#ahmells

two wardens in the inquisition is an odd thing, especially when one of them is a hero of renowned fame, but roselyn had arrived and deemed fit to stay, so... it is what it is. they haven’t spoken much, he’ll admit, but bull’s already found his closer friends in blackwall, sera, varric, occasionally solas, if the elf will descend from his high fuckin’ horse from time to time. he’s not really sure if he should speak, here, standing outside commander cullen’s office, which is usually the spot where he turns and walks the other way: can’t get through without passing through rutherford’s space, and the lion of the inquisition is not a morning person. he gives roselyn a nod. no grin, yet. he can’t quite muster the energy for it. “you’re up early. or is this par for the course?”

“it’s hard, isn’t it?” he bends to snatch up a pebble. small and round and dull brown.

“outside as not a part as separate as not in me, not of me.” he creeps along the squat stone wall, scanning the dirt. the next rock he picks up is bigger, flatter, sharper-edged. bluish-gray with ripples. he wants a smooth, oblong one. palm-sized skipping stone. maybe one with an earthworm underneath. “it’s scary outside of us. it’s easier to stay in. sometimes i burrow so deep down inside of me that no one can see. i can’t see. hiding in me keeps me safe.”

a woman passes them by. cole tries not to let the ugly, raw, used-up feeling rolling off of her distract him from his stone hunt. he’ll go to help her once he’s found it. he’ll give her the stone.

@ahmells​ :  ❝  there are many names in history, but none of them are ours.  ❞  —— SIKEN. ( accepting )

        That gets a laugh out of him, something carrying but inoffensive in the grand scheme of things. Not intended to mock her in the least. Simply amused, bemused by the statement, caught by the misplaced nature of it, and he finds himself looking up from the book that he had been lazily perusing, catching her gaze from where she had seated herself upon the desk, pushed against the window of his alcove. Roselyn, too, had been perusing a book while they talked, neither of them exactly paying attention to what they had been reading, otherwise distracted / and it remains cradled in her hands.

        ❝ I believe your name is already in history, my friend, ❞ the book floats from his hand as he crosses his arms loosely, grinning at her. ❝ Let me see, I could have sworn that I had a book regarding the Fifth Blight,” he makes a show of casting his gaze about, eyes dragging over the shelves and titles and piles of books on the ground. They’re both well aware his library is absent of anything of the sort ( beyond minor footnotes in recent historical recollections, as though writers are unwilling to linger on such a memory ) but he can’t quite help but pull out the dramatics for the sake of it.

        ❝ Something about the Grey Wardens, perhaps? ❞ his library is also absent of anything to do specifically with the Wardens, though given the lack of anything Blight—related he can’t say that he’s especially surprised.

        He pauses, weighing her words in his mind once more ——— the price of being a hero is not something that he dwells on whatsoever. He is here of his own will, the call of duty demanding that he stand with the Inquisition as opposed to hiding away, cloistered and protected in his homeland while the world threatens to fall apart and Tevinter pretends otherwise. There are some who do not have the ability to choose to give their lives to something of this caliber, he’s aware of as much. Whether or not Roselyn had been glad to give her life over to the Blight and fighting it as a matter of her absolute responsibility wasn’t something he pondered, why would it be? Though he can’t imagine she had.

        Who in their right mind wakes up one day and decides to join an order such as the Grey Wardens? ( other than that one child in crestwood ——— he’s deemed that an anomaly, thank you. )

        How will history refer to her? Oh, as the Hero of Ferelden, that much he knows, as the Grey Warden, but what of her name? That thing which holds weight, whether given or chosen, which offers identity, so often stripped away by force alone.

        ——— Dorian looks at her again, the arch of his brows less extreme, the curve of his mouth less deep, by increments. ❝ Ah, I see your point Roselyn ; yes, I do believe you’re right, ❞ what name shall go down in history? ❝ Quite a shame. Dorian of house Pavus has quite the ring to it. The sort that belongs to be immortalized in history, don’t you think? ❞

@ahmells​ :  [ guard ] if you’re still accepting these :]

        To describe the sensation is ——— hm. Difficult, you could say. Incongruous to the idea of consciousness and the lack thereof. He’s not certain if others are so acutely aware of when consciousness is beginning to flee from their bodies / he wasn’t until recently in the grand scheme of things / to feel the bleeding away of light and awareness of the world around you yet to ( ... ) maintain it, all the same. Like falling asleep but not, never mind that it’s remarkably more painful to be cut through with a sword and to succumb, briefly, to your wounds. No, like watching the world through water and a thick pane of glass, not quite able to reach it from the other side.

        He is not the spirit and the spirit is not him but it exists in his form and from where his mind lingers in the Fade, not dreaming but not dreamless he gets vague premonitions. Flashes of what occurs. They are tied together, this spirit and he, a somewhat tenuous bond that is anchored upon his ability to stay awake in the midst of battle. SIMULACRUM is a skill that is useful, to be certain, but ( ... ) arduous, to some. An odd line to walk.

        Still he watches / and doesn’t watch. Awareness is a far off thing as he reaches for the Veil and doesn’t touch it but feels the shift beneath him, pulled by the spirit embodying his form. He sees, in flashes, the Hero of Ferelden running towards his limp and, currently, useless body, stepping before him with her staff in hand, blood dripping. There is a determined look on her face, a set to her mouth, to her jaw, to her shoulders as her staff twists and her magic doesn’t pull at the Veil, not this sort, the whole of it curiously still as she pulls power from within. Rather poetic, he supposes.

        ah, the traits of a hero.

        Roselyn is defending him, he knows with far more clarity than the Fade wishes to provide, incandescent in battle and standing before his body defiantly so as to say HE WILL NOT DIE TODAY and Dorian knows that he won’t die ——— Death is too far off, nowhere near, though he can feel It. But then, he can always feel death, and he glances off, briefly, vision blurring and shimmering as a recently departed bursts through the Veil, screaming, being dragged into the depths of the Fade.

        There is an abrupt shift, a tug at the pit of his stomach and he turns back / the spirit follows suit and there is a FLOOD OF MAGIC, swelling and pulling and tugging as another spirit wanders near ——— Roselyn’s magic, woven into this barrier which divides, her hands hovering above his unconscious form. Healing, occurs to him, a beacon of warmth against the chill of this place, an echoing word as he reaches for the Veil once more, pressing against it and ———

        His form slips from the spirit as they pass / Dorian offers a nod of thanks as his eyes close and the Fade shrieks around him, spirits pressing close to his not—body, covetous, he thinks, as ———

        Coming to consciousness is sharp / a knife falling / his eyes snapping open as he inhales sharply, painfully. Roselyn is hovering over him, brows drawn and eyes determined as they stare at each other for several moments. ❝ Not the worst way to wake up by far, ❞ he says mildly, a hint of harmless flirtation in his voice as he heaves himself into sitting position and she laughs, a faint thing, helping him to his feet. ❝ But, it seems that we have work to do, ❞ battle rages on, quite the stubborn thing, isn’t it? Her hand squeezes his arm and he feels another pulse of healing magic drift through him and he smiles at her, ❝ My thanks, Roselyn. ❞

can’t know, anymore.

❝ this ——— ❞ his voice is ragged though the word isn’t bitten : he clears his throat once. gnaws at the unrest itching beneath his skin. ❝ this false calling, ❞ his hands rub together, callouses hard, and he thinks of carver, ❝ are... all wardens hearing it? ❞

5’0 ........... height  comparison  .

hmm  ....  *  picks  her  up  *

do u want me to message u on discord abt because, um. :) THERES A LOT BUT IM EXCITED TO TELL U ABT IT…