ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ᴛʜᴀɴ ᴛʜᴀᴛ, ɪᴛ ᴡᴀs ғɪɴᴇ

ohsweetmaker:

totallynotabloodmage:

ohsweetmaker liked your post:righteousmade replied to your post: …

// oh look a lil noodle wants in on the action >3

━━━ 「 once upon a time, the world was once again in a state of gone to shit. 

it wasn’t the first time, and the second time was fairly close in terms of uncalled for awful, but this was different. as in, the kind of shit that prompts the divine to declare a new age, before going down into the deep roads to live naked among the nugs. 

so thedas arrived at the shit age (the name was up for debate, but the chantry was too busy quashing rumors that divine victoria had finally made it official with her nug king). 

for as long as cullen had been (ir)relevant to this story, he’d understood perfectly that his path in life was up to a malevolent narrative force. it either liked him far too much, or just pretended to when people were looking, then kicked him somewhere it didn’t show. it followed him across thedas, tousling his hair in an attractive way, even in daylight when people could presumably see him with their eyes. but mostly it served to breathe life back into his tattered ramen coil, because he’d always lacked a backstory which could have explained, logically, why he was still alive.  

& he did die, probably. it was just that he always ended up back where he left off. since everyone else was usually dead (like for real) he’d never had to fully explain this to anyone – especially himself. he’d even added it to his CV, back at the start, as the kind of joke that hinted “I shouldn’t be in society” but he got the job anyway.   

kirkwall was like that. 

the point is, when the world ended, cullen was mostly fine. he’d been allowed to practice. he spent the time while others ran about screaming and goats were on fire really thinking it through.

when the hellscape cleared, he knew only two things could possibly survive as they had been. 

1) only one other person was as unkillable in this fucking franchise as he was;

2) the deeproads were nice this time of year (& really, nug hands were only really creepy if you looked at them too long). 

bye. 」

//everyone else go home, cae wins the internet and i am slain.

is it meta. is it crack. is it a starter. IS IT CULLEN’S SANITY FINALLY BREAKING. it’s all the above isn’t it.

━━━ 「 it’s all of the above. 」

     “You drive a hard bargain, partner, though as to the ownership of the coffee, I rather doubt a magistrate would agree it was solely yours. Topic: politically-motivated demonic possession. Relevance: a cold case you were made to give up on five years ago. Make sure you pick one out with lots of cherries. And I’ll take a flat white. With caramel. And cocoa on top.”

“That I was made — ”

He was AWAKE. He was far more awake than he had any wish to be. Had it truly been five whole years...? 

The silence of the next thirty seconds was punctuated only by the micro-expressions of a man who’d long since replaced hope with resignation — and didn’t quite know what to do with his face now. 

After the Tantervale debacle, he’d sworn he’d never permit political pressure to stand in the way of justice, but without evidence... 

The scene had haunted him, day and night, for almost a year afterwards. The incense-heavy smell of the elevator in the Nevarran embassy; the doors closing slowly as he half-watched the previous occupant walk away into the lobby, dressed in formal robes of state Cullen wouldn’t find out were stolen for another twenty two minutes. 

And casually held against their hip: the slim, lyrium-lined suitcase that contained the only evidence ever identified. The same suitcase the Antivan coast guard would find empty and abandoned on a Kirkwall-flagged cargo ship, found powerless and drifting in the Rialto Bay two months later. 

“That — ” Cullen said, momentarily derailed, “ — isn’t coffee, it’s a dessert course; and those files were sealed by the Knight-Commander herself.”

What his rational brain meant to say next was ‘What have you done now?’ 

What his mouth said was, “Knight-Lieutenant Bryant!” 

As a rule, Cullen treated his subordinates like the competent, highly-trained officers of magical (and non-magical) law enforcement that they were, but there were benefits to holding rank, and occasionally circumstances that justified using them. 

Bryant’s surprised head appeared in the doorway in short order, and Cullen only belatedly remembered to add a large black Americano to the end of Dorian’s reckless interpretation of breakfast. 

Cullen waited until the door clicked closed, and not a second longer. 

symbol meme (accepting!) || send one for my muse’s reaction to your muse — ❂ = wiping blood off their face .

Was he conscious?

The throbbing pain in his EVERYTHING made that likely.  Garrett groaned, batting the Templar’s hand away – though he missed by about a mile.

“Can’t you just do what you people do and Spell Purge my head off my body? It’d be a kindness.”

Cullen tried not to stare at his own hand, wedging it under Hawke’s shoulder to help him up. It was smoother and paler than he remembered; a ghost of 10 years ago attached to his armoured arm. 

Hawke’s face, too, was bloodied but unmistakably different to the man who’d stuck the end of his staff straight through a fade rift, said “ WHAT IF I--- ” and promptly sucked them both off the face of Thedas. But until Hawke groaned and opened his eyes, what form the Fade chose to give them hadn’t seemed particularly important while floating mountains cracked above them, and demons clawed their way out of tears in the distance.

