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Here on Unbound, our plot follows four different timelines, set throughout the canonical history of the Dragon Age. The events following Trespasser, the time of the Inquisition, the rise of the Champion of Kirkwall and the quest of the Warden against the Fifth Blight.

And So is the Golden City blackened
With each step you take in my Hall.
Marvel at perfection, for it is fleeting.
You have brought Sin to Heaven
And doom upon all the world.

-Threnodies 8.13

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 [M] THE FIRST STAR I SEE TONIGHT, Garrett & Tilly | Modern AU
as played by sugar

60" posts



Today wasn’t a good day.

Word traveled past through the crime syndicate, no matter which part of it somebody was on. He’d heard in a chain of three text messages that his rival was starting to move up into his territory, selling over the product and dealers that Garrett already had lined up. There was an unspoken rule about encroaching upon someone else’s space. It simply wasn’t done. So either, the new front runner had balls, or was just plain stupid. He wasn’t going to go after him tonight, but it’d happen sooner rather than later.

Garrett’s mother was in the hospital, again, so perhaps now wasn’t the best time to start a war that would involve a lot of death, and a lot of laying low—and coming up with a convenient excuse to disappear again from his family’s line of sight for quite a while. His work life and personal life would never separate. If anyone got wind of who his family was, that was just weakness that could be used against him, not to mention—a guaranteed disownment from his family. He couldn’t explain why he did things this way—it was a lot of money and he was just good at it. Working in an office, ten hour days, for half as much money? Garrett would never be able to swing it and be successful. It’d started when he was young, just swiping things for people who weren’t quick enough, or resourceful enough, and getting paid for it. He started getting into the drug business a few months later, and after finding his footing, quickly moved up to be somebody.

To be The Champion.

He’d headed over to Nightcall to clear his head. There was nothing quite like Irish Car Bombs and skyscraper legs to remind him that there were still some things to be enjoyed in life. He was sitting near the back of the lower level so he could still see the action, but stay out of the fray of desperate men who kept getting shoved back by the bouncers, wandering hands moving too close to the dancers. Usually, he was just there to get entranced, but today, there was one who stood out amongst the thrumming deep beats of club music and other dancers.

She wasn’t tall, or extraordinarily pretty—full lips, but the rest of her face seemed almost childish—but the way she moved seemed ethereal and he couldn’t take his eyes off her body. They followed her swaying curves and the high lines of her costume, where it cut off above the leg. He thought about those extravagant heels locked around his back, bodies in motion, and shifted in his chair as blood rushed to his groin, his pants tightening. His fingers gripped the glass of his tumbler a little bit harder, and he raised it to his lips, his gaze not leaving the nearly white-haired dancer.

Or at least they wouldn’t have, if someone else didn’t have the same ideas he was having, but a little less tact. One man had stood up and made his way over to the stage. Garrett watched him, willing him to turn to a different girl at the last moment—but he didn’t, and settled his arms up on the edge right in front of the blonde, effectively claiming her attention for the duration of the song.

But it wasn’t just the one song. At the top of the hour, he was still there, and Garrett had gone through two more drinks and alcohol had substantially clouded his mind. He’d just wanted one thing for himself, even the idea of it would have been just fine, considering the shit day he’d had. There had to be someone to blame for it, to take out his rage on, and now he’d found the target. His arousal had transformed into something different—a need to get up close and personal, to squeeze that man’s throat until it bruised and his face turned blue. To take the dagger in his boot and slide it across his jugular and watch him choke on the pools of blood spurting from the open wound.

When one of the servers came by on her rounds of the lower deck, Garrett flagged her down. ”Send a blowjob to the man down there. Tell him it was from me. Won’t you?” A wink, and she agreed with some hesitation after following his gaze to the man in question—though Garrett doubted it was the first time she’d been asked to be the messenger between sexual favors.

Garrett waited with anticipation for the man to receive the drink and leave the club in disgust—because how dare a man interrupt his quality time with women. It usually did the trick. When the server brought him the blowjob, she pointed up at Garrett and he tossed the man down by the strippers a small wave. The man simply grinned and gave him a thumbs up in response, then turned his attention back to the woman.

