Isabela Explains it All

It’s a bit of a complicated answer to this question, my little delight. You see… I’m not so good with rules. Rules are so restrictive. I feel like they are only there for certain people to tell other people what to do. I’m the sort who dislikes having to conform to some rule or other. I don’t like it when I’m told that I shouldn’t drink like I do, I don’t like it when people judge me because I enjoy getting naked on a regular basis, and I don’t like it when people expect me to wear pants. I mean… honestly, who cares what I do if it doesn’t hurt them? Must they be so judgemental?

But back to your question, my succulent - Hawke and I aren’t exclusive at all. In fact, I’m not sure we’ve ever given what we have any sort of label or name aside from “comfortable.” Like everything else, the complete, utter, and guilt-free right to rub bearded clams with anyone we so desire whenever we so desire is assumed. If I wanted to go and hire out every girl and boy at the Rose to satisfy my desire to dance the horizontal sar-sara until I was sore from head to toe, I could.

But just because I could doesn’t mean I will. I’ll admit, at the beginning the thought of being with just one person wasn’t exactly something I put a lot of faith in. I mean… sleeping with just one person? And then spending even more time with her? I couldn’t even conceive of a person being that interesting, let alone having any sort of… feelings toward this person myself. It was just unthinkable, a fairy tale for fools and children who hadn’t or couldn’t understand the real world. Then everything changed.

So… I suppose the easiest way to say it is… I respect Hawke. She’s a great friend, an amazing lover, and a stalwart companion. I wouldn’t trade that for anything. I’ve had my share of samples of other lovers when I was… away for those three years. And let me tell you, when I’m with Hawke, it’s different. I don’t know whether it’s her enthusiasm, or the way she picks up on my signals, or maybe just because the woman could pick locks with that tongue of hers, but it’s just… different. You think that I would feel some nostalgia, or just want some variety in my appetites, but I’ve tried many things in many ports and they just… weren’t as good. It was frustrating how hard it was to find someone who could even begin to elicit the same pounding heart and quickening of breath that Hawke does. It’s hard to describe, but you’ll know the feeling if you’ve had it… it’s almost as if I’ve been spoiled. So it isn’t exclusivity by any means… it’s more of a pragmatic approach.

As for the second part of your query, I’d say… not really. Firstly, beards are nice to look at, but they tickle and can be very scratchy, and the last thing I want is to be rubbed raw anywhere the beard goes. Aside from that, there are physical elements that are commonly accepted as  exclusive to being with a man, but  that can be easily approximated by mechanical means. The right tool for the job, crafted carefully of the finest materials, provides the sensations I crave from time to time, and that’s good enough. Especially because I can also use it to give as good as I get.

My lovely fragment, I must say that it should be obvious. I could suppose I could try to be more inspirational, and talk about self-respect, about knowing and caring for oneself, about doing things the way you want, and letting the consequences be damned, but all of that is just rather exhausting. I’ve spoken about such things from time to time at length, and while I understand it is important to get those messages out, I don’t always feel I’m necessarily the best qualified to be saying so, and Isabela needs her inspiration just like any other.

That said, you asked what I would hope to inspire them to do. You really ought to know the answer to this, my pretty. The answer to all of their problems is to get naked and make with the slamming, knocking, slapping, and tapping of the boots. They all need repeated ingress and egress, faster and slower. The goose neck needs to be choked, the clam must be teased open, and the pink lollipops all need a solid licking. There isn’t one of my friends who wouldn’t be helped by a solid helping of good, rigid boning.

It might seem simple and easy, but there’s a real reason behind it. My friends, with perhaps the single exception of Hawke, tend to be a very focused, tense bunch. Aveline is always focused on her duty. She never takes a break, never lightens up, and her spare time is spent with us breaking heads. While I can certainly appreciate the stress-relieving therapy of inflicting grievous physical harm to those who deserve it, it’s also what she does normally. Fenris is always brooding about mage this, mage that, and Anders is wound up tighter than a a ship with four anchors. That boy needs to blow off some of that steam, or he’s seriously going to do something insane. And Sebastian? That boy needs to relax and enjoy himself. He’s just too much the way he is. I think he’d be much more approachable and even fun if he was regularly roasting the broomstick.

Merrill, bless her heart, should experience the pleasures of the flesh. She has a wonderfully and deceptively devious mind, and she needs a lover who will let her experiment and try things to her heart’s content. I wouldn’t mind sharing a bit, but she deserves someone who she can share everything with, heart included, and I don’t think I can be that person.

