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Jaunuary
1/9/2019 Molly linkdump

1/10/2019 Guy's EP

1/23/2019 Daniel's EP

February
2/14/2019 Valentine's Day - Krem

2/19/2019 Saoirse's School Project

Playing chess in the park with Nina had become a strange, regular ritual. The Bull liked rituals, though, and having somewhere to be once or twice a week help him set other parts of his life in order. He liked chess, too: it kept his mind active. Playing against Nina did that two-fold, as she tended to try to cheat in one way or another. He didn't blame her, but it kept him on his toes.

"Check," she said triumphantly, her green eyes bright.

Bull surveyed the board and moved his king to protect it. She moved a knight; he took it with his rook. Nina pouted.

"All out of horsemen," she sighed as she propped her head on her hand, elbow on the table. She made what seemed to be a reckless move with a bishop and Bull reacted with staid calm to defend his king.

"Checkmate!" Nina declared. Bull blinked and had to look at the board, wondering what he had missed. In her quick move withe bishop, she'd drawn his attention away from her queen. He surveyed the board, but she was right: there was nowhere to move his king that would be safe.

"You're getting better," he said as he sat back. Nina looked very pleased with herself. "Another game?"

"Sadly I have a few clients lined up for this afternoon," she said as she rose, smoothing out her coat. "Same time next week?"

"Of course." Bull rose with a quiet grunt. He wore a metal brace on his left leg, and the old pain bothered him more in the cold. He accepted a hug from Nina and kissed the top of her head. She was a kind girl.

As she left, Bull carefully sat back down, using the stone table for support. He stretched his bad leg out and started setting the board up again. He was wearing more clothes than he ever had in Thedas, mostly at Dorian's and Krem's insistence. Krem tailored everything for him. Today it was a long-sleeved v-neck sweater. He'd brought his coat with him, but for now it sat under him to protect him from the chilly stone bench.

It was nearly twenty minutes past when Dorian said he'd be out, which meant it was reasonable to go in and attempt to root him out. With a quiet grunt, Bull got up from the stairs outside the library and headed in. He nodded politely to the woman behind the reception counter, who knew him well by now, who told him that Dorian was last seen sorting new things that had come to the library.

Bull wondered if he'd found something of interest that distracted him, or if it was just taking longer than anticipated. Either way, he moved quietly through the stacks and found Dorian in an open area he liked to spread out in.

There on a table were a sword, a bandolier of what looked like bells, and a stack of books. Judging by the one that was sitting open, they were hand-written.

"Dorian?" he called gently, not wanting to startle him: that would be a recipe for an accident.

"Dorian, you were in public. In daylight. You brought a dead animal back to life!" Bull scowled when Dorian retorted with something about his professionalism, with his skill. Bull didn't doubt Dorian's skill, of course he didn't. He had seen Dorian wield the power of the Fade on battlefields; he knew Dorian had figured out how to solve whatever it was Alexius did to him and the Inquisitor to move them in time.

But that wasn't the point.

"This is not Tevinter, and there is no Inquisitor here to protect you."

Even though he was annoyed, his voice remained even and calm, even in the face of Dorian getting sarcastic and sharp. All he could think of was the potential danger. There could be plenty of people out there interested in someone that could manipulate the dead like that. Maybe Darrow was more or less accepting of magic and mages, but that didn't make them safe.

Eventually, it wasn't worth keeping up the fight. Bull shook his head, and for now, he let it go. He fell into bed, wanting to just sleep the night off.

Come morning, Bull ached. He was awake early and couldn't quite make himself fall back asleep. So he rose and shuffled his way downstairs to start coffee for the two of them.

"Dorian!"

Bull called for him as soon as he was through their front door. It was too narrow for his liking, but the doorways and thresholds in the rest of the house made up for that. So did the ceiling height. He started hiking up the shirt he'd worn while out and about - it was the first thing to come off almost every time he came home. He'd never worn a shirt, unless it was under armor, before coming to Darrow and it was still an adjustment.

