#aibhleiss

What’s this? A bottle of wine? One, single, lonely, bottle? Reading the attached note, Mariel rolls her eyes. That handwriting is definitely Reva’s.

She picks up the bottle and looks it over. Well, he doesn’t seem to have spared any expense, but just how much fun does he expect her to have with one solitary bottle of wine? He should know by now how much this tank of an elf can drink.

She holds the small piece on her hands examining the work closely, a small and cautious smile forming on her lips as she turns it slowly. There was no note or the creator’s name on the small piece but it did not take long to come up with suggestions for whom had sent her such a kind gift. He should know better than to send her gifts. Her eyes moved from the small owl to the side table next to her bed, she had other small gifts, not given on that time of the year but still cherished as much as the small owl withing her scarred fingers. They were not complicated, most of them small drawings and others done with wood or stone. Small trinkets that she could hold in her skeletal hands and cherish in silence while fighting the feeling that she deserved such small acts of affection and the fact that in the end nobodies should not get gifts.  

Gil was two days into his recovery when they showed up at the camp. The Inquisitor’s party was much smaller than he imagined, but that only made his feats seem all the more impressive. Walking out of the Fade, quelling the mage rebellion, facing down the Elder One and living to tell the tale... Not to mention that he personally would have starved to death alone in the woods, if those Inquisition scouts hadn’t found him.  

The internal debate about whether or not to introduce himself didn’t last long. Gil had been given a second chance at life - a real life, with no Circle, and tranquility-free - no opportunity would be squandered this time. 

He adjusts his hair, hoping it’s enough to hide the brand on his forehead, before approaching the taller elf. 

come fight me (ง’̀-‘́)ง | @aibhleiss 

this happen after this 

He bore the same marks that her own face had, the blessing of Falon’din even if her own marks had been done in rituals that the dalish only barely remember and keep. A heavy and sorrowful sigh leaving her lips as her hands rose, placing Ambrós’ head carefully on the blood stained golden stones, one hand moved over his vallas’lin before raising fully. Dark red eyes focused on the elf by the entrance, his words were lost as the voices in her own mind overpowered anything that he might speak. Her head titled slightly to the side as the scars over her body burnt, the blades that he made appear out from the already thin veil rang across her ears. Still it did not stop her from circling him cautiously, waiting for the prey to take the first step. His anger and fury could be felt even between the distance that was between them yet the priestess did not blink once.

There was nothing that she could say. Things such as: Falon’din now carries him, would only anger him further. He did not care and those were words that she would not waste. There was nothing that she could say, nothing that she could do that would make the grief that took over him better. She often forgot that the Children of this age were not used to grief like she was, grief was not part of their bones. 

His blades cut the air around her forcing her to dodge from side to side, some of her braids fell on the floor from the close calls. Still, all of it was more of an exercise than an actual fight, if she could have avoided it she would not fight him. He was one of the Children that bore the marks of her God, he was as precious as the Children could get and yet he chose to raise his blades against her. As he moved closer for another attempt one of her hands grabbed the side of his neck, the other moving to the side of his face as her dark red eyes shone brighter. She did not wish to kill anymore of her Children, but she would because they did not give her any other choice. Her eyes focused on him as pain that he would have never felt coursed through his skull making him scream in pain and his knees crash against the floor in front of the priestess. 

Physical features (aLL MEMES ARE FAIR GAME BRO)

[skin]: obviously colour, but also if they're inclined to run hot or cold, do they have any blemishes or unusual markings, are they inclined to blush, are they freckled, do they tan, what does their skin feel like, etc.

name.  no name. nickname(s).  the priestess, if that’s even considered a nickname. age.  ~7000. species. elvhen.

p e r s o n a l .

morality. lawful / neutral / chaotic / good / grey / evil. religious belief. Elvhen Pantheon. sins. lust / greed / gluttony / sloth / pride / envy / wrath virtues. chastity / charity / diligence / humility / kindness / patience / justice primary goals in life. Rebuild Falon’din’s following and release her Gods from their prison. languages known. Elvhen, Ancient Elvhen, Ancient Tevene, King’s Tongue (very choppy). secrets. Is an ancient elf.

