An Amell

@inashxs​ 

    They have lived too long in shadow               Without Your Light to guide them!

   The prayer had still been fresh in Orsino’s mind. As much as he tried to zone out, some of the chant still got through to him— yet, not the way that was intended. He had been lined with other harrowed mages considered rambunctious. Each one of them had been lowered down on their knees beneath the feet of a chantry sister, bowed forward until their foreheads touched the floor as she recited the chant to them. It had been mind-numbingly dull, but still vastly preferred than the templars’ choices for punishment. 

   Once that had been finally over, Orsino had stepped away to examine the towering altar for Andraste. The other mages lingered; all of them remained in clear sight of the templars and chanters, so no reprimands were earned as long as they seemed invested in the holy ground. 

   Another person had knelt down before the idol moments prior. Orsino bowed next to her, but did not clasp his hands in prayer. Instead, his eyes wandered over to her; far too curious for his own good. 

   She was young, very young, but young in the way that Orsino was still considered to be young. It was a sharp contrast to the pruned faces of many in the chantry. A pleasant difference. Her hair was light and well-kept, the sides pulled towards the back to free her face. Her clothes were of fine make and held a level of detail and cleanliness that told she did not have to walk far to reach the chantry. A noble woman perhaps. If not, her family was rich either way. 

   Impulses controlled his tongue, cravings for conversation and attention outside his peers and overseers second to that. “What do you pray for?” It was a low whisper that came out smoothly, his voice deep in tone, but it was enough of an intrusion and fumble that even Orsino cringed afterwards. 

it was routine for leandra, to run off to the chantry && linger in it’s halls, to sit in contemplation within the soft && warm walls of the sanctum, only kneeling before andraste && all the lay brothers && sisters when ready for quiet prayer.  she enjoyed it, the essence, the sense of fulfillment, the warmth that grew within her breast-- she wouldn’t trade the feeling for anything else in the world.  

&& usually she is left undisturbed-- only chatting here && there every so often with the brothers that approach her for whispered greetings. so,she finds it odd for one to interrupt her prayers-- odd not bothersome.

it’s a male’s voice, she muses, only rising to see the stranger once she has finished her prayers, hair the color of wheat falling over her shoulders as her head turns in, eyes curious as ever.

he’s handsome. she can’t help thinking, looking at his pretty features for but a moment just before noticing the robes. he’s a mage.

yet observations aside, he seems nice enough-- at least at first glance, && leandra has never personally had any problems with mages.  so she offers him this, a smile-- small && humble before her lips part, taking in his words carefully.

“what do i pray for?”  she repeats his words back to the stranger.  “i don’t believe anyone has ever asked me that before.” chuckling, she turns her head back to the statue of andraste, her hands finding their way to her lap.

curious anons

status // always

THERES A THICK coat of blood spreading ‘gainst the back of her esophagus as hidden cries are muffled behind closed lips; mind STRUGGLING to count even the passing seconds through each helpless wheeze.  copper washes && stains her drying tongue;  a light grows dim, a GRAVE is dug, && a casket is created.

is this what death feels like? 

FEAR is what keeps her eyes wide as MAROON drips && spread’s along a once CLEAN lilac tunic, leandra LOST within the confines of her own head as she’s willed by ( magic ) to keep still.  she’s fighting a losing battle, searching for any way to break free, even if ESCAPE was unattainable.  there are scream’s resonating within her core, && with each soggy cough a new nail is laid && hammered into her coffin.

his blade is SHARP && damning, cool && thin as it leaves behind a horizontal incision from left to right- push any harder && there goes her head.

HE’S FEELING SORRY FOR HIMSELF. something about burnt fingers. soggy cinders. he’s never been a poet but he knows how to repeat a tune until it’s bitter even in the teller’s ears; anybody claiming they can’t possibly grow tired of their own shoddy mug hasn’t the same under-eye baggage, naturally.

and that’s what he’s glancing at; a long face in more than the physical sense getting woefully scrutinized in what’s left of a puddle – because there’s a leak, again – his back arched in somewhat of a semi-circle to tidy up. tripping hazard, he’d say, when in reality it’s an excuse to sit down. no, it’s a crouch, and there’s a certain lack of relaxation in quivering ankles granting him that final drive to pull out of it, shake off those dripping fingers and the weighted laughter lines falling victim to gravity.

BESIDES THAT, THERE’S A VOICE. mildly familiar in it’s own right but not an ordinary client if instincts mean anything. well, that tacked onto the fact that it’s too early for an emergency, as if the unfortunately lodged quills or rancorously spurting blood only occur when the sun heads to sleep. 

she calls him by name and it’s oddly calming. 

lucky shot.

❛ mrs. hawke. ❜  there’s the breath, it’s his turn; ❛ piss on it, what’re you doing here? i pray you aren’t in any danger, are you? is somebody following you? did something happen? ❜  anders is rallying to her side in record time, tattered shoes knocking the twin rocks aside as his right hand clefts to the thick of her arm. paranoia’s always been a constant ruling, especially prevalent when friends and family are involved. 

❛  YOU KNOW IT’S DANGEROUS around here. hell, if you need anything – ask hawke, i’ll come to you. ❜

she’s met with a quick tongue && a protective coat of concern && alarm as her forearm is clutched, lips propping open in response with knitting brows stitching a seam along ones forehead.  his unease translates as unprompted despite the clear risks taken in travel ( though she at times thinks far too little of the ‘what ifs’ that can be countered within kirkwall ). 

with a touch of confusion kissing her cheeks she collects herself well, calmly commenting on his statement as if waving his concerns away.

    “ well- i’ve come in one piece, so theres no use     saying much about it now. “

with a side-step to move ‘way, her arm tugs from his touch as she continues on in her pursuit, working hands removing fresh breads && chilled juices from their woven container to be set aside for later consumption; gifts of innocent intent collected && dressed in rough cloth, with baked goods warm to the touch from the heat of gamlen’s ( poor ) stove.

     “ besides, i do not need anything- i simply     thought you might be a bit hungry. “

her back to him, soft noises of clicking glass && slushing liquid are set along a table-top to her direct right, words lilt as they flutter about the empty space between the two- the widow ONLY returning her gaze to feathered pauldrons && perked shoulders in examination of the mages gaunt && scraggly physique.