Isabela, The Maker + Fenris, MANdraste
PG for excessive breasts and mockery of a fake religion | COMPLETE
Isabela knew Fenris loved her, of course, but she always felt it was a considerable victory when she could convince him to do something utterly absurd with her. And of all the ridiculous things she’d managed to drag him into in their many years of friendship, this was perhaps her crowning achievement. She adjusted the headdress that rested on her head, the thin black veil covering a heavily made-up face. The rest of her costume was black as well, the standard cloth from all of the images cut short, dark skin exposed in nearly indecent ways. She’d made a point to expose her cleavage -- a very important part of her costume, all things considered.
She was both a heathen and a damn good time, and that meant that recreationally dressing as the Maker of the World -- the Wellspring of All, the major deity worshipped by the Chantry -- was, frankly, not altogether a surprising move. Sure, those who weren’t from Thedas wouldn’t get the full impact, but it was clear that she was making a sacrilegious mockery of religion, and that was enough.
And to her side for the evening was Fenris, dressed as her beautiful wife.
“Just think, love,” she said, grinning over yet another drink. “Somewhere back home, the Chantry is clutching their collective breasts in despair over our audacity.”
That, of course, was exactly why Fenris had agreed to come along for this mad voyage. He and Isabela disagreed on a number of things, but they concurred wholeheartedly on the matter of religion: it was a blight upon the world used to justify oppression, control people’s lives, and keep them complacent with the status quo. So, rather than snorting in derision when Isabela suggested that they attend the party as “The Maker--because then when people say Maker’s tits! they’ll finally be accurate--and Andraste--no, hah, Mandraste!” Fenris had without the slightest change in his expression said “all right.”
So here he was, bedecked in a glorious white dress, Andraste’s traditional crown, and a lovely long blond wig done up in Alamarri braids. He’d gone to no effort to actually look like a woman; he was quite deliberately a man who was wearing a dress. Making the outfit look right would have been too respectful, and that was not the aim of this costume.
“The entire army of the Exalted March is likely shaking with rage in their burial urns,” Fenris agreed, and flashed one of those rare wicked smiles that usually only showed up when he was winning a fight. “Hawke is going to love it.”
Isabela was very, very rarely mentioned in the same realm as the concept of respect, and that was just as well because she certainly had very little of it where the Maker and Andraste were concerned. In fairness, this lack of interest or belief began in her homeland -- the Rivaini were not religious. However, it was her own experiences and wilfulness that took not being religious and made it a matter of mocking religion relentlessly. She could blame the Qun, but that was only part.
She reached to affectionately straighten his crown. “He’s going to swoon. Not that he doesn’t do so regularly over you,” she said, grinning back. She offered an arm, then, feigning regalness. “Come, let us go lord our power over the pitiful peasants desperate for our blessing,” she said, in an absurd voice. “I want a cupcake.”
“First we greet Hawke, then we acquire alcohol, then cake,” Fenris said. “Hawke has been snickering to himself about his costume plan all week. I need to see it. I also require alcohol to be seen in this ridiculous outfit.”
“As my lady wishes,” Isabela responded, grinning through her facade of greatness.
Finding Hawke was easy enough; he was dressed like a particularly hilarious mermaid. Fenris actually laughed out loud upon seeing him - a smile and a laugh both in one night! This was proving to be a holiday, indeed. Hawke also knew exactly where the alcohol was to be found, and directed them that way before getting caught up in another conversation. Fenris intended to head right back to Hawke after getting his drink - but the best laid plans could crumble in the face of cupcakes.
The sight and sound of happy Fenris were enough to make anyone feel a little giddiness, because they were such rare treats. Isabela was prone to joy anyway, in truth, but she wasn’t immune to the impacts of those unusual happenings. It put an extra bounce in her step, and made the evening even lovelier -- and it had barely started.
Isabela tugged Fenris towards the cupcakes as their conversation with Hawke reached a good halting place, reminding him of his promise of cake. She’d become fond of them as Boring Isabela, and was just as happy to eat one now.
