Solas stood out in a way that no other elf in the room could.
Isala felt her breath hitch as he stalked toward her. She’d never seen him dress in anything but his simple tunic and leggings while in Skyhold. As if they were the only clothes he cared to own or perhaps it was so there was never anything to leave behind. Solas didn’t seem the sort to linger longer than was necessary.
In many ways, his attire hadn’t changed. The wraps that wound their way around his feet and up his calves were murky strips of what might have been leather from a great bear, brushed smooth and thin and lined in dark samite. That same dark samite covered the swell of his thighs before it disappeared beneath a tunic of dusty silk. At his throat was the edge of that same dark samite peeking through. The various degrees of grey he wore complimented the mask and made his steely eyes stand out behind the delicately shaped metal.
“Dance with me.” He barely breathed the words. They’re was the slightest edge to his voice that made her feel as if he wasn’t making a request. His arm swept out as he bent at the waist in an elegant bow. He offered her his hand, gazing up at her from beneath the predatory mask.
Isala heard music beginning softly as her fingertips slid against his and he caught the digits in his grasp. The music seemed different than it had with Dorian. There was an eeriness to it. A painful longing that stretched the notes into the high ceilings and urged a hush to pass over the onlookers. At least, that’s how the Inquisitor heard it.
“I didn’t expect to see you here.” She whispered, as if she could keep their conversation between their fluid movements.
“And yet, here I am.” He murmured. His free hand slid over her hip and to the small of her back. She could feel the warmth of his skin just beyond the layers of delicate fabric that clung against her body. He gave the slightest push with his palm and they were off. The steps were simple at first and they danced in a small box of their own making. The music seemed to follow them, soft, slow and filled with unspoken things. Then she felt his steps widen, drawing her farther across the floor, deeper into the Great Hall, until they were turning up the short stairs to the dais.
“You dance quiet well.” He complimented and twirled her around.
Isala smirked. “I’m as surprised as you.”
He drew her back into the circle of his arms and she followed his footsteps once more. “I did not think the Dalish celebrated birthdays?” It was a question, nothing more. Solas always managed to ask questions that sounded condescending without ever allowing the tone of his voice to betray him.
The elven woman felt the mask tickle her nose as she scrunched it up. “We don’t, but Leliana and Josephine conspired against me.” She tried to keep her voice light. “It seemed to make them happy.”
“And their happiness concerns you?” He asked evenly.
Isala blinked. She opened and closed her mouth twice, unable to answer for a moment. She hadn’t thought about it and yet, the answer seemed quite simple.
“This Inquisition is possibly the closest thing to a clan that I have right now. I care about it,” her large, aquamarine eyes focused intensely on his sharper ones. “About the people who are a part of it.”
The masks hid so much of them away, but she swore she saw a little tightening around his eyes. “You chose a halla?” He asked, changing the subject so quickly that she stumbled. His grip tightened and his arm braced the small of her back before she could trip, making the misstep seem intentional. A way to suddenly bring them closer.
Isala could feel the ridged press of his chest against the intricate embroidery in the front of her gown. Her eyes rolled up to meet his gaze behind the mask of an animal that was superstition personified to the Dalish. “I chose nothing.” She breathed. He was so close. Isala licked her lips. “And you chose a wolf?” She chided. Though he wasn’t Dalish, Solas knew a great deal about the Creators, more, Isala believed, than even her Keeper. Even he should have been wary of the Lord of Tricksters, Fen’Harel.
The music was waning and Solas had all but guided them to a stop. His expression was unreadable, but his movements had stiffened. He leaned down ever-so-slightly and Isala felt her heart suddenly stutter.
“A choice that was also, not mine.” His jaw was tight as he said it and the hedge mage drifted slowly back, releasing her hand and his grip. Isala watched him retreat slowly backwards as the crowd swarmed in around them. She watched as he faded into the glittering masks and folds of satin and lace. She watched him slink away, until she couldn’t see him at all.
- 10
- 11
- 12
You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.
Report Story

Slow Burning Dreamer