As for Varric… I’d love for him to get laid. If only so that I don’t have to listen to those unnatural sounds coming from his suite at the Hanged Man late at night when he’s playing with Bianca.

Strangely enough, my ship has a name, but I don’t know what it is. When I got it from Castillon, he didn’t exactly fill me in on its name, and the Raiders don’t really believe in pieces of paper that represent ownership… after all, a piece of paper can be easily stolen. It was his last little wry stab at me, before Hawke tracked him down without telling me and put a knife in his gullet. Thankfully, she had the kindness and forethought to get me supremely drunk the night before, so I didn’t feel like I was missing out.

Why don’t I know the name of the ship, you ask?

There’s an old sailor’s legend that says that renaming a ship is extremely bad luck. I’ve never had it happened to me personally, but the rumors go that anyone, be it captain or crew, on a vessel that’s had its name changed will start seeing strange things afoot. Securely tied rigging will come loose, a stiff breeze will suddenly go dead, provisions will rot overnight, things like that. Nobody will have an explanation for such strange goings-on, and it’s quick to cause trouble among the crew.

The tales say that the spirits of ancient mariners inhabit the ships we build and sail, and renaming it causes the spirit to become unable to find the vessel. Instead, they are doomed to wander the waves for all eternity, holding their ghostly lanterns and endlessly searching for the ships they once captained. Without the spirits of these sailors to watch over the ship, bad things will happen. Some say it’s the taint in the fade that bleeds through the Waking Sea itself that causes these, and our spirits are what keeps us safe. As legend goes, when the sea becomes stormy, it is because the demons of the fade are doing battle with the mariner spirits.

Renaming my ship would likely invite the curse, and I’ve got far too many good things going on in my life to risk a curse now. I’ve had so much good fortune these past few years that I think I’m about due for some bad luck.

Not that I entirely believe such tales. I toyed with the idea of naming it “The Champion’s Ass” once I finished making her presentable, because she’s sleek, gorgeous, and an absolute joy to take out for a ride when I’m steering.

aspio:

9 Favorite Images - Marian Hawke (Dragon Age 2)

Is it warm in here, or is it just me? Suddenly, I’m in the mood for oysters.

(via filante-star)

Oh, my darling querent, I’ve been through enough battles and tight situations to last three lifetimes. I’ll tell you now that there’s an old adage that best describes it - “Friendly fire isn’t”. The situation that immediately springs to mind, however, is one that happened while I was still looking for the Qunari relic. I had discovered through some back alley dealings that a man by the name of Davon the Snake had found some sort of magnificent treasure. Rumor had that he somehow acquired a tome of great value while scavenging a shipwreck and had hidden it someplace safe while he looked for a buyer.

Naturally, this got me interested. I spent a few days tracking him down, and then another handful cozying up to him. Let me tell you… originally, I had thought that his name came from his willingness to betray anyone near him, but it’s actually because his trouser tackle dangles down his pant leg nearly to his knee. He was a squirrely man, with a nervous and cautious disposition… always glancing back and forth, on the lookout in case someone was after him. He never could hold his liquor, and he was a quick shooter if you know what I mean. All it took was half a bottle of wine, and a few tugs and he’d be out like a candle. 

In any case, he must have been out of friends, because he crashed into my room one morning, desperate for my help. He had evidently gotten into an argument with a whore over her services and he ended up killing her. The criminal mastermind had been evading the guardsmen who had discovered him attempting to hide the body in a rubbish heap like an idiot, rather than dumping it over the docks like he should have been. He was desperate, and I hadn’t yet squeezed the location of the tome from him, so I got up as quickly as I could and moved to help him.

It was then that Hawke and Aveline burst into the Hanged Man with weapons drawn. Yes, they were the fearsome guards that Davon was running from. Davon didn’t help anything by immediately drawing his own blades and turning to fight. It was just one big mess.

I leaped to cut off Hawke from taking Davon out first. I know just how dangerous she can be, especially for someone unaware of her capabilities. I swear, that woman is as dangerous as she is arousing. Thankfully, I had the element of surprise on my side. She saw me moving toward her, and she immediately stopped and opened her mouth as if to say something. I knew I would only get one chance at it, so I grabbed her, kissed her soundly, and just as her eyes widened in surprise, I sucker punched her in the gut as hard as I could. I knew she’d forgive me after… probably. She doubled over and dropped like a sack of potatoes, and I dashed to Aveline.

