#anthologii

@anthologii

   “Oh,” Orsino softly replied. Thankful that it wasn’t troubling for Neil to talk about, if only a little awkward. He was not treated like an intruder. 

closed with @anthologii​ 

Hawke never could stand to be idle for too long. After a few moments of peace he’d start to feel guilty. There had to be something he should be doing. Some way he could help fix the mess he’d helped get the world into. So instead of using the time he had to rest, Hawke made his way to the infirmary. This was the fortress of the most rapidly growing army in Thedas. They were sure to need more healers. 

He ducked into the room, rolling his sleeves up to his elbows. He’d dressed simply today, none of the trappings of the Champion except for the red slash of paint on his nose. He wore that almost all the time nowadays. It was comforting to be able to reach up to his face and feel the paint on his skin. Somehow it felt like his family was still there, still connected. It felt like he was still a whole person. 

“Excuse me,” he quietly tried to get the attention of the healer on duty, “Is there anything I can help with? I have experience--” 

Then he saw his face---

                                             and the mask of the Champion broke.

Hawke took a step back. Then another. Except he wasn’t Hawke, was he? That name belonged to the man before him. (Dead. He was supposed to be dead.) He was just Mael. Heir to a legacy of cobwebs and blood only to have all of that snatched away too. (It had to be a trick, or a demon, or maybe he’d finally gone mad like Bartrand and Meredith.) Suddenly he felt like the same boy he’d been when he last saw him. Like his body was too small to hold in the feelings he couldn’t show anyone. (Like he’d never stopped being that boy. Like the last twelve years were a cruel lie.) 

Wilder rather liked Orlais. The food, the music, the petty and capricious nobles who would pay good coin for an edge over their peers... It all suited him quite well. Well, most of it did. Emprise du Lion was sadly lacking in Orlais’s usual charm. For one it was cold as balls. For another, Red Templars seemed even more bent on crushing them to a bloody pulp than usual. So despite his usual enamorment with the Orlesian countryside, Wilder was glad to duck into a divot in the hillside behind the Inquisitor. 

Now out of the brunt of the cold, Wilder relaxed a bit. He leaned against the wall of the cave, then remembered himself and went back to standing normally. Cold stone could sap the warmth out of a body like nothing else. Instead he distracted himself watching Quinn search around the back of the narrow but surprisingly deep cave. He found himself watching Quinn a lot these days. Maker knew he should’ve kicked the habit as soon as he noticed it, but something about the mage seemed to rob him of all sense. So much so that he didn’t notice the danger until a shout from outside the cave broke him from his reverie. Their other travelling companions were pointing to something across the field-- a behemoth carrying a large rock. The creature roared, hefted the object and- 

“Trevelyan, get down!” 

Four Celtic gods as ancient and powerful as any other found themselves trapped within a world they no longer knew. The age of technology was as foreign and mystical to them as they were to the modern man. 

Living among humans that no longer believed in them. There was no such thing as eternity in the mind of men, little they knew that gods walked among them...

Advice With Averill // @anthologii // accepting

Neil vc: Jokes on you both, you were both adopted. I am the real Hawke. There can be only one.