#berthindeath

@berthindeath is eternally cursed with me i fear

"Ah! There you are, darling!" Emmrich strides to Gwen quickly, bending some to press a soft kiss to her temple in greeting, as he pulls his satchel over his shoulder- and delicately takes hers as well, connecting the straps so that it hangs easily to his.

"Are you decided on where we should begin, on this venture of memories and mysteries we have planned?"

inbox prompts / always accepting.

Lilya closes her eyes as gentle hands hands cleans her head wound. The buzzing hasn't stopped. Her dream about Solas haunts her. All this time they were hunting him... it didn't feel real with Varric. Truth be told, her focus has been on Gwen this whole time. The torture she went through - no one would be okay after that. Lilya bites her lip with guilt. It should be Varric or Harding doing this, not Gwendolyn. All this looking out for her and she still fails. Lilya failed when she got captured, and she's failing now by getting hurt.

But what she doesn't remember is that she did protect her. From the magic blast she covered her body with her own and lessened the blow. Which led to her bleeding even more at the ritual site.

Solas' words echo in her head now... Like a chill in her bones. You have no idea what you've done... It rings like a funeral bell, counting down the seconds. There's so much at stake. She never really bought it, just though this was a mad mage. But just a few hours ago proves how wrong she really is. Because this isn't some academic lecture they're responsible for. This isn't a paper due at the stroke of midnight. This is real. The Gods she's been studying her whole life are real, and two of them have escaped. While the only 'good' one was trapped.

"...Thanks for this," she whispers. Her voice slightly hoarse from the impact. "So did that all really happened? Did I hit my head too hard?" She tries to joke but it's too honest of a question. She wants Gwen to tell her no. That her skull injury gave her a loopy dream. That... That... Varric didn't actually... Something inside her tells her he's still here and numbly she doesn't question that thought.

[  TXT  ]  :  i’m  bored.  flirt  with  me.

[  muds  ]  :  flirting  via  text?  how  am  i  supposed  to  condense  all  my  charm  and  bountiful  sex  appeal  into  hieroglyphs?

wounded pride stings worse than a bee, and bites harder than a wolf. as they gather themself – rolls from back to side, sits up with palms flat against the stone – they think they would rather have the bee and wolf. the only comfort is the lack of an audience. only the fade witnessed their miserable defeat. . . but maker, they pray that the wisps do not blab.

at least gwen hasn’t poked fun, saving them from further embarrassment. she even offers a hand; taken with a grimace. ( old wounds, old aches. )

Perhaps the undead might have felt uneasy were this anyone else--were this someone that they hadn't had so many intimate exchanges with prior that spanned from the late hours of 11 at night until 4 in the morning. So many sleepless nights held in the past, carrying conversation with the one person who didn't need sleep, yet would linger by her bedside all the same as a macabre figure that would terrify others, yet for her--provide comfort.

He'd proudly call himself her monster if it meant that he could ward off all the others.

He was there for her during her worst, and also her best. And now, he was before her when she was bare, showing all not just physically and literally, but emotionally and mentally at once.

She's beautiful. That much is undeniable. From the gentle curves of her hips to the soft swell of her breasts, there's not a part of her that wasn't something that shouldn't be memorialized on the highest quality canvas with the best oils using the finest brush.

Death's all four arms wrap around her, but do not immediately touch her. Only the first set of arms do, while the secondary set hovers around her, right where her hips are. Out from underneath the robes of the undead, tendrils begin to slink forward and crawl at her ankle, lapping at the warmth of her flesh, eager for the sensation of touch.

In silence, he rests his head overtop hers, pulling her form in closer as the air around them is heavy, but not with discomfort. In the twilight of the night, when she's this close, he wonders what she smells like. How warm her flesh must feel, and how soft her hair must be.

He knows it's perfect, regardless.

i love bree so much, like?? she's always there for me, truly - and i only can hope that i do the same. i don't tend to get personal with people much here, but they're definitely someone who never makes me feel lesser for it and who i can go to for an ear. she's such a good, genuine, warm, funny and beautiful person and it's been such a joy getting to know her. i'm very lucky to have her as a friend, and a writing partner. which, speaking of - our plots are always fallen into so easily. shipping is as effortless as the breeze, and we just mesh so well in that way. ALSO THEY'RE SUCH A GOOD WRITER ?????? forreal like, everything bree writes is so detailed and, so beautiful and filled with emotion and you can tell just how much she puts into the prose. we mesh so well in that way, as well. ALSO DON'T GET ME STARTED ON GWEN OK? immaculate, amazing original character and the length of time in development is so clear. i actually have loved nothing more than to see gwen in different environments, and!! i've said this all to bree so i won't ramble but i just have nothing but wonderful things to say. ( but also all bree's muses on the multi blow me away too, like thane my beloved...)

let me just dab my tears away with my hankie.