The scarlet terror was much less trusting, and she immediately turned to me with her guard up.

“I knew you’d show your true colors sooner or later,” she sneered at me, banging her blade against her shield and beckoning me to come at her.

“I’m hurt, big girl,” I replied casually, looking for an opening. Davon took that opportunity to advance on her as well. Internally, I sighed.

Yes, you may realize the same thing I did at that point. I most likely had to keep Davon alive long enough to wrest the location of the tome from him, but also wasn’t too keen on letting him shiv the human brick in the back either. 

Davon lunged forward at her exposed back, and I gritted my teeth and moved to intercept. Aveline didn’t hesitate to take my charge on her shield, and she moved her sword forward in a wide arc. It was a killing blow, and had I not anticipated her shield’s shape, or been a moment slower, I would have been dead. Instead, I caught it on my shoulder and was merely in a lot of pain. I did, however, manage to shove her backward and onto Davon, knocking his knife aside and dropping Aveline on him bodily. It knocked the wind out of both of them, and I followed it up with a swift fist to her very mannish jaw.

Let me tell you, Aveline’s face is as hard as stone. I swear I’ve seen her chew rocks before, and punching her felt like I had hit a stone statue. Nonetheless, her head whipped to one side and she was still for a moment. I grabbed Davon with the arm that wasn’t bleeding profusely and hurried him out of the bar. As we left, Aveline and Hawke had already begun to rise, and I knew I had to make my play for the tome.

“Come on, you idiot! We’ve got to get out of here! Where’s the treasure?” I demanded.

The gibbering fool half-led, half-stumbled down the same particular alleyway where the encounter with the whore had gone wrong. I had a guess as to why he had gotten into the argument with her. He had stashed a small canvas-wrapped parcel behind some rubbish in that alley, and dug it out. He looked at me and nodded, and turned to leave.

That was when I hit him on the back of the head and took his book.

In the end, he went to the gallows for murder, thievery, and attempted murder. I had to spend a few nights locked in the brig. My usual savior, Hawke, was more reluctant to get me out this time, and Aveline took an inordinate amount of pleasure at watching me through the cell bars each day.

I did eventually worm my way back into their good graces, but it took some time before they accepted and forgave me.

And the tome? That valuable treasure book I had to debase myself to obtain? It wasn’t the relic I wanted at all, but an old Tevinter spellbook. It sold for a handful of sovereigns which did keep me in the drink and the Rose for a time, though shortly after that I found myself in Hawke’s manor for a romp and our little arrangement began.

In any case, that’s my tale of ‘friendly fire’. It isn’t something I would recommend, and I’d advise against getting involved in such sticky situations. As for getting stuck in tight places… that’s an entirely unflattering other story altogether, and involves myself, Aveline, a large amount of grease, and a window too small. I’ll tell that one another time, my lovelies. Cheers.

My lovely querent, do you mean the sort of engagement where a gaggle of women stay up all night, sleep in the same bed, and don’t have sex with each other? Well… the answer is yes, but not entirely by choice. You see, it all happened last winter…

You may not have been aware, but last winter was much harsher than normal. Kirkwall is a bit north of Ferelden so we normally don’t get too much of the snow here, but this past year was absolutely dreadful. The snow was piling up in great drifts, and it was getting bitterly, chokingly, nipples-harder-than-diamonds cold. It was so cold that (and you know I’ll deny it if you bring it up) I had practically moved in with Hawke at the time if only because the Hanged Man had a hard time keeping the cold out of the rooms each night, and Hawke’s body just feels like an absolutely amazing pillow.

In any case, things were cold, snowy, and miserable. But Kitten, bless her lovely heart, sends out her invitations for her annual Dalish winter feast celebration, nana-nanathan or something. I never can get my tongue around those ridiculous elvish words. In any case, she hosts a dinner party every year, and she invites all of her friends to it. Fenris and Anders never accept because they are the fun equivalent to rusty anchors, and Sebastian always makes some point of only observing the Maker’s holidays, but the rest of us dutifully visit Kitten each year to drink traditional Dalish wine, and eat traditional Dalish food all cooked by Merrill herself. After the first year or two of stomachaches, we quickly learned that we should all bring food and drink as well. So this past year, Hawke brought a buttercream frosted rum cake with strawberries (it was my idea), I brought two bottles of my favorite Antivan brandy, and Aveline brought some sort of large pot pie cheese casserole conglomeration. It was a lot like her - chunky, hard, and in desperate need of a good forking.