The effects of the little cake did not take hold immediately, but it was fairly shortly thereafter that Isabela blinked suddenly, no longer herself but the very being her costume was meant to blasphemously mimic. (Or, well, a manifestation of her mental interpretation of that being.) “Andraste,” she hissed, but her voice wasn’t her own, her hand tightening around the one it held. “Look at them.”
Fenris, meanwhile, had transformed into the real Andraste, dressed in Alamarri battle armor, blond hair bound up in braids to keep it out of the way, and a staff with a sharp blade at its end in hand - and actually female. Her eyes widened as she looked around the room. People were dressed in all kinds of ways, dancing in ways that -- really, could that even be called dancing? It looked like the kind of thing that ought to be kept to the bedroom. And every one of them, she was willing to bet, was incredibly drunk.
“Oh...oh my.” Andraste held more tightly to the Maker’s hand. “I am sure there is some reasonable explanation for this.”
The Maker pulled his wife closer to him, as if to protect her from the heathens that surrounded them. His cloak, which had thankfully lengthened to accommodate the fact that he was no longer some scandalous pirate, billowed as they moved. Because they were regal. And godly. And better than these poor souls.
“There is, and it is called Sin. They have strayed from the Light,” he said, the veil across his face shifting with his breath but doing little to completely hide his scorn. This was why he’d turned from all of those save the ones who followed Andraste.
“World-making Glory,” Andraste cried out in sorrow. “How shall your children apology make? We have forgotten, in ignorance stumbling, only a light in this darkened time breaks! Call to your children, teach us your greatness! What has been forgotten has not yet been lost.”
The Wellspring drew a breath between his teeth, holding to his wife, the truest of the lot, as he responded. “See what My children in arrogance wrought,” he hissed, disgusted by the sight. Despaired by it, too. “Long have they turned to idols and tales, away from My Light, in darkness unbroken.” He shook his head. “For shame.”
“Maker of the World, forgive them!” Andraste pleaded. “They have lived too long in shadow, without your light to guide them! Be with your children now, O Maker!” She fell to her knees before the almighty creator of all things, giving one last attempt at convincing him that he should not destroy them all with his mighty wrath.
He watched as she fell to her knees, his eyes turned to her instead of to the devastation in the room (where so many of the heathens were grinding their bodies against each other). His eyes softened. She was, truly, the only being capable of winning his favor with her faith. “For you, song-weaver, once more I will try,” he said, reaching to place a hand gently against her cheek, all at once showing a hint of his benevolence and mercy. “To My children venture, carrying wisdom. If they but listen, I shall return.” He reached to return her to her feet.
Andraste looked adoringly up at the source of all light and good, and for the first time in her life, she truly understood her purpose. It was not only to free her people from the yoke of slavery under the Tevinter Imperium, but to free them from the darkness of sin and false gods. She had to save them, no matter what she might be required to sacrifice to do so.
She nodded to the Maker, and stepped away with a mission. “At last,” she told him, “the light shall shine upon all of creation, if I am only strong enough to carry it. Those who oppose thee shall know the wrath of heaven.”
An hour passed, during which Andraste, in her glorious purpose, attempted to save the souls of those at the party whilst the Creator of All watched despairingly at how her mournful words failed to reach them.
And when the hour marker hit officially, there was a sudden shift. The Maker’s clothing readjusted, his male features softened and changed, and Isabela returned. It was a feeling beyond drunkenness -- a disorienting thing that left her silent a long moment before she blinked and looked over at Fenris. “Did we just--” and she trailed off, unsure of how to phrase her question, before erupting in laughter.
Fenris had returned to his natural form as well, and his original rather silly costume. He was still trying to determine just what in the Void had happened. They ate a cupcake, and then they somehow were the Maker and Andraste, or thought they were? And then he’d spent the last hour as a woman who really, truly wanted the world to follow the Maker’s Light.
His jaw set, mouth in a grim line. “I am never eating cupcakes again.”
“Oh come now, darling,” she said, tucking her arm around his with amusement still dripping off of her words. “Just think: for a brief hour, a brief moment in time, the Maker and Andraste were actually legitimate people who actually and legitimately did something worth acknowledging, if only because we were the ones doing those things.” She shook her head. “If the Chantry only knew…”