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fandomweekly2017-02-04 07:37 pm
toffeecat) wrote in fandomweekly2017-02-04 07:37 pm
Entry tags:
[#031] Varric's Revenge (Dragon Age)
Theme Prompt: #031 - Intellectual Property
Title: Varric's Revenge
Fandom: Dragon Age
Rating/Warning: G / None
Bonus: Yes
Word Count: 1000
Summary: Also, because he was insulted, somewhat at least. And how couldn't he be?
He pushed his glasses up his nose, ruffling through the latest letter he had received. Again. Must've been the fourth time this day alone he had pulled out the pages. As if he was counting. He chuckled mirthlessly.
It was always a pain to receive anything from his editor, if he was being honest; usually, it just meant more work. He would barely touch the countless pages she would send, besides crumpling the pages and tossing them into the fireplace. Watching them shrink and crackle in the flames, until the words have turned to ash had something satisfying. Sooner or later, she would send more letters, demanding more books, more stories, more more...
Varric had wondered more than once why he had shown the stories he had written to anyone. He had meant it as a joke! The first chapters, anyway.
Not that anyone cared; they loved the pulp that he sold, as long as it had his name under the title. And he was too much of a businessman to just leave it.
But this... He wouldn't say he was proud of what he had written. Alright, maybe a little. There were other things he would refer to, however, if someone asked. He was a modest dwarf.
Reading about a next installment of Hard in Hightown did annoy him. A little because he wanted to leave that story behind, and the life he had led. He wasn't in Kirkwall anymore. Mostly, because he hadn't been the one writing it.
Also, because he was insulted, somewhat at least. And how couldn't he be? The Re-Punchening was painful enough to read as a title; the kind of thing which existence made him consider stop writing all together. He didn't dare think about what might follow in the actual book.
Malika had been more than forthcoming about his concern. She had immediately traded some favours, and didn't stop when it wasn't the end of it. Then again, she had never attempted to hide her love for his books, not even for his romance flop. It was flattering, surely, that the Inquisitor herself was willing to protect his name this fervently.
He stuffed the piece of vellum back into the envelope with a sigh. Staring at the lines wouldn't get him anywhere; Red would. Knowing that one of her spies was spreading rumours about that author ruining his work did help. If someone who came up with a title that awful really deserved to be called an author was an entirely different question.
Andraste have mercy, hopefully she had only sent a spy. Crows were always so expensive...
He absent-mindedly reached for Bianca, as he so often did when he needed to distract himself. She was never far from him, he made sure; now, she was leaning next to his table. But even the warm cedar of his trusty crossbow couldn't quiet his thoughts, though.
Why only was this so persistent in his mind?
His fingers traced the few flaws in Bianca's stock. He knew where each one was; cuts, too deep to just be gone after polishing her, so he let them be. Scars built character, or so he had heard.
He tried to focus fully on his crossbow, banning the unpleasant thoughts from his mind. That used to be easier, when she was still so new to him he couldn't keep his hands off her. Now, she was hardly a weapon but an extension of himself; he could fire her blindly and still hit his mark.
Ah, Bianca...
Having wandered to the top of her, caressing the tip of the blade mounted on top of the stock, before he folded out her limbs. His fingers gently hooked around her string, testing its tension. Still as tightly winded as ever.
He lifted her, balancing her heavy body against his chest. A good feeling, a genuine feeling, exactly what he needed now. Or maybe not; still didn't help to distract him. He gingerly put her back down. It had been worth a try.
Instead, now leaning back in his chair, he put his glasses on the table, rubbed his eyes, and let his gaze wander through Skyhold's main hall.
At the other side, Gatsi hung yet another polished mosaic tile up the wall; some Orlesian nobles were gossiping loudly as to be clearly heard through the whole fortress; and Ruffle's and Curly's scouts vanishing in and emerging from various chambers. Red should teach them to be just as quiet as her own, really.
When he closed his eyes, all the sounds merged into one noise. A familiar one. The Hanged Man hadn't sounded much different. More drunk yelling, maybe, and definitely more brawls, but otherwise familiar. Meeting for a drink with Waffles, cheating at cards with Rivaini, even listening to Blondie's and Broody's bickering... He missed all of it, and all of them. Malika was great, and definitely the person to go to world-saving-wise, but she was no Hawke. No-one would be.
It had been easier times, when the fate of the world didn't rest on their shoulders, and all they had to worry about were Kirkwall's weirdnesses... Which was a lot, true. Kirkwall was a corrupted, highly explosive mess, always had been. Some parts more literally as of recent. But it was at least not Tantervale.
"Varric!"
He opened his eyes, only to stare directly into Malika's grinning face. "Yes, Your Inquisitorialness?"
She bobbed on her feet, hands clasped behind her back.
"A raven has arrived, for Leliana. Do you want to join us in the council to know firsthand what it says?" She didn't wait for his reply, but bounced towards the war room.
He shook his head, though he couldn't help but smirk. Not that he had personally met many Carta dwarves, but those he had, had never been as cheerful; not even remotely. But he followed her nonetheless.
