Disclaimer: I own absolutely and completely nothing. Bioware has that particular pleasure.

Summary: A City-Elf/Bann Teagan collection of drabbles and one-shots based on a prompt table from an LJ-community. These will be more or less in chronological order with the faintest traces of added plot here and there. Will vary from drabble length to one-shot.

Author's note: First of all, Merry Belated Christmas, everyone. I was going to update but yes. I wasn't in the city, my ideas went out the window, I had little will to write and the writer's block is huge. So I'm afraid this is a simple update just because I needed to get something written and out. This update is based on a mod over at Nexus which allows an Arcane warrior to use a greatsword named Battlemage's Retribution. I like to use it merely because it amuses me to have a mage using a sword that huge. That said, f!Amell is named Diana.

In this chapter: One more reason for him to hate Morrigan.

043.

Mages don't fight covered in mail or helms. Mages need that connection with nature, something that comes from air on their skin and water at their fingertips. They hardly fight and when they do, they discard most clothing because everything feels like a barrier between themselves and the Fade. He has seen mages prefer simple animal skins and furs and then laugh the second an element touches then. Jowan knows this. Jowan understands. Follows. Cannot bear to do anything else.

The woman in front of him is covered in mail and helm, metal covered to the point where she doesn't seem a mage anymore. There is no staff in sight. Just a sword and his eyes are open, wide and huge while there's an incredibly large something obstructing his breathing.

"Tell me, please tell me this isn't the mage you almost got killed."

He has no idea of who is asking the question. All he can notice is the laughter of the mages all around, all he can see is how she's very tanned and very blonde and incredibly well armored.

"… she didn't have a large sword then."

Apparently, raised eyebrows can make actual noise.

"A very large sword. Very large. Huge."

Dearest Maker, that is a sword. Huge sword. Oh God, she doesn't look that happy and I should have taken her with me and…

There is a loud sigh coming from somewhere that can only be the senior Warden. Because she rescues him. All the time. But it's such a huge sword.

Sosososososorrydianapleasedon'tkillmeIdidn'tmeanitandyou'reallrightandi'malrightand

"This is the mage. And she's carrying a sword," the elf states, deadpan as he always hears her. One plus one equals. "Morrigan?"

"The girl was curious. I merely taught her the basics while you tried summoning that demon. Though, I must say, she was a very interested student."

A sword. Dearest Andraste, she's carrying

"A sword."

And his mind has to be broken beyond all expectations because he cannot look anywhere other than Diana's face, the traces of a tan which she never had because sun doesn't exactly plentiful on the Tower, the hard lines of her face which never existed and the laughter lines that seem lonely. And the huge, amazing stupidly frightening greatsword which Maker knows how she can carry it without doubling in pain two steps after. He's going to die. Dear Maker, he's about to die.

Why isn't anyone noticing there's a giant dragon on the way to the city and he's about to die?

"Excuse me. Lady mage?" Help, yes. Please help. "Please, don't kill my mage before we reach the Archdemon. Afterwards. I'll drop him into a box shipped to the tower. Your name on it."

There is a long pause which Diana uses to caress the hilt of the moronic greatsword, nails scratching against leather and her eyes walking over his body. Deciding just where to hit. This isn't his Diana and that hurts a little – a lot. Because right in front of him, covered head to toe, armed and so different, is his mistake. His error. His sin. His Diana would have laughed it up and moved on.

This Diana smiles a little – just to the Warden –, puts the sword away – thank the Maker and Andraste and Creators and frankly, just everyone – before walking near. Too close.

"No swords, Jowan. No spells. We'll just talk."

Is it too late to become an eunuch?