#altuspavus

There was an dangerous symbiotic relationship between Valor and the dragon's blood and the magic that allowed the blood to give the properties it bestowed on Raserei. Valor made it so Raserei didn't feel fatigue, nor fear and could, if needed, heal the Avvar. The blood magic that was used to infuse Raserei with the dragon's blood allowed him to syphon the soul of his enimes and heal his wounds. But he was more vicious the closer to death he was.

It was this percarious state that Valor shined, keeping Raserei in a functioning state, despite being injured enough a normal man would fall. It allowed Raserei to be devestating.

Blood tasted weird to the Spirit, and it was concerned with how much it liked the taste. However, demons did not bleed, but the none the less they were draining the creatures of their life force, consuming them to make themselves stronger. Valor strode through the battle, fighting the terror demons head on, laughing as it made short work of them. They were almost in the clear to close this rift.

The spirit looked over at Dorian when the mage spoke of not needing to heal. While this was in part because Raserei himself did not need healing, and little else, the spirit wondered if the mage had the aptitude to do so.

"Perhaps it is because he knew you would not be suitable." the spitit replied flatly as it moved Raserei's axe from a demon's head, black ash like particles floating around it as the demon fell apart.

The spirit had been paying attention to the man's interactions with those around him, but it still was not sure how to engage them. How it felt about those Raserei spent his time around. After all, since leaving the Hold, Valor has been pressed that it has had to be quiet. Act as if it were some demon lurking in a person waiting to strike. It was cowardly and has soured the spirits view of those outside the Avvar.

@altuspavus

He snorts laughter, echoing so within this bear-smelling pocket; the cave wonderfully exhumed from the Inquisitor's hand in the aftways a'fore minding their backward steps, but the bones of its former supper still riddled and stained with old drool and its months-long offal.

Roland's nose doth curl with it, borne worse from the dampness of this torrential rain. "A panicked ride from the Giants what make 'rounds through that stone'd garden, the herds of brontos what graze directly beside the feet of those man-eating beasts? The skimpy lengths of the cliffs and scattered stones for cracking boulders?" And Roland laughs hard, ragged in his ruggedness of mud stains and dripping clothes, his satchel hanged like a pristine charm o'er one shoulder.

Dorian settled Aristide with the most patronising look he could muster at the moment. Which was not saying much, and was not very impressive, given their current circumstances. Besides the fact that they were in the middle of the forest for some reason or another which Dorian was sure was explained at some point, but which currently escaped him, he also happened to look rather undignified. There was, unbeknownst to the Tevinter mage, a leaf caught in his hair. Oh, if only his former classmates could see him. Him! Dorian Pavus, one of the most brilliant minds in Tevinter if he did say so himself (and he did), traipsing through the woods! Horrendous.

"My dear, at least you are.... at least marginally more acclimated to such...." He trailed off, his face twisting in disgust as he flapped his hand about towards nothing in particular, intending to indicate the entirety of the setting. "For lack of sounding as if I am some poor houseplant improperly replanted outdoors in a garden when I really ought to be kept in a greenhouse, I do feel that these treks into the woods, as lovely as they can be, are likely to be the death of me!"

A bit of dramatics never hurt anyone. If they ran into any fields of stripweed, Dorian may actually have been telling something closer to the truth than a dramatisation, anyhow. "How much longer must we be out here, again?"

oh, the days a young dalish boy might have spent in the wilderness are the memories of another life, scarcely to be found here again. orlesian by force and now by instinct, the invasively fresh air is a curious trade from the perfumed hall of his chateau. and perhaps a bit better than the overwhelming scent of horses and metal surrounding haven. aristide exhales a graceful huff in an attempt to disguise the exertion, casting a glance at the fellow mage.

truly, the two of them are inside men. for all the irritation of the endless bears and rolling hills of the hinterlands, it is enough to bring a spare chuckle to the inquisitor's lips at the sight of the rogue leaf adorning dorian's hair. surely the man would be appalled of one allowed it to remain.

HAWKE SHRUGS HIS SHOULDERS ENTHUSIASTICALLY,    huffing a mighty huff.        ❝   ain’t nice, is it?  this whole .. being upset malarky.   ❞       &   the mountains yawn out before them, as far as the eye could see, a great big blanket of snow over endless rises and falls.    

   the champion is mighty better at written word,  but he’s started to wrangle the delicacies of face-to-face speech.         it was late, as it so often was with them.     only now they were outside!!   what bountiful steps forward they were making.         ❝   bit shit.  ❞     he admits, glancing down at the other mage.    hawke wished for a way to just .. wipe away whatever demons dorian dealt with, but he wasn’t that strong.    or that wise, he feared.       

The sheer disrespect the mage slung wounded not only Cullen’s heart, but shook the heart - the very foundation - of Fereldan culture. He could not let such a slanderous insult stand.

I’m a Serious Rp Blog || Accepting!

“You know what I miss?” Bull stares out at the snow of Emprise du Lion, a brief shiver running through him as he comes to settle at the fire by Dorian’s side.

(beside the warmth, there were plenty of things.)