<3!!

Give him all the peanuts.

Once, you were doubtful.

You used to wonder if his intense gaze was just mere curiosity for this prisoner, a stranger who suddenly fell from the sky with a mysterious mark on their hand and who appeared to be the lone salvation of Thedas.

You used to think that his habit of rubbing his neck around you was an old nervous tick that flared up during times of stress and nothing more, perhaps developed over the years of turmoil he’d experienced in Kirkwall.

You were sure that when he laughed deeply at something you said or tilted a grin in your direction, it was only to make you feel more at ease, a Commander’s sense of duty.

You were confident that the only reason he remained by your side as you recovered after Haven was to ensure the Inquisition still had their Herald to lead them.

You used to assume that he brushed up against you in the war room by accident, not being fully aware of how much space he actually occupied, and surely not being aware of how close you were to each other, or how the mere contact made your frightened heart soar.

You used to reason that he would visit you in your chambers after sundown to review strategy because he was a man incapable of stepping away from his work, and when the hour would grow late and you would invite him to stay for dinner, he accepted out of courtesy and to satiate his hunger.

When he cradled your face in his hands and kissed you for the first time so urgently, so sure, with the passion of a man who has no doubts, he erased your own. In that moment on the battlements, you knew you would never have to be doubtful again.

~dreamy sigh~

Hugging Cullen is nice…until your face meet his damn armor

It’s been a while since I make a silly comic, so a little warm up won’t hurt~

and Arry might just end up fist bump Cullen instead of hugging him next time…

Commander Rutherford

A little something for myself because of shitty week.

I do think that templars could talk about this with the wardens…

Alistair tearing up the first time he returns to the Warden compound in Denerim after the Blight.  It was ransacked pretty thoroughly, but he can still picture everything based on the layout–and how it all looks so dead now.  A stranger would pass by and never know the memories the place holds.

He tries telling the Warden one of the better anecdotes but his voice chokes up halfway through the first sentence.

It’s been so long since he’s thought about every one of them in detail–he’s been so busy!  And now it all just comes rushing back.

And he knows he’s already forgotten some of them.

But once he’s forgotten the memories, there’ll be no one left to remember at all. Most of the time now, Alistair thinks he’s gotten over it, it’s gotten easier, but in that very instant the wound feels fresh.

Me @ photoshop the last 3 months…just a bunch of trashy WIPs, sure, but it’s literally all Dragon Age….

LET ME LIVE :(

Cullen x Warden Lael commission! Designing that mage outfit was a lot of fun.

all done! Dragon age crossing!!!

I don’t know how to draw the noodle man!

alistair, only a boy, no mother, and a father he can’t speak of. theirin. a curse on his tongue, a blessing everywhere else. he doesn’t know who he is, or what he’s supposed to be; the horses are his only company.

alistair, barely older, nothing more than a nuisance. she doesn’t want him here. rumors spill in his wake, mocked for what he is, and shamed for what he’s not. she resents him; he doesn’t understand, not yet, his mother’s memory shattered on the stone. he leaves angry—good riddance. but the chantry is no peaceful haven.

alistair, a teenager now. a new home, a new tormentor. he’ll be a templar, one day. it’s not what he wants, but choices have been few, and wishes even fewer. his life isn’t his, and he finds solace in the kind of education they offer here, a warrior in the making and a sharp mind to boot.

alistair, ever the jester. a half-wit to most, but he’s aware. he’s always been, and it’s become second nature to him, to joke, deflections that serve him well. it distracts, but it reassures as well, and it’s how he copes, brightening his way through the turmoil looming over him, and so long as none can catch the hitch in his breath, sometimes he even manages to fool himself.

alistair, a young man now, and oh, maker. he doesn’t want to take his vows. he doesn’t. he’s taken away, again, but for the first time in his life, he follows willingly. duncan takes him under his wing, and he rises, a fatherly figure he never expected to find.

warden alistair, a choice, his own. the journey ahead is a harsh one for such a young battered heart, but he thrives among his peers, and he feels like he belongs.

warden alistair, quiet pain creeping underneath mirth, and his demeanor rarely ever betrays him. but she sees. right through him, and when death comes, when blood spills and when breathing just isn’t enough, she is, enough, and she helps him stand again.

warden alistair, with so much more than he could ever have hoped for. there’s only two of them now, grey against red, and a convoy of misfits by their side. he likes her. the one who sees, and oh, he sees her. strong, despite her own losses, a rare and wonderful thing amidst the darkness that surrounds them. she shines through, and his heart beats faster.

warden alistair, and there’s a war brewing. civil war, as if the blight wasn’t enough. rumors roam faster than darkspawn, hearsay and defamation, and he doesn’t particularly like where they go, or how they go. damage splatters in loghain’s wake, and duncan comes to mind, every time. she appeases him, and so does she, the older mage. wynne. she mends his socks and she heals his wounds, and she indulges him more than she should, when he teases her. in many ways, she feels like the mother he never had, and perhaps, to an extent… he’s like the son she never knew.

warden alistair, young still, but older, hardened. she loves him, and he loves her, and beyond this war, he can’t imagine his life without her. his life, his own to share, to give, if he so wishes, and there’s nothing he wouldn’t do, to keep her safe.

warden alistair, and he’s learned well; victory demands sacrifices, and they aren’t always dealt in death. he does what he must, for the greater good, greater than all of them, because even now, he knows that some things are more important than what he wants.

king alistair. theirin. it never meant much of anything. it was a name, a curse, a father he never knew. it was blame and rejection, mockery and infliction, and now… now it’s a nation, an army, an influence and an authority. a future. he has to face what it means, even if he isn’t sure what he means, only a throne, and it’s a relic he can’t relate to.

king alistair, only a man, and she is the hero of ferelden. the archdemon dies the same way it lived; forceful, terrifying, a blast of energy knocking them down and away, splitting the skies. his ears ring, a dull silence as dust and wind wash over them, disbelief in the burgeoning clamor; it explodes in victorious cries and darkspawn flee and men rejoice, and alistair laughs, his lover by his side.

king alistair. a sovereign. a grey warden. a husband. a long path behind him and a longer still ahead, but more than that… alistair. the man he’s become and, in spite of his losses and struggles, never lost sight of his kind heart.

alistair. the man he chose to be.

waiting for class to start so i drew warden nerds on my ipad

how dare bioware give alistair a beard and a long flowing mane HOW DARE

Merry Christmas to you all <3 

i havent drawn loki since 2012, i realized i kinda missed him :’^)