diva down !

Most of Elora's companions have been quite concerned by what happened with the bard. If she killed someone without realizing, it means they are all somehow in danger because no one knows when or how it could happen again. Astarion isn't really concerned about this, though. He's not scared of her. Maybe it's just because he doesn't value his own life, but maybe it's also because he sees a bit of himself in her, even if he wouldn't admit such a thing out loud. He's a slave to his need of blood. He could lose control if he's not careful. And he's also a slave to Cazador. With the tadpole, things are different now. He has more agency, more freedom. But before he just couldn't refuse an order from Cazador. He's just a spawn, after all. He's his slave. But now that he's free from him, he knows he will never let him have control over him again. No, Astarion will be free from him once and for all. The next time he sees Cazador, he will kill him.

Of course it's different for Elora because she doesn't seem to know where all this violence comes from. She seemed so confused after what happened with the bard. Astarion refuses to judge her, though. He knows only too well how it might be to judge her. He has heard her talk out loud, so he decides to approach her. They're more alike than she thinks. Maybe he's her only true ally inside this camp. Or at least maybe he's the only one fully trusting her.

If only she knew. 

How can Elora put faith in ‘who she is’ with no memories of her past. Does she build an image of herself upon her instincts – because those are unpredictable and foul – or should she look toward what she wants to be? To be born anew would be so tempting, and it’s a notion she wants to indulge, but something underneath won’t stop clawing. And she doesn’t even have the privilege of knowing why. 

Until the bard, she was so sure everything had been going well. Every compulsion ignored, an odd sense that her choices were her own, and she was choosing well. She’d saved that tiefling girl – Arabella – with words alone; she wants to save those poor tiefling refugees, to go after these goblin raiders, to make friends with the assortment of tadpole-ridden adventurers in this very camp. 

Her sweet, heroic demeanour isn’t false. It just takes everything in Elora to maintain it. 

“That’s different,” she says, purposefully not meeting the vampire’s eye. “It’s not your fault,”

Astarion’s need for blood is in his very nature. What else is a vampire supposed to do? She can’t blame him for a change in biology and a change in appetite. But Elora? She has no excuse. 

Deep down, she knows his words are meant to reassure – and deep down, they do. Astarion would be well within his rights to turn on her now – everyone would – and he hasn’t. The playful tone is a nice touch too, because it’s still him. Her friend. If he considers her a friend, that is.

If only a little, some of the distress in her eyes calms just a little. The dark one even settles on him, while her blind eye remains unfocused. 

A lot of people think he should be older purely because of how he acts, but I do think it’s important to remember that Balthier is, in essence, a character.

I love the idea that he was made a judge at only 16. Many people call it unrealistic but I think it’s an interesting indication of the larger problems in Arcadian society, of his father’s fascination with the nethercite. I love the idea that he’s spent his entire adulthood running.

I know this is a silly thing to point towards, but I loved this interaction between him and the other airship guys from other FF games which kinda gets at this idea that Balthier, despite all the bravado and the fact he calls many of the shots in ff12, isn’t all he cracks himself up to be. He acts like he's got his shit together and that he's the leading man, but really he has a lot to figure out.

"I hate him sometimes." It would seem the ale had taken hold of the Commander's tongue. They lounge in his office, it one could call it that; what with crumbling stone and a draft that sent parchment sailing across the room when a good gust slithered between the crests of the mountains around them. Hawke had arrived at Skyhold some hours before, and their first conversation had been---lackluster. At least on his part. Carver scolded himself in the hour since that terse and tense bout of---whatever it was. A talk, an argument?

Did it matter?

Not really, he realized shortly after that he had used it as an excuse to unload. and perhaps on the one person who, in this moment, deserved narry a moment of it. So, he invited his sister to a drink. Not in the tavern---Maker no. Not with such prying eyes and loose lips about. No, his office would do fine, and the alcohol he had lifted during a late night raid on the cellars the week prior, would do them far better.

"Father." Carver supplements only after a long stretch of silence, wherein he realizes he hadn't given Hawke a clue as to WHO. But, then again, it wasn't hard to take a guess. "Mostly because he made it so bloody hard to hate him."

That's new, he thinks as the words tumble from his lips. "Never seemed to care but when he did...he did." Is he even making sense? Surely he had not drunk that much and yet...the Commander can not remember having had a dinner. Blue hues flicker high to finally look his sister in the face, and his jaw sets---not with anger. But frustration at his lack of emotional wherewithal. As though he wants to badly to spew every thought and feeling in this very moment, but they number one too many and..... and the metaphorical drain is clogged.

She sits with her arms around her knees, half-emptied bottle on the floor beside her. It’s an unassuming, almost girlish position for Kirkwall’s lost champion to have assumed in her brother’s office, but it’s comfortable enough. And this isn’t a place for her to feel the burden of responsibility. Val’s a little too far gone for that, anyway. 

There’s a long, long pause between Carver’s words and her next. The elder Hawke takes a series of long, drawn out breaths akin to sighs, measured in a way that suggests she’s trying to sober up, or chew on everything he’d just said. 

This is new, she thinks. Honesty – it’s all they have now that they’re the only family they have left. 

Would he be offended if she said his words don’t surprise her? They… they resonate in a way. How are you supposed to reconcile difficult feelings towards somebody who undoubtedly loves you? He tried his best, but for a runaway circle mage, your best is seemingly a limited thing. And it’s funny, Valeria Hawke is so sure she could see her father’s reflection in the eyes of another runaway mage, another person she loved too damn much. 

But these feelings… oh, something sickens in her when she remembers who else she felt them for. Guilt – sickening, with that all too familiar taste of Ferelden ale – might as well swallow her entirely. In a panic, she looks Carver right in the eye, and he’s looking back at her, frustrated. Because she might burst, and he’s spewing his thoughts out like blots of ink on a page. 

Ha. Varric’d like that. Her fractured emotional state results in a giggle, though some mad look remains in her eyes. 

So much for sobering up. 

“I know how you feel,” she says, and it thankfully comes off as sincere. “He loved you, you know. I think he would’ve preferred three little Carvers, actually. Might’ve made his life a lot easier,”

Ah, those words they’d heard together the first time they fought Corypheus. Oh, how he hoped his unborn child – her, in that particular case – wouldn’t have magic. She’d loved her father, and she knows he loved her too but she could always feel his disappointment. Even now, she’s sure she’s letting him down. 

Still, a younger Val might’ve put up a fight to defend the man’s honour. He’s dead anyway, and she knows how hard it was for him, how much work went into keeping his daughters from the circle. 

“Of course it matters. Not like they left us with a lot else. Just the memories and the feelings,”

They. She meant to say he, but the ghost of their mother has a funny way of sticking on her tongue.

Nat laughs again at that – the lake was admittedly funny, even though the roguish dwarf lacked the ability to swim herself and wouldn’t have fared any better. Until very recently, they’d never seen the sun, or so much water in one place, or anything but rock and dirt and dust. 

To call this shit ‘weird’ would be an understatement. 

“Ha. Well, I’ll put it like this: the sky ain’t a fraction as bad as everyone says. Hasn’t crushed us yet, and honestly? I think I like it. It’s… pretty. Better than Orzammar, anyway. That place was a fuckin’... ugh.”

She’d rather not think about it. It’s not that there’s nothing left for her there – fuck, if she thinks too hard, she’ll start to miss Rica again. But there’s nothing left for her in Orzammar besides Rica. 

Frustrated, the dwarf readjusts her position on the ground. She should probably shut up, but something in them itches to keep talking, curious to see if Mei will understand.