What an ignoramus. How could someone in a strip club not know what that drink was? If Garrett hadn’t been set before, the patron had just laid down the last layer of brick and mortar around his tomb with incompetent hands.

Aug 8 2017, 03:40 PM
as played by HOLLY

21" posts


She was good at this. She knew it, the other dancers knew it, her boss knew it, every man and woman in the club knew it. Some might argue that sex appeal was something you either had or didn't, but she knew better; it was learned. All it took was the right attitude, and you were there. Even in her heels, she was one of the shortest... she was far from the hottest, didn't have the biggest anything, and, as all of the girls liked to remind her teasingly, she was getting to be one of the oldest in this club. And still, night after night, she was one of the top earners.

Anybody could be sexy. It was all about how you held yourself.

So really, it was no surprise when someone came up during her stage set and planted himself directly on the tip rail. Or, at least, it wouldn't have been, if he'd been spending. Which he wasn't. She'd tried all the tricks in the book, called him baby, honey, and tiger what felt like a hundred times over. Nothing. Any amount of teasing, of promising to take her top off, of plain good conversation... he didn't even move to get his wallet out. Just asked when he could see her tits, like he'd never been in a strip club before and had no idea how this kind of thing was supposed to work. Like she was just up here for fun, just wasting her time talking to him because she liked the conversation or found him interesting.

But she didn't find him any sort of charming, or interesting, or cute, or handsome... he was taking up space, if anything. With a huff, she stood, walking back towards the pole, her annoyance reaching even greater heights as she had to shake his hand off her calf along the way. "You haven't paid for that, asshole," she spat over her shoulder, looking for a bouncer. Fucking useless bouncers. She wondered what they were paid for at all, quite frankly, because they weren't very good at keeping unwanted paws off.

Several songs later, he was still there, even though she hadn't paid him a damn bit of attention, shouting something lewd at her every once in a while as though it'd make her attitude turn around. Moron. Scaring off all the potentially paying customers in the building, and her set was almost over. He didn't seem like the type to just fuck off, and she didn't want him hassling her when she was walking the floor looking for someone to buy dances.

With a huff, she climbed down, crawling (some people were still watching from a distance, after all) up to come face to face with him. "Look, baby, if you're not tipping, get off the goddamn tip rail."

His mouth opened to throw a retort her way, and she was sure it was going to be something incredibly clever, but they were interrupted by a waitress with an unmistakable shot on her tray. Tilly's lips curled up into an incredulous smile, leaning out over the side of the stage to peer around the waitress just in time to catch the sender waving at the thorn in her side... who responded with a thumbs up, clearly more clueless than she'd given him credit for. "You know what that is, don't you honey? It's a blowjob. You're supposed to take it without using your hands." Maybe he was just too stupid to know he was supposed to be offended? But he couldn't take the hint, even when it was slapping him across the face. "How 'bout you take it for me?"

It drew out a sound of disgust and she pulled back. If the first part of her set had dragged on for ages, the next few minutes flew by in the blink of an eye. The tiniest of kicks sent the shot glass (and the drink inside) crashing into his chest, he shouted out, reached for her, she used her vantage point to kick again. Of course, this time the bouncers didn't waste a minute, rushing up to drag them apart, hauling her backstage.

The manager wasn't happy, but then, managers never were, especially in places like this. The only time you really ever saw them was when they needed a favor or you were knee deep in shit,
and she knew which one she was. He'd been kind enough to haul her shit out of her locker before shoving her out the back door and into the parking lot, saying she was welcome to come back when her attitude'd been adjusted.

They both knew she'd be back tomorrow night and he'd turn and look the other way. Not the first time she'd gotten in trouble on the job.

But this time, she was fortunate to have her new friend waiting on her, apparently having a good idea where she was headed when she was dragged backstage. Or he'd been leaving, too,
and this was just coincidence. She didn't seem quite so large and powerful now that she was on the same plane as him, rather than up on the stage. Her vantage point was lost. If it phased her,
she didn't show it, rolling her eyes and throwing her middle finger as she skirted around him and headed toward her car. "Don't be like that." A large hand circled around her wrist, and she rolled her eyes so hard he could probably feel it without seeing it, lighting up a cigarette with the hand he wasn't holding hostage. "Get fucked."