p h y s i c a l .

build. slender / scrawny / bony / fit / athletic / curvy / herculean / babyfat / pudgy / obese / other height. 152cm - 5′0″ weight. I don’t know a exact number but she’s underweight now, ever since she returned from Tevinter she has been training to gain the muscle that she has lost. scars/birthmarks. She has way too many scars to count all over her body, not only from self-harm but also from fights and wars. abilities/powers. Powerful blood and force with a bit of primal magic. restrictions. Due to the use of blood magic for most of her life she cannot heal her own scars only close the lighter ones. If she’s bleeding from a very deep scar and cannot find a way to close it she might pass out from blood loss.

f a v o u r i t e s .

favourite food. All spicy food is nice food. favourite drink. Rivaini Wine. favourite colour. Gold and Black. favourite music genre. Falon’din’s chants. favourite book genre. Any book that will help her understand better the cultures of this age, although she’s not keen on books. favourite movie genre. N/A favourite season. Summer.. favourite curse word(s).  She doesn’t often swear, but there is one that she enjoys: Nuva uralas telsyl na i’ga syl nyel laimem which means “ May nature strangle you with all the air you have wasted. “ favourite scent. The smell of the ocean.

f u n  s t u f f .

bottom or top. Both? Yes. Both. sings in the shower. Nope. likes bad puns. Nope, not really. 

tagged by: @vintyvanora & @elgarlen & @solasenbanel & @caedstrade ( man this was ages ago haha thank you for tagging me! )

;; nonsexual acts of intimacy - @aibhleiss​

♧: Your muse playing with their hair

“If you keep moving, da’len, I’m going to end up hurting you.” her fingers stopped working on his short hair, the braid half done between her skeletal fingers, red strands of hair over the scars. Her voice was calm as she tilted her chest forward looking down at the Child with a serious expression. It was strange how short his hair was considering most dalish that she had seen let their hair grow. Braiding shorter hair was not necessarily impossible, but it was harder and easier to hurt the scalp. She let him settle back as her attention moved back to the small pile of flowers that sat beside her, her left hand moved to grab one and wowing it’s stem in the braid carefully. Her gestures were trained as if she had done it multiple times before, but there was a clear and open smile over lips. Her mother had once done the same thing to her hair, the flowers had tones of red instead of the white ones that were now on his hair, and between the flowers were small golden suns. 

Those golden suns had been replaced by small owls with time but on his hair there was no space for such small details. At least not for now. When the priestess stopped and got up, circling the Inquisitor to look at her master piece with an open smile cupping the side of his face.

“You look beautiful child.” 

♚: Head scratches & ♗: Your muse falling asleep with their head in my muse’s lap. 

The priestess almost envied how simple it seemed for the inquisitor to fall asleep. He seemed to enjoy the priestess’ company and how her fingers felt on his scalp as he read letters received by the nightingale and the lady Inquisitor. The priestess listened only when the Child sighed heavily at whatever was written on the papers, speaking only if asked her opinion. He was the face of a mainly human organization, surrounded by shem advisers. The priestess would keep a close eye on all of them, the same way that she knew they kept on her. He was one of the Children, the priestess had never spoken that aloud and she doubted she ever would, but even if she tried explaining it to them they would not understand what that meant. It was her duty to protect him from influences such as theirs, he had not been asked to be put where he was now so the priestess would keep him safe.

He might not know why the priestess is often absent in Skyhold, or perhaps understand why she visits alienages as often as she does, but perhaps with time he will. The lost Children inside the shem walls are as much as his people as the elves from his clan, they need as much protection and guidance as his brothers and sisters. The priestess’ hands stopped on his head as she saw the child’s breathing become rhythmic, a heavy sleep dragging him down as the papers simply piled over his chest. Perhaps he would understand it one day.