aban aqun

Kaaras watched the other qunari, a little intimidated purely because he was so damn pretty. It felt unfair that he was standing before someone who was just so… unfairly gorgeous when he was… quite the opposite. Every part of his upbringing had told him that every qunari (himself mostly) should be seen as a hideous monster, but that was lies. Oh, it wasn’t like the Herald hadn’t seen qunari before–he’d worked alongside them after all–but it seemed almost sinful that he found such beauty in them. 

The mage made a soft breath, finding it strange to think he was so indisposable. Years of living with humans had Kaaras thinking he was worthless. And more years were spent trying to recover from that damage. And now he was some kind of saviour? Maker’s breath… this was never going to settle with him, was it? He had to push all of that aside, however, because there was a job to do. Be damned what his own insecurities cried out. 

“Don’t worry, once that breach is sealed, everything will go back to normal, I’m sure. The Chantry will stop calling me a heretic, the people will stop thinking I’m a saviour, and the Qun will go back to trying to invade Tevinter. Normal, right?” Kaaras wasn’t even sure if that was a joke or not…  

HIS ANSWERING LAUGH IS BRIGHT AND AIRY — more a giggle, really, and a brief one, at that. ❝  yes,  ❞ he says, ❝  perfectly normal.  ❞ there isn’t a doubt in his mind that thedas will be quick to forget their herald, should he outlive his usefulness. they’ll certainly have the time — once he stops the sky falling down — and humanity is a capricious lot. one need only look to the elves to know that. it had been one of their own who had stopped the blight, after all, and what did that get them? a statue for their slums? no wonder so many join the qun.

“Such flattery!” He giggled. “I can already imagine the odd looks I’ll get. Not that they’re not already odd.”

She’s pricked herself at least four times in the last twenty minutes, but if she’s aware of the pain it doesn’t show.  All the girl does is point a pout at the bead of blood on her finger and wipe it absently on her hip.  Then her fingers return to her (  attempt at  ) sewing.  It’s been a while, but she’s relearning.  Her eyes raise, catch Meraad’s, and there’s a smile in them.  “He might try to.  Try to speak Qunlat t - to me.”  She pulls a face.  “That would be worse.  I migh —— might try it with the Templar, though.”

“Maybe I want to be pretty and covered in glittery gold like a dragon’s hoard.”

”A cake walk is for Orlesians. Vints, on the other hand, would want it to be a blood sacrifice,” Vlad quipped back with a growing grin, looking over the corpses. Dead or no, there were still things of value to salvage here. “Wonder how much loot they’ve left behind?”