They were almost at her car, and if she could get the door unlocked, she could get the sweatpants from the backseat and the brass knuckles from under her passenger seat. She'd dealt with dicks like this one before, and she was used to being mostly on her own. Other clubs probably wouldn't have put her in danger like this. She'd have to try to switch to one of them.
Aug 9 2017, 11:37 AM
as played by sugar

60" posts



Garrett would have fucking laughed when the dancer pushed the drink back into the man's face and effectively got him off the tipping bar for a few moments, but even after that display of pure fire, he didn't back off. His arousal melted into anger—anger that would only be able to be sated by one means to an end.

The night progressed further still, and the man didn't let up. He'd made himself public enemy number one in Garrett's eyes; anything going wrong with his personal life had since faded away into nothing since this asshole had bothered the woman that he'd already decided would be his. The continued attempts to gain her attention even though she'd already made her thoughts clear was only writing his own death warrant, signed in blood.

He hung back by the front door of the club fifteen minutes after it had closed. Most everyone else had filed out in that time, but not her. Not the punk who didn't suck down his blowjob. No matter; he'd wait. Fingers rummaged in his pockets for his box of Camels and a lighter. Garrett placed the cigarrette between his lips and rolled his opposite thumb over the lighter's switch so a flame erupted in the stillness of the pre-dawn darkness. He dragged on it, the slight burn against the alcohol welcome down his throat, in his lungs, and he exhaled it through his nose, watching the design of the smoke unfurl from his nose in front of him.

And then, they were there. He was still walking close behind the woman, hands on her, and it made Garrett see red. It didn't take him but a moment to drop his cigarette to the ground, and twist the ball of his foot over its remains so it crumbled to ash below his weight. Then, he was off behind them to the parking lot, empty save for three or four cars. The gun in his belt wouldn't be necessary, he didn't think, now that he got a closer look at the guy who was pestering the woman. His story was probably simple: unhappy with his relationship at home, a mundane job, and hoping that he could score one better out at a strip club. Some girls might take pity on a person like this, and alter their job description for a price. He'd seen it done before.

If she'd so much as displayed a warning sign of doing so, Garrett would have shifted his sights elsewhere.

It was when she spoke that he did, too. "Hey." His tone was low, menacing, brown eyes on fire as the man turned to face him with a rather irritated expression. As soon as he turned, Garrett swung, paying no mind to the girl just inches away as he dropped him to the ground, and in no time, he was straddled over the fucker's stomach, one hand on his collar, dragging his face off the ground.

"Didn't your momma ever teach you how to treat a lady, huh? When she says no, it fuckin' means no. But I guess you just thought you were some kind of fuckin' special, didn't you?"

"I—I—what—" It was clear that he wasn't going to get anything coherent out of this idiot. Better to just end it.

So he did. Garrett dropped the hold he had on his shirt so his head went back to the asphalt: the first crack of many. One fist after the other on either side of the man's face, he kept hitting him and hitting him until there was blood, blood flying everywhere—spattering his own face, behind him to the stripper's shoes, landing on the toes of her heels. It was only then that Garrett stopped. The man's breathing was ragged, labored, wheezing. He was barely alive, and wouldn't make it through the night, surely. He could have been merciful and put a bullet through his skull. Surely, Fuckface deserved it. But it would be sweeter for him to suffer. Garrett breathed hard from the exertion of swinging so much, hands on his thighs for a moment as he looked up at the woman.

His woman.

Acting as if the near-dead man underneath him was a fucking inconvenience, he curled his lip in disgust as he moved his left leg off of him to the other side, and then reached over to her shoes. His index finger swiped across one of her heels, getting most of the blood off. He wiped it on Fuckface's shirt, and then repeated the action on her other shoe. A pause, and he moved a different finger above her ankle, to her inner calf, where a small spray of blood had landed. His cock twitched again.