It had begun to snow when we arrived, the sort of gentle falling loveliness that you can catch on your tongue. The snow began to pile up, but we didn’t pay it much attention. We were hungry and thirsty, and looking forward to spending a pleasant evening in good company. The meal was edible, and the cake was amazing. We sat back, sipping the brandy and chatting about everything and nothing, while the cozy fire crackled in Merrill’s hearth.

The night grew long, and Aveline was the first to leave. The mannish mammoth stood at the exit and tried to open the front door, but was unable to budge it. She frowned and pushed more forcefully, but it still refused to budge. I may have made some joke about madame muscles, and she grunted and threw her shoulder into it, pushing it out a few inches. And that’s when we finally saw that the piled snow had sealed us in.

The little white flakes continued to fall from the sky in great number as Aveline attempted to dig her way out. Sadly, it was no use. The snow piled on as quickly as she dug, and it rapidly became clear that we had no place for all that snow to go. As if to punctuate it, a rumbling sound soon shook Merrill’s home, and a chunk of her roof caved in under the weight of the snow that had gathered on it. It landed directly on Hawke, who happened to be sitting on me. She spluttered and immediately began to wiggle, and while I may have enjoyed the sensation a bit, the immediate addition of melting snow on my skin cooled any ardor I may have had. Well, some of it anyway.

We got up, and to add the final touch of icing on the cake, Merrill just had to make an astute observation.

“The Dread Wolf take it, I’m out of firewood!”

And then a pause, as she looked at us.

“Are you all staying for the night?”

We each exchanged a few looks as I wrapped my arms around Hawke when she started to shiver, but Aveline was the one to break the silence first. As the snow began to fall through the new hole in the roof, the ball busting brawler sighed, and closed the door. We all followed Kitten into her room.

It was there that we had our second rather interesting discovery for the night. Merrill went to her armoire and began getting all of her blankets and pillows, but she did not have many. The cold was already beginning to seep in to the room, and she looked very worried.

“Don’t worry, Merrill,” said Hawke, taking stock of the situation. “Everything will be alright. We’ll just have to huddle together to keep warm.”

Kitten brightened like a lantern being unhooded. Aveline, on the other hand, slowly glanced from Merrill, to Hawke, then finally at me. I met her gaze with a sly grin and waved. She sighed.

“Not one word of this leaves these walls, whore,” she growled.

Yes, well, we all know just how well that particular promise is going, don’t we?

To conserve heat, we were all forced to bundle together in a large mess of arms, legs, and blankets. There were complaints about cold feet, giggles, and more than once Aveline would sigh and say “That’s me you’re grabbing!” in that long-suffering voice of hers. It didn’t take that long for us to realize that sleep wasn’t coming terribly soon, but there was little else to do in Kitten’s home, what with the cold always encroaching on us. So there were a few… activities that night.

I believe that should qualify as a sleepover, right?

I’ll tell you about what happened that night some other time. But let me just say that there was a pillow fight involved, and there may have been a game of ‘Never have I ever’ played.

Oh, I’m sure that all of Hawke’s friends are in love with her in their own ways. She’s just got that sort of magnetism that draws us all to her… even when she makes me angry, I still can’t help but respect her decisions on things.

I know my Kitten. I know she’s a wonderful girl and I know she’s got such a nice heart. She’s always thinking of others, and being kind, and has such a wondrous inquisitive mind. She’s sweet and gentle, and is the sort anyone would be happy to make a life with. She has this knack for making me feel protective of her, even though I know she’s more devious than she lets on. I know that if they were together, she and Hawke would make each other deliriously happy. If they did end up finding each other, I’d be happy for the both of them. Even if it would be a bit of a bitter pill to swallow for myself.

However, I must say… Hawke did choose me. And I did end up choosing her too, for what it’s worth. She’s mine, and I’ve got no plans to just step aside. Perhaps if they had happened before I decided that Hawke was what I wanted, I might have done things differently… but at this point, I’ve got something special, and I’m not giving that up without a fight. It’s too important to me. Now… if she was amenable to the three of us, that might work out even better… just as long as she recognizes who’s the queen in the relationship. 

There are plenty of things I refuse to do while having a nude romp. Some things I just don’t like doing, some things just kill the mood, and some are just not worth the trouble they inevitably cause later. I’ll give you an example or two of each so you know what I mean, though there are usually rare exceptions ever now and then.

