#andrasteguidesme

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“Are you more concerned about me or about the blood mages? Because the latter can die for all I care, this city is weird enough as it is and these maleficar are just a number.”

Archer was by all means not the best choice for well regarding the lives of  a bunch of mages who dabbled in blood magic. However he was the best choice when it came to like erradicating them, which might be an option. Kirkwall was always seeped with blood mages and the like. He was ruthless when it came to such things, killing them was the only option for him.

Even as a blind man Archer was still suitable for this and he wasn’t like  scared of anything, at least nothing that should be a concern to the Inquisitor. This was also why Varric brought Archer back to Kirkwall to deal with this quietely and in their own borders.

 “The Maker gave us magic to help man, not enslave him.” “I am the Herald of Andraste, and the Inquisition will do everything they can to seal the Breach.”

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The proof of another mage is a hearkening thing to behold: doth Roland struggle within his tongue-twisted bonds like a feral animal; yanking on them with the sharpened points of his teeth as the ethereal wheel of a magickal sword births its own chord of heartstrung music. Doth he wriggle ‘way from the fighting, yea---  as art, too, his ankles bound--- and snatching at the overturn’d mouth of his ramshod satchel, the leather-sewn garment unwisely empty and borne vacant.

He laughs in a triumphant guffaw, coughing at the dust laid ‘way from the vagrants’ frantic feet, and offers his wrists and shakes loosely the deadening limbs of too-tight rope. “Yea, fine, a bit overwrought, and borne without food for a day. But I am well!” He unties his own ankles with adrenaline-shaking fingers, and doth flex his naked toes. “Thou art God-sent and Knight-foot’d, and I thank thee!

“Wouldst thou believe,” answers Roland, as he stands on numb feet, overcoming still, and moves to reclaim his satchel justly, and the scattered contents of his sealed jars, the multitudes of near-illegible tomes, and the odd, sparkly bauble, thus:

“You’ll just need more practice, that’s all.” (Sentence Starters: Reassurance)

This magic felt odd in El’s hands--similar enough in the way that most magic was, but just different enough from the methods he’d learned with his clan to not feel entirely comfortable. So, when the spell fizzled out under the elf’s fingers, he pursed his lips and let out a small, annoyed huff.

With his ears pinned back tightly in frustration, Elerosse pursed his lips and hesitated a long moment, trying to puzzle out where the incantation had gone wrong.

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Sethius wasn’t a big fan of the cathedrale, it was huge, massive, making anyone seem tiny in comparison. Yet, Sethius didn’t feel tiny, more massively annoyed by it all. He could brag that the temples in ancient tevinter were bigger, hell even the remote shrine that sit in the edges of the Free Marches was bigger than this cathedrale. At least it was night time and so many people wouldn’t be here or just plain ignoring him. Someone who was the biggest enemy to their beloved Maker and Andraste, a nonexistend god and a woman who ate too many magic mushrooms.

Sethius just raised an eyebrow at Henry’s comment, sure it would be rather odd to raise the dead at such a time and place. However there wasn’t much use here, these weren’t some heroes buried here. Only normal people, peasants as Sethius would call them.

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Archer Hawke & Henry “Hal” Trevelyan

Fuck what the people say, I'm hearing evil things On bloody knees I pray, my demons, they got angel wings It's retribution now, the revolution sound You're execution bound, and it's time to burn it down