"Sorry. I didn't mean to do that." Garrett offered her a crooked smile and placed one hand on his right thigh to push himself into a standing position. He nodded his head towards the vehicle behind her. "That yours?" He didn't need an answer. "Let me get that for you." Garrett's right hand, bloody and all, ghosted down her arm, fingers sliding over her inner arm and down her wrist, lingering a moment before reaching for the keys in her palm. He pulled them from her grip and opened the door, sliding into the driver's seat. His knees pushed against the dash, so he shifted the seat back a few clicks and rolled down the window. The keys were inserted into the slot for the ignition and he turned it over, the engine purring to life.

Bloody fingers drummed over the door of the car, his arm resting upon the ledge. The sun would be up in an hour or so, no doubt, but he had no desire to sleep now.

It would have been anyone, really. Fuckface had just made his life easier by existing. And her? He didn't even know her name, but he knew that there was something about her worth knowing, with or without the name.

"Where to?"
Sep 21 2017, 02:55 PM
as played by HOLLY

21" posts


She was just as surprised as her secret admirer to hear a voice piping up from the shadows,
unaware that anyone else'd followed them out. Light blue eyes strayed from the asshole in front of her to the man (who, lets face it, was probably also an asshole) who'd just spoke, a dark eyebrow arching curiously. Tilly knew the white knight type through and through: the kind of guy that always wanted to save the girl, especially the poor strippers who were objectified left and right. It was always laughable, really, and always with the hopes that the poor, rescued stripper would see the error of her ways and run off into the sunset with him.

One look at this guy, though, was enough to tell her that he wasn't a white knight. Which just begged the question: what the fuck was he doing?

Never one to waste an opportunity, though, she used the distraction to yank her wrist away from the creep, crossing her arms over her chest as she watched them both. The show didn't last long, though, and was barely entertaining; one hit from her not-white-knight and the creep was down on the ground. A damn shame. Few things were more exciting than a good fight, right? But all she got out of this was an unfortunate shower of splatter, the air still except for some ragged gurgling of the man on the ground and the heaving of the winner, who was hunched over as though he'd just run a marathon.

And blood on her shoes, on her legs. Her nose wrinkled with distaste.

Her brow raises again, though, as he speaks, once again surprising her and not at all what she expected. She doesn't protest as he takes the keys from her palm, doesn't argue, doesn't speak, too curious to see what he'll do next.

Maybe getting in the car with a man who'd just beat the life out of a stranger not but five minutes ago wasn't the best idea. In fact, it was probably an entirely awful idea, dangerous and unlikely to turn out in her favor. This was how women died. But he'd been such a gentleman, saving her from some unwanted advances, cleaning the blood off her legs and shoes to the best of his ability. She watched him get into her car like he owned it, a confidence that was a bit alarming. And attractive.

And, after thinking for a moment more, she got in, too.

"A hero and a chauffeur, hm?" Tilly laughs and turns around, leaning over the center console to dig through the backseat for a pair of sweatpants and some baby wipes. "I must have really lucked out." Items in hand, she turns back around, dropping from her knees to sit properly in the passenger seat. She grabs a baby wipe for herself, brushing over the places that the blood had been (because, really, he'd more just smeared it than anything else, despite his best intentions). Giving her cigarette a desperately needed ash, she handed it over to him, then passed a fresh baby wipe over. "It's almost sunrise. Waffle House?"

She kicks off her heels unceremoniously, shimmying into the sweatpants before straightening up to examine the damage that'd been done to her favorite pair of shoes. Blood (or anything, for that matter) was a bitch to clean off these things, which is why she tended to wear black rather than clear or white. He was damn lucky that he hadn't ruined her aura heels, or there would've been hell to pay. "I think you owe me a new pair of shoes, honey." Tilly lit another cigarette, sacrificing the one she'd handed him as a form of repayment for saving her ass back there, and looks at him kinda sideways. It's a weird situation that she's found herself in right now, not one she could say that she'd been in before. There were a lot of ways that this could go wrong for her, and she knows that. But if he wanted to kill her, or whatever, wouldn't he have done it already?

And if he wasn't trying to kill her, then really, what was the worst he could do?