I like being on top. I don’t like being on the bottom, except in very rare instances with very specific people. It just isn’t something I enjoy doing all that much. I think it stems from the fact I don’t typically trust my partner to pick up on what it is I like. I’ve had enough somewhat disappointing lovers to simply take it into my own hands. It isn’t that they aren’t willing to try, but they just don’t seem to pick up on the clues. That’s one reason I appreciate Hawke so much. She pays attention, reads the signs, and she gets it… in all the ways that count.

There are also things that are just turn-offs. Now… I must admit, I’m fairly adventurous when it comes to the wild monkey dance. I’ve tried many things, and I’ve enjoyed most of them. But there are things that I’ve tried that I disliked, and even things I haven’t but just don’t appeal to me at all. They are real fetishes for certain… I’ve heard stories from the whores I’ve spent some time with. Excretory play, vomit play, things like that - I just find them unappealing. If anything, just for the smell. Ick. Others are just because of who I am. Too much talking (especially about feelings) before the action is a major turn-off. If I wanted to talk, I’d talk. When I want to rut, I want to rut first, and, if I like you, save the talk for after. If I don’t, then I wouldn’t even bother. Talking, cuddling, asking me to stay the night… just no. Not unless you’re absolutely fascinating. Finally, doing something after I expressly told you not to is a huge turn-off. That’s likely to get you kicked out and possibly robbed for good measure.

Finally, there are the things that just have bad consequences. I don’t get involved with married nobles. Single nobles are bad enough, what with the enormous sense of self-importance and attitude like they literally own you. Married nobles, however, can get even worse, especially if one of them is the jealous type. It’s a hassle that I certainly don’t need. I avoid clingy lovers like the plague. I’ve got enough issues of my own; I can’t be expected to make decisions for you as well. I refuse to have affairs with my crew. Crewmen and women need to be ready to carry out my orders, and if someone is putting on airs just because they’re docking in my cove, that causes consternation in morale. Rape play without a firmly established safeword. I’ve enough difficult entanglements that resulted from this sort of thing that I’ve just decided they are more trouble than they’re worth. Finally, I always try to avoid getting involved with feelings. They always end with someone getting hurt, and that’s almost always the other person. 

I suspect that I might have given a broader answer than asked. But that’s just who I am… a giver.

I haven’t seen the bitch since that day in the marketplace where she slunk away leading her new goat and clutching that handful of gold to her chest while leaving me behind with my husband-to-be. I’ve been back to Llomerryn since, and heard rumors, but I don’t know for certain. I’ve heard that she converted to the Qun and is now one of their menial workers. Others have told me that she died of plague, and I’ve even heard that she was exposed as a charlatan seer, and hanged by an angry mob. In reality, I suspect she’s still scraping around, likely poor, hungry, and doing something, likely begging, to get by.

My mother and I had a bit of a contentious relationship. I never learned who my father was, but my mother always made sure I earned my keep even as a child. As a baby, she used me to garner sympathy with strangers. When I was able to walk, she had me in the crowds as she told fortunes and sold her handmade trinkets. I’d encourage people to speak with her, and I’d steal from distracted onlookers. If I was ever caught, she’d promise to punish me severely - a promise she kept. It wasn’t because I was stealing, oh no. It was because I had gotten caught, and I should be better at it in the future. She’d usually beat me with a switch, and then send me to bed without supper. Not that I got much to eat to begin with. It was mostly alright, I only went without food every few days.

As I got older, she quickly noticed that I was flowering and turning into a rather attractive looking woman. She was quick to capitalize on that. It certainly made stealing a lot easier - when your targets are admiring your body, they tend to be much more accepting of your hands on their bodies.

But you didn’t ask about that. How would I feel if I saw her again? I know exactly how I would feel about seeing her again. I would stand before her and know that she did not break me. She did not define me, she did not make me who I am, and she was never right about me. I am a successful pirate captain. I have a fearsome reputation, I am a legendary duelist, I’ve had marvelous adventures and I’ve seen and done more than she could have dreamed of. I’ve traveled the world, I’ve sampled its delights, I’ve battled demons, darkspawn, and dragons, and I’ve lived to tell the tale. I’ve met with royalty, spent time with nobility, and my lover is the most powerful and respected person in Kirkwall. 

I would stand in front of a sad, old woman who tried to make me into what she wanted and failed, and feel nothing but pity at a stranger with a wasted life.