LEAD BY EXAMPLE

    —A battle field would be easier than what ever this is; a party, a ball. A place for nobles to parade about their exorbitant dresses and shiny gems while simultaneously flaunting false facades with daggers hidden up their sleeves. Carver hates it, loathes the  Orlesian ‘s and their opulence.  He would much rather be back at Skyhold handling his massive pile of parchments and increasingly dire duties than be dressed up and forced to converse with such people. However, the Commander has little choice in the matter; his presence, as made forcibly clear by their dear Ambassador, was more than just important. The Inquisition must keep appearances, looks strong, and be strong. Carver understands, but that does not stop him from skulking about the side of the dance floor, arms crossed tightly against his chest. 

      And, some how, some way, the robes and furs that lay draped over his massive frame feel heavier than any armor he’s ever worn. But of course, what warrior feels comfortable in anything other than his own armor? Eyes cut across the massive room, nose wrinkled while he watches other dances and talk. That’s when Carver spots him; unmistakable, even with the time that has passed. The Commander remembers meeting the man once, maybe twice after he returned to help Hawke in Kikwall. 

Sebastian Vael. 

@fatedvalor // clsoed

he was dressed EXUBERANTLY; brown furs lining a red robe that lay over his shoulders, fitting clothes of black and white, his andrastian belt nestled fittingly over his hips.  sebastian was accustomed to such attire, knew how to walk and talk like the prince he was, and act accordingly so to his supposed betters-

-though it had not meant that he was used to the orlesian’s that pranced about with knives behind their backs and poison on their lips.  no, he certainly was not used to their crowd.  

but it was all part of the game, to smile for face value alone, to act upon vicious intent and to gossip and pry in every hushed compliment and explorative fingers.  unaccustomed as he may be, he acted cordial, offering his hand to the women who asked for it and laughed at the mens pompous jokes whenever they were made- after all, it was the only way he would be able to survive. 

but when he finds space to breathe, to move away from the oncoming crowds, sebastian takes refuge- stepping back to a corner and breathing out a breath he had not realized he had been holding in, his posture slacking ever so so that sebastian could fully relax- even if for a moment.  

he takes comfort in his solidarity- at least that is until he spots someone rather...  familiar.  mistakenly, and cautiously, he takes a step forward, one arm rose quizzically.  he approaches until he finds himself proven wrong.

though it wasn’t the hawke he was EXPECTING, it’s all the same, a familiar face in the midst of strangers.  so, correcting his posture he smiles politely to the man before him, bowing ever so in order to keep up appearances around the nobles that stared the men down from a distance.

solid answer

YOURE SO PRETTY

For Munday, anonymously ask the mun something you want to know about them

For Munday, anonymously ask the mun something you want to know about them

                    Tempted to test it, he refrains just and smiles in its place. Those that’d attended only his presence (tongue-tied and tired) flock away, distracted like moths to open flames, to others like him twitching uncomfortably under the pressure of their scrutiny. Cullen remains ready to defect them though, a natural curse, close enough to Sebastian that his voice drops. Gently, just louder than usual, “I can’t say I’m used to the company but I would’ve assumed you’re more accustomed than I.” Onlookers, whispers behind delicately lifted hands loud enough to float over the music to him and maybe his companion, they will talk he knows, but only in the space of nothing to talk about.

                    “Though I find people think that of me and they couldn’t be further from the truth. This is all very. hm. new.” A light laugh carries on his breath, he relaxes and stiff shoulders pulled back hunch forward so slightly; saying welcome! thank you! safer now, even if he doesn’t know it.

“you would think i would be accustomed to it by now, but alas.” he admits, fingers dressed in ivory dancing along the hem of his attire.  “it’s vastly different from what i am used to- but thats not saying much.  the attention is still...  unnerving.” 

great admitance in such company he finds himself being honest, perhaps to a fault.  nonetheless, the music begins to pick up in the distance, && noble men && women flock to one another left && right- while some stay behind to eye the prince && the commander in what can only be seen as kindled desire- perhaps wanting to touch, to feel- or perhaps much more.

sebastian relents.