"So you always trolling strip clubs in the middle of the night, looking for damsels in distress?" Tilly laughed at the thought, leaning forward to turn the radio on, hoping to drown out the raggedy last few breaths she kept hearing just outside her window. "Or am I just exceptionally lucky tonight? Let me know so I can decide whether or not to play the lotto today."
Oct 3 2017, 04:06 PM
as played by sugar

60" posts



A normal woman would have panicked, in this situation. Of that much, Garrett was absolutely certain. A normal woman wouldn’t have been able to stomach the brutality of what he’d just done, let alone allow him to drive her off in her vehicle. If this one was a normal woman, Garrett wouldn’t have been interested. Her reaction had simply spiked interest that grew like a burning flame allowed new kindly, hotter and higher than ever thought possible to grow. The right side of his mouth lifted in a half smile as she offered him the cigarette, a final keystroke in the combination to lock in his feelings about her. He was going to stay with her, no matter what. Garrett was all about living dangerously, finding something that seemed almost impossible and just grabbing onto it—hence his entire career choice versus a job in a cubicle. He just wanted to feel something, no matter what he did. Otherwise, what was the fucking point?

He accepted the cigarette between two fingers, the burning of embers at the end of it akin to what he felt at the current moment. Garrett eyed the wipe for a moment, and then accepted it, swiping it over his bloody hand; not that it would do much to repair the tendons that had been broken from what he’d done. It was a start, at least.

Laughing aloud at the mentioned destination, he turned to her, teeth flashing towards her before he turned his head straight again, elbows on the wheel, fingers interlaced together—because she was still fidgeting, and didn’t have her seatbelt on yet. Eyes followed the woman’s movements to her lifting up the center arm rest between the front seats, from which she pulled out a few necessary items. He averted his gaze as she hiked the sweatpants up in the seat adjacent to his, despite having been privy to far more sensual flashes of skin before.

“Waffle House it is, for now.” Garrett obliged as soon as she’d settled in her seat. He shifted the gear into drive and started forwards, not needing directions. He knew this city like the back of his hand, having to weave in and out of every possible road imaginable to escape detection on numerous occasions. It simply came with the job; knowing the territory. Including Waffle House.

He was glad, truly, that he didn’t have to look at her when he was driving. Not that it took away from the authenticity of the conversation, but he didn’t want to ruin this by getting to know her too well before he even had a chance to know her. After all, being in the dark was half the allure, especially with what he’d been going through in the recent few.. days. Had it only been days? It felt like a lifetime.
”We’ll have to do the shoes later. Doubt anything’s open.” It could have gone without being said, but he just wanted her to be aware that he would happily buy her shoes once the opportunity became available.

Garrett liked the windows down when he drove. It made the street reverberate back underneath the tires; the sound of the street was soothing, as well as the cool night air on his face. He doubted that he’d have any cops on him anytime soon for that lowlife; he knew the type. They usually didn’t had anyone who really cared if they were here or there. Some unfortunate dancer or patron might find the body in the alley, but if they knew what was good for them? They’d keep on walking. Getting involved with murder was a long and tedious process that most knew to sidestep. He could only hope it’d hold true in this part of town.

Tilting his head at her question, he shook it, smiling wanly, lips closed. ”Not often.” A pause, and then his eyes shifted from the street to her lighter hues. ”Not ever. I had a… really bad day.” A signal to the left and he was on a main road with streetlights flooding the area, closer into town. Waffle House wouldn’t be far, now. Now he understood, fully, why she’d given him that wipe—he supposed it would have been very uncouth to have strolled into a public restaurant with blood all over the damn place.

As soon as he pulled up into the lot, he switched off the headlights and put the car into a stall before shutting it off entirely. He was glad that she just didn’t want to go home, because he wasn’t near tired, now—not after the adrenaline rush of killing a man, not after watching her the whole night. Garrett touched a hand to her leg, lightly, but hard enough to indicate she stay put. He got out of the car, shut the door behind him and walked around the hood to open hers, chivalry not lost even in a parking lot like this one.
Jan 15 2018, 07:36 PM
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