Hawke was alive and as conscious as he ever was. Neither one of them had ended up spliced between realms. Despite the gravity of their mission, and the insanity that led them here, Cullen felt the knot in his chest ease for just a moment. 

“And live with whatever nightmare replaced it? Not even if I could. We’ve made it this far. I’m not fighting through the fade with a GURGUT stuck on your shoulders.

There was a pause.By Cullen’s count, there had been four such pauses since the Inquisitor’ssudden arrival, which had allowed him two opportunities to breathe (a goodreminder: Cullen inhaled, quietly); one hasty exit by a servant swifter and moreintelligent than he; and one fateful attempt to conjured words whichwould, which could, possibly hope toexplain the past year in a way which might come close to being satisfactory.

If that wereeven possible.

“I ― ”

The long musclesalong either side of his spine were aching with a rigidity he had thought longbehind him, and yet attention was theonly posture that seemed remotely appropriate. Lavellan’s voice echoed in thesilence he’d become used to hearing inside his skull. …Dear Mia… it began, accusingly, before he drowned it out.

They had beenhere before. He hadn’t learnt. But words had always escaped Cullen when it cameto explaining himself. What could he say?

I didn’t expect Scout Harding would killme?

You had problems enough?

I should have anticipated someone would kill me…

It seemed a good idea at the time…?

“Dorian,”he began again; it had been some time since he’d used the common tongue, and hesounded far too much like himself for any semblance of comfort; Cullen paled, agreyish pallor under the thin layer of sunburn, “is an… accomplished necromancer. Granted, I wasgone for less than a day, but there was no guarantee that I would return. Or whetherwhat did would bear any resemblance ― ”

(In allfairness, he hadn’t borne much resemblance to himself in the months before he’d ceased to exist.)

Somewhereoutside stretched miles of glittering black sand, a sun high in the sky, andthe scent of incense and sea spray. It couldn’t be more divorced from the darknews they’d convened in Qarinus to discuss, though admittedly there was littlereason to suppose “they” would include himself.

Cullen’sgrip on the armet he still held eased into a more self-conscious position, awarethat mere minutes stood between this conversation and another day of silence tantamountto deception. Was he relieved? Should he feel worse now than he had before? Hewasn’t so sure. Things had certainly been simpler, and less taxing, for a time.But he was not so addled that he did not grasp how selfish that thought ― and thereality left behind it ― was.

He saw the lasttwo years in the small, taut changes in Lavallan since they’d spoken last, andknew he’d seen the same in Dorian, in Cassandra, in Leliana ― even if they hadnot suspected him of being alive to notice.

Cullen had neversought to suggest that he would become, intentionally or otherwise, a betterman than Kirkwall would have it ― he knew who he was. Only that he was resolvedto take what actions were necessary to rectify the mistakes he had made, and hehad tried to do so. His death was his business. …but his living?

The truth, then.

“When Ihad to, Inquisitor.” He would not say if ― at least, not now. Cullen’s gaze slid away, towards the emptyrooms beyond where he was want to stand vigil, and he had force it back with somedifficulty. “Remaining dead seemed …advantageous, given how easily wewere infiltrated; without cause for suspicion, a helmet is simple enough tohide behind.“

What hadSera called him, back at Haven? A jackboot? Much like any other, in many ways.Now one which wore House Pavus colours, and with little but his penchant forshadowing his so-called liege to differentiate him from any other. Certainly, agood enough disguise when those who’d known him expected furs, curls, and darkrings beneath a harried expression. In plain burnished plate, Cullen lost presenceand gained discipline; remembered what it was to bear no distinguishing flourish.There was much to recommend it, but it also left him powerless in the Imperiumwithout orders or sanction.

first snowfall starters - { cont! }

🏂 for our muses to go out to snowboard/ski/sledding

“This is a very real danger to life and limb,” Dorian protested as Cullen attached a small, ancient-looking sled to his far-too-excited Mabari. “Plus, I’m fairly certain this is animal cruelty. He looks abused. Cormac, bark once if you’re suffering, twice if you’d like me to phone the police.”

The dog wagged violently. The entirety of the dog. Not just its stumpy tail, which appeared to vibrate.

“I hate you both,” Dorian sighed, pulling out his phone and perching unhappily on the sled. “A moment. I’m going to update my will to ensure neither of you gets anything for this act of manslaughter.”

The lake below was a sparkle or three of deep winter green beneath the snow. Fresh tracks pattered over the morning flurries, nestled in a ring of firs and crowned with one giant white mushroom where a willow tree normally stood by the jetty.

It was home -- the same hills and crisp forest air, but blanketed with a thick layer of snow and memories. It didn’t remind him of the last spring, full of excitement and somehow homesick already; not the last days of summer, when the darkspawn reached the valley and the village churned to rubble.

Cullen tipped his chin, searching the treeline for the faint tips of warm smoke curling up from the same direction they’d come. A few more plumes every year.

Cormac’s tail was whipping so fast the snow was starting to form a snow-globe around this haunches.

“You heard him,” he told the mabari, fending the wet nose away from his ear as he ducked down to buckle the chest straps. “No more sparkling ham; no more fancy nugs half your age.”