To say that Hawke hates Skyhold would be an understatement.  She hates the high walls and the feel of a fortress, she hates the guards eyeing her and her mutilated arms with disgust, she hates the Templars who fear and hate her in equal measure, she hates the fucking Seeker that Varric won’t let her kill —— she despises this place.  It feels oppressive.  IT FEELS WRONG.

But she is here.  Because she loves Varric, as she loves all her friends, even past the serrated edge of her ribs.  Her knuckles are too sharp to hold people, but she knows well how to kill for the sake of others.

She loves him, too.

Hawke watches him linger, not entering the Chantry.  Watches his shoulders slope and knows that this is her fault.  Knows that her hatred of GOD has robbed him of his chance for joy in it.

She’d been avoiding him.  But here shoulders square and she walks to stand beside him.  “I’m sorry,” she says.  Brusque and cold, because she can be nothing else, but sincere.

he doesn’t jump at her voice-- for it’s still so familiar to the man.  instead, he keeps his eyes upon the very building he refuses to enter, shoulders low as he speaks quietly-- so quietly that he wonders if his words would merely be carried away by the breeze. 

“i used to believe so righteously.” fingers play at the hem of his belt.  “in everything elthina said, all the words of the chantry without second thought.  but now?”  there is a laugh, small-- dry && hollow, yet he carries on as if it were natural.  “i don’t know.”

legs step forward, shoulders turning towards hawke as his eyes, dim, listless greets the woman’s own stare.

                When a king joins an organization such as the INQUISITION it is often to make a statement. To be present as a show of good faith / show of support. Little more could possibly be expected of someone with such great political burden and, presumably, little time to themselves. One does not, generally, take someone integral to the metaphorical machine gallivanting across the countryside to fight DEMONS and RED TEMPLARS with every other breath. A bit too much risk there, some may say. A bit too much at stake, even with the entire world at stake. Too many things can go WRONG.

                Things that can go wrong will often go wrong, he’s come to find.

                There is no room for a rose tinted gaze in this day and age —— not that he had much of one to begin with. No, he is a realist to a fault, and while he certainly hadn’t been expecting the KING OF BLOODY STARKHAVEN to be severely injured, he still finds himself unsurprised. Frustrated, in the grand scheme of things, but unsurprised. Particularly about the part where he is playing nurse, now. Only mage for a who knows how large radius, after all.

              ❝ It would be in your best interest to remain still, your majesty, ❞ irritation born of something that is perhaps worry and something that is definitively just IRRITATION soaks his tone, for all that it remains nearly jovial in light of this lovely turn of events. ❝ I am not above using magic to restrain you. ❞ other than the fact that his mana is low and he’s trying to divert the vast majority of it into what healing he can manage.

@fatedvalor // ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

when he offered his aid to the inquisition, there wasn’t much that went into the decision.  there’s a hole in the sky, the king pondered, seems like it’s the most pressing matter.

so to say it had been an easy decision would be a vast understatement.  

but he did not just only offer what militia he could for the cause, he also offered himself- royal aid to help with politics, && on occasion, an ally to fight with if need be-- after all, what kind of king would he be if he sat back && watched his men fight && die for him?  no, sebastian wanted to fight side by side with his men, with the inquisitor-- bring peace back to the world && sew the rip in the sky shut.

of course his guards had pleaded with him to not go himself, too dangerous, they had warned as their king but waved them off with promises of returning.  he wasn’t necessarily ignoring them, he simply wasn’t taking their advice, at least, that was the way he saw it.

but after being flanked by the sharp end of a rogue templar’s sword, sebastian was starting to rethink his prior decisions.  crimson had been quick to slip past the openings in his fingers as his palms fell to the side of his open wound-- the world around him spinning.  between the pain, the shouting of his comrades, && the smell of blood rancid in the air as it stood hand && hand with sweat, he was surprised he hadn’t passed out.

so he was thankful dorian was there-- the only mage they had in miles.