With a grunt he paused, momentarily frustrated when he got the neck and short sleeves of the t-shirt stuck on his arms and horns. He'd been in too much of a hurry.

"I found an undead kid today. He talks."

Daine and Kitten had shown up to their house ostensibly for a play date for the little dragon. But it hadn't taken more than a cup of tea and some well-placed questions to get Daine spilling that she felt like she was imposing on Thomas Sharpe. Bull gently offered her a place to stay, certain Dorian wouldn't mind. She was a fellow mage in need. And she had a baby dragon.

It was a good evening: Bull cooked for everyone and he settled Kitten and Daine into the guest room downstairs.

Everything was fine, until he dreamed. The Iron Bull had nightmares, it was a fact of his life since childhood. When the Unmaker was tearing things apart, they had gotten worse. Now? Now he was re-living, vividly, the events of his own death.

He shot awake; it disturbed Dorian into murmuring. Bull quieted him before he slipped out of bed and headed downstairs. He nearly fell down, them, stumbling down the stairs. He caught himself at the bottom. His entire core ached, sore from an impact that he had experienced in another.. what, timeline?

Bull stood quietly for a moment, listening. He just hoped he hadn't woken Dorian back up.

Bull woke with a quiet start. It wasn't the violent kind of waking he'd done last month, but more in line with his regular nightmares. That one had been... strange. Vivid, like a memory instead of a dream. He tried to lay quietly, tried to get his heart to slow again by breathing deep.

But he felt too awake.

He eased out of bed carefully and shuffled toward their bathroom. He'd started staying in the house again after the Purge, after his nightmares started easing. After his urge toward violence had ebbed. Once he felt like he was in control of himself again, he'd returned fully to Dorian, grateful to be close to him again.

But that dream...

He rubbed his head and turned the light on. Outside, the early morning sun caught on the frost that had formed overnight. Bull leaned on the counter and just tried to collect himself a bit. He closed his eye and thought of the dream, of dying. Absently he touched his chest, let his hand run over familiar scars but then--

Bull froze and opened his eye, looked in the mirror. There on his chest were new scars - new, freshly healed it seemed. They corresponded with where the ice had cut through him in the dream.

"What the fuck," he breathed.

Bad dreams weren't new to the Iron Bull. He'd been having them since... he was a child, really. Anxious nightmares about being possessed by demons and the nameless fears of a child. During and after Seheron, those fears had gained names, had gained memories: fog warriors, Tal Vasoth, madness. Even after reeducation those memories haunted him, and more than once during his ten years in the south he'd woken up in a cold sweat, or worse. His room in Skyhold looked like a wreck for a reason, especially after he'd lost the Chargers.

Most people assumed it was because he was a barbarian Qunari, and that suited him fine. No one needed to know that the Iron Bull fought demons in his sleep when the memories were bad enough.

Usually a warm body next to him helped to keep the dreams at bay. He slept well with Dorian nestled against him, and despite the upset of arriving in Darrow and the occasional troubling thought, Bull had enjoyed relatively restful nights for the past year.

But the past month was like being in the middle of Seheron all over again. As soon as he drifted off, nightmares plagued him. For the most part he was quiet through them, or he woke and simply didn't go back to sleep. He was tired, but he could still do his job and he tried to wave off Dorian's growing concern. Just a rough patch. Maybe it was the time of year, maybe it was-- he didn't know. Some thoughts weren't worth humoring.

That night, though, they were bad. He could see the bodies of the children, ravaged by poison. He could see what remained of the Tal Vashoth, ravaged by him. The smell of the blood heavy in the too hot, too humid air of the island. And somewhere in the back of his mind he heard Corypheus laughing, promising him madness.

Something woke him. Bull moved without thinking, rolling sharply until his full weight bore down on the body that had touched him, hand around a delicate throat and squeezing.