There was an author who was destroying his work, and needed to be dealt with, one way or the other. Urgently.
Title: Varric's Revenge
Fandom: Dragon Age
Rating/Warning: G / None
Bonus: Yes
Word Count: 1000
Summary: Also, because he was insulted, somewhat at least. And how couldn't he be?
He pushed his glasses up his nose, ruffling through the latest letter he had received. Again. Must've been the fourth time this day alone he had pulled out the pages. As if he was counting. He chuckled mirthlessly.
It was always a pain to receive anything from his editor, if he was being honest; usually, it just meant more work. He would barely touch the countless pages she would send, besides crumpling the pages and tossing them into the fireplace. Watching them shrink and crackle in the flames, until the words have turned to ash had something satisfying. Sooner or later, she would send more letters, demanding more books, more stories, more more...
Varric had wondered more than once why he had shown the stories he had written to anyone. He had meant it as a joke! The first chapters, anyway.
Not that anyone cared; they loved the pulp that he sold, as long as it had his name under the title. And he was too much of a businessman to just leave it.
But this... He wouldn't say he was proud of what he had written. Alright, maybe a little. There were other things he would refer to, however, if someone asked. He was a modest dwarf.
Reading about a next installment of Hard in Hightown did annoy him. A little because he wanted to leave that story behind, and the life he had led. He wasn't in Kirkwall anymore. Mostly, because he hadn't been the one writing it.
Also, because he was insulted, somewhat at least. And how couldn't he be? The Re-Punchening was painful enough to read as a title; the kind of thing which existence made him consider stop writing all together. He didn't dare think about what might follow in the actual book.
Malika had been more than forthcoming about his concern. She had immediately traded some favours, and didn't stop when it wasn't the end of it. Then again, she had never attempted to hide her love for his books, not even for his romance flop. It was flattering, surely, that the Inquisitor herself was willing to protect his name this fervently.
He stuffed the piece of vellum back into the envelope with a sigh. Staring at the lines wouldn't get him anywhere; Red would. Knowing that one of her spies was spreading rumours about that author ruining his work did help. If someone who came up with a title that awful really deserved to be called an author was an entirely different question.
Andraste have mercy, hopefully she had only sent a spy. Crows were always so expensive...
He absent-mindedly reached for Bianca, as he so often did when he needed to distract himself. She was never far from him, he made sure; now, she was leaning next to his table. But even the warm cedar of his trusty crossbow couldn't quiet his thoughts, though.
Why only was this so persistent in his mind?
His fingers traced the few flaws in Bianca's stock. He knew where each one was; cuts, too deep to just be gone after polishing her, so he let them be. Scars built character, or so he had heard.
He tried to focus fully on his crossbow, banning the unpleasant thoughts from his mind. That used to be easier, when she was still so new to him he couldn't keep his hands off her. Now, she was hardly a weapon but an extension of himself; he could fire her blindly and still hit his mark.
Ah, Bianca...
Having wandered to the top of her, caressing the tip of the blade mounted on top of the stock, before he folded out her limbs. His fingers gently hooked around her string, testing its tension. Still as tightly winded as ever.
He lifted her, balancing her heavy body against his chest. A good feeling, a genuine feeling, exactly what he needed now. Or maybe not; still didn't help to distract him. He gingerly put her back down. It had been worth a try.
Instead, now leaning back in his chair, he put his glasses on the table, rubbed his eyes, and let his gaze wander through Skyhold's main hall.
At the other side, Gatsi hung yet another polished mosaic tile up the wall; some Orlesian nobles were gossiping loudly as to be clearly heard through the whole fortress; and Ruffle's and Curly's scouts vanishing in and emerging from various chambers. Red should teach them to be just as quiet as her own, really.
When he closed his eyes, all the sounds merged into one noise. A familiar one. The Hanged Man hadn't sounded much different. More drunk yelling, maybe, and definitely more brawls, but otherwise familiar. Meeting for a drink with Waffles, cheating at cards with Rivaini, even listening to Blondie's and Broody's bickering... He missed all of it, and all of them. Malika was great, and definitely the person to go to world-saving-wise, but she was no Hawke. No-one would be.
It had been easier times, when the fate of the world didn't rest on their shoulders, and all they had to worry about were Kirkwall's weirdnesses... Which was a lot, true. Kirkwall was a corrupted, highly explosive mess, always had been. Some parts more literally as of recent. But it was at least not Tantervale.
"Varric!"
He opened his eyes, only to stare directly into Malika's grinning face. "Yes, Your Inquisitorialness?"
She bobbed on her feet, hands clasped behind her back.
"A raven has arrived, for Leliana. Do you want to join us in the council to know firsthand what it says?" She didn't wait for his reply, but bounced towards the war room.
He shook his head, though he couldn't help but smirk. Not that he had personally met many Carta dwarves, but those he had, had never been as cheerful; not even remotely. But he followed her nonetheless.
There was an author who was destroying his work, and needed to be dealt with, one way or the other. Urgently.
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