#ask meme.

All my muses have been changed into fairy princesses for one day only. Send whatever+ 🧚‍♀️ for a response

headcanon questions ( accepting )

There is a fire, and he is warm. Not with heat, but a fullness. He had considered cold and its effects, a thinness of the air to chase in a tide, a change, a season. It felt strange to turn it away when before he did not, but this body is vulnerable. Fashioning clothes is the first of many corrections, but he is eager to learn them all. nearly feverish with possibility.

He studies the seams of Mythal's clothing by the firelight and begins to lay furs together.

She watches his growing understanding with a musing smile. ❛ You need not make it yourself. We have long since learned their design. Let me. ❜

❛ I would know for myself, if we are ever separated, ❜ he says.

❛ We will not be. Your loneliness would be mine. ❜ she promises, and Solas takes her at her word.

There is a fire, and he is warm. Not with heat, but a fullness. For once, they have a moment of peace, and food they need not ration. Tarasahl's connections established a decent supply of trade, meats and herbs and cheeses they could store for long enough. What came first through the Eluvians went to the refugees. The rest provided a small feast, held over a private flame.

Felassan tells a joke that has their shoulders knocking together. He cannot remember the words, but he remembers the shape of his friend at his side, and it is enough.

There is a fire, and he is warm. Not with heat, but a fullness. Varric pushes a heavy tankard into his hand and the effort for agreeability obliges him to drink. He's tasted this type of grain before, but the bitter taste still surprises him every time. In Arlathan, it was as mutable as a shift in emotion. Solas could drink an essence of spring day and taste newness and ripe fruit. He could drink a brew for yearning and sample a shade of cherry-red desire along with dark sweetness.

When he coughs after a beat, Varric laughs like it was predictable. ❛ It's good for the cold. Supposed to put hair on your chest, but, ❜ his hand flourishes in Solas' direction. ❛ You know. ❜

❛ You must encounter cold temperatures often, then. ❜

Dorian laughs with a shock, as if he's never heard Solas speak until then. The Inquisitor snickers while refilling a cup, and the sound of it reminds him of someone he deserves to forget.

"I think the day after Raf proposed to me, I had a nightmare about what that would be like. I can't recall the details, but it felt suffocating to the point that I got scared. It felt like my whole life was a cage... I didn't want it."

@rafxdelfino

questions for the mun.

oh, this is SO HARD because i have so many that i love, and the list is ALWAYS changing, so i'm going to tag my favorite people to write with right now (which is also always changing + expanding) and my faves with them:

☼ TRICK OR TREAT ROULETTE. accepting! [ roll: 2: cursed candy apple. ]

there are two violently green candies in his hand, each in a wrapper: he almost offers one to her first, a nearby young woman he's not met before who seems to be collecting several candies as well. but phainon decides against it to taste one for himself first: the least he could do was make sure this candy didn't taste horrible before offering to share it with someone else. the flavor is sour: lower lip curls inward and brows furrow as he considers the flavor. sour-sweet, like an unripe fruit, and gradually bitter...

bitter. bitter like a sense of failure, of hearts and hopes let down.

bitter. bitter like something rotten, waiting, crumbling, watching.

phainon starts to call out to her: he wouldn't want the second one of these, to say the least. "excuse me, miss... are you fond of candies that are sour and bitter? it seems I have a spare, and I'm not sure this flavor is for me..." but he could at least finish the one he has first. he could at least swallow down and bear the strange sense of dread the peculiar green candy seems to hold... but it worsens the next moment, and his hand quickly closes around the wrapped green candy again before she can take his offer.

a confused blink comes to pale blue eyes --- something behind her is watching, crumbling, waiting, rotten. "... miss. there's... something behind you." emaciated and headless, with strangely long limbs: phainon starts to point with the same hand closed around the spare wrapped green candy, wanting to know if he's the only one seeing it: when he looks to the young lady before him with lavender hair again, she's no longer there.