#:chat

CW: VIOLENCE.

there’s really no need for their sordid meeting to take place under the cover of darkness -- stregobor knows they are coming.  but kaz has always liked to stalk his prey.  watch them sweat.  play with them, like an overgrown cat with a mouse.  it’s twisted, and sick, but he likes the taste of their fear, and to see it reflected in their eyes as they realize death has come for them, and he will show them neither mercy nor restraint.  

and stregobor deserves it more than any other monstrous man he’s killed.  his stomach clenches in anticipation, the twin swords strapped to his back seeming to thrum with hunger as he waits for her.  he will not do this without her.  when it comes to the final strike, he will let her take it.

he knows what it’s like to need that revenge.  he knows how desperately the soul craves it.  what has been done to her -- it is worse than anything the most foul creature he has ever been contracted to kill could dream of doing.  beasts kill for hunger. for survival. to protect their own.  they don’t perform sick, twisted experiments on others for their own perverse enjoyment.  

yes, he’s rather looking forward to this contract.  he pushes off of the wall at her approach, cat-eyes reflecting the light of his torch eerily, a hungry gleam in their golden depths.  

he’d be a FOOL not to see it.  the evidence is there, laid bare and public for all the world to see.  despite her best efforts, the front that she puts on that she is the INEFFABLE INQUISITOR, he can see it.  

her cheekbones are more gaunt.  she’s picked up his bad habits of not eating and not sleeping.  there are dark circles under her eyes, her skin has lost its glow, and her smile doesn’t QUITE reach her eyes.  

the laugh that got him through so much darkness has become bitter and strained.  

he can see the PAIN etched in the lines of her face.  there is grey in her hair where there previously was not, and the anchor...

it GNAWS at a wound in him that is still learning how to close.  it’s WRONG, and he’d be a FOOL not to see it.

it’s eating her ALIVE.  

he strokes his fingers lightly down her other arm, pressing a kiss to her shoulder.  

‘had i KNOWN that YOU were the contact that HAWKE mentioned, i might have simply told the inquisitor that this mission is doomed to failure from the start,’ he deadpans, the hand wrapped around the pommel of his sword the only telltale sign of his discomfort.  there are too many memories here, too much history between them for him to feel anything other than ILL AT EASE.  

he’d thought he would sink beneath the memories and drown at the SIGHT of him, end up begging him to end his life once more, to burn the TOWER down and kill every last mage surrounding them.  but all he feels in the moment is an overwhelming sense of EXHAUSTION, an elevated heartbeat, and an aching jaw from grinding his teeth.  

he’s tired.  so bone- and soul-crushingly EXHAUSTED.  he drags his hands up his face and through his hair, lightly tugging on the strands still mussed from sleep.  it’s thinning somewhat, a thought that makes a worm of self-consciousness slither through his belly.  maker, help him, he feels older than he is.  with a sigh, he allows himself to brood but a moment later before he forces himself to his feet.  

he dons his armor methodically, piece by piece, layer by CAREFUL layer.  there’s COMFORT in the familiarity, of tying laces and fastening buckles, of the smell of metal and leather.  his ritual done, he exits the temporary lodgings he shares with the other soldiers -- still softly snoring in the dark -- and begins to set up his usual camp at the bottom of the staircase with his make-shift table.  he’ll send a RUNNER to wake them once dawn begins to lighten the horizon.  they’ve earned their rest, in the aftermath of haven.  

the day dawns BRISK and DAMP, the stormy grey skies above heavy with the promise of snowfall to come.  haven is constantly BLANKETED in it.  it crunches under his boots and clings to his hair and his mantle on the coldest days when the sun’s rays do not even have time to melt it before it’s frozen over anew.  he sighs.  FERELDAN to the bone he might be, but he had grown accustomed to the free marches’ thick, humid warmth.  though it made one’s skin sticky and weapons turn to rust if soldiers weren’t careful with their steel and iron (and made his hair even more of a NIGHTMARE to keep in line), he’d almost take that SUFFOCATING, thick heat to days upon days of cold.  

it’s hard to bolster spirits and boost MORALE when everyone is freezing their bollocks off playing a waiting game.  it’s mere DAYS until the conclave, and a restless stirring has settled over the village of haven.  he sighs and tries to ignore the fact that a headache is already blossoming in the back of his skull as he approaches.

the morning sun has barely crested over the horizon when he makes his way down to the tiltyard for his ROUTINE training session with the inquisitor.  while he trains the troops, it’s less for his OWN benefit and more for THEIRS.  these morning sessions are for HIM and the INQUISITOR alone, two well-matched individuals testing their mettle against each other.  he’d be lying if he said he didn’t look forward to them.  

the body needs a whetstone just as much as a sword, and it keeps him in shape, his reflexes sharp.  he arrives early, but not early ENOUGH.  she’s already beaten him to the tiltyard, a fact that makes him snort in mild annoyance.  just ONCE he’d like to beat her here.  but he slips inside anyway, donned in his familiar armor.