#calonda

And, this time, Halwn deserves it.

❝ What goes through your head, I wonder? No need for proper armor, the stunningly good looking mage fighting alongside me can heal anything, including a severed spine, ❞ mocking and melodious as he draws the Veil near and lays it over the STILL BLEEDING AND FAR TOO LARGE GASH that the man had so wonderfully obtained in the midst of battle. It’s a process, to say the least. ❝ Yes, well, the vote of confidence is appreciated, but as I am a MAGE, albeit a powerful one, not a MIRACLE WORKER, it would be for the best if you reconsidered your stance on the matter. ❞ Never mind the fact that Halwn has functioned this way for years, most likely. That doesn’t matter, at the moment.

The sun rose days ago and it hasn’t set until moments before now, finally allowing the stars to shimmer in the night sky and swathing them all in the knowledge that the day is done. Exhaustion lays heavy across his chest ; the trek to camp rather feels like walking through water. His will to clear the area is low but he persists : better to STRAIN HIMSELF than to sleep on a rock, quite frankly.

It’s not that the day was simply long, it was that it was long and difficult, full of battles and travel and ambushes and the like : frantic / frenetic. But he reaches into his mana and for the Fade and flicks his fingers and watches as the underbrush of the woodland flings itself away and he can concede that the Emerald Graves look beautiful, but they are beautiful from a distance : to be LOOKED AT, not to be TOUCHED. And certainly not to be traveled through.

Though perhaps he, with his hatred of the outdoors, is biased.

Still, sitting at the base of a tree with his book open for his watch ( the first, always, he vastly prefers it that way no matter how exhausted he is ) is a relief to his body which has become a wreckage of bone and skin and organs that have been pulled apart and pieced back together haphazardly. A night of sleep would, hopefully, set him right again. If they were to get a full night of sleep, tonight.

There are creatures making a racket in the depths of the forest and he tunes them out and there are footsteps approaching and he cannot tune those out and his gaze lifts and there he is : the Inquisitor / Herald of Andraste / Halwn Trevelyan and exhaustion has become a blanket over his body and he wonders if he has, somehow, fallen asleep in spite of the disgusting potion that he drank to stimulate himself through his watch.

❝ Correct me if I’m wrong, and I am rarely ever wrong as we both know, but you should be resting, not up and walking about, ❞ mouth full of cotton / the words leave his throat and they sound correct enough, though warped, perhaps. Tiredness. Sleep invading his body. ❝ The injury that you sustained —— ❞

( it had been neither bad nor not bad in the grand scheme of things : a deep stab / slash / cut that dorian had done what he could for and had to be bandaged and left to heal in hopes that it would be well enough by morning and that dorian would be well enough by morning to finish the job but it had been enough to incite worry / panic / fear because he is the INQUISITOR and because he is HALWN and —— )

The sentence is left incomplete as Halwn bends his massive form and seat himself on the cleared ground beside Dorian and he has no room to speak before a head is being deposited on his shoulder and he wonders, helplessly : WHAT? Perhaps he has truly fallen asleep and this is some strange fever dream that the Fade has delivered unto him. Perhaps this is reality and something unforeseen in the world, nay, the universe, shifted when he had not been paying attention.

❝ Inquisitor —— ❞

He’s interrupted, again. Dorian always did hate being interrupted. ❝ I’d like to stay like this for a while. ❞ The words are quiet and drifting through the night and punctuated by the sound of chirping crickets and animals and the way of the leaves in the wind and Dorian casts his gaze up and looks to the moon, half full, and her stars, glimmering. They are beautiful : like a painting. They are not the only things beautiful like paintings, in the universe. He breathes and air fills his lungs and perhaps exhaustion is a blanket that covers the pair of them : warding sleep away.

He looks back to his book and reads the same sentence thrice as he reaches for the Veil once more ( he is tired but never say that he isn’t skilled regardless of exhaustion and perhaps is more reckless than he should be ) and sinks healing magick into him once more. Knitting that gash just that little bit more. Healing other hurts that litter his body, as well. Just a little. Just a touch.

❝ ——— Very well, then. If you insist. ❞

There is something about the INQUISITOR that commands attention. Perhaps it is his stature, his build, his eyes, the way he walks, the way he speaks or perhaps the way that he does not speak and —— well, there are a great may things about Halwn Trevelyan which command attention. It is not merely the mark on his hand which draws the attention of all when he walks into a room, it cannot just be that.

Yes, the mark is as miraculous as it is mesmerizing in as much the man himself is, but it can only serve to INTENSITY that which is already there. Dorian knows: those who command attention with such ease were born to do so. The way that he knows he is hardly immune to such people.

So when the Inquisitor strides into his level of the tower, his attention is pulled from the letter he is writing he looks up and to the man of the hour / MAN OF THE CENTURY / and finds his gaze catching, their eyes meeting. The world seems to pause, curiously, seems to crawl to a tremulous pause. There is the suspension of reality, of truth, of the world, of the war that is waging within these walls and out of these walls.

There he stands : broad and tall and built and hand behind back and face handsome ( dorian has never been one to deny when someone is good looking, it does deserve to be noted a vast majority of the time ) and drawing the gaze of everyone else present. And yet : Halwn looks to him.

That is no great shock, in truth : Dorian remains to be useful to the Inquisition, at large, and he harbors a great deal of information and opinions in excess. Halwn has turned to him regarding a great deal of things, asking after his opinion, his thoughts regarding materials to allow Alexius, his knowledge on the arcane arts, which is, indeed, abundant. The Inquisitor is asking after him with enough frequency that it raises eyebrows and causes tongues to slip and whispers to start and Dorian is used to that, yet —— is he?

Not that he minds Halwn conversing with him. Not at all.

But there is a sense of danger, here. A sense of disquiet and unrest and he cannot bring himself to look away, not only due to STUBBORNNESS but because —— because. Something in his chest stutters and stumbles and it is a feeling hauntingly familiar and horrifyingly consuming and the Inquisitor does not look away, either. Dorian is far more self aware than some give him credit for : he knows that there is —— SOMETHING. Something amorphous / without definition / without words / without descriptors within his realm of knowledge. Or perhaps it is, and he does not want to face it.

Silence reigns between the pair of them as Halwn stands in the maw of the stairwell, still and staring and Dorian is distantly aware of the other inhabitants of the tower having long since returned to their activities, their discussions, their whispers. People assume —— people always assume. People always assume, and there is danger there.

Danger, danger, DANGER.

❝ ——— Another question, Inquisitor? Don’t keep me in suspense, now, ❞ he breaks the silence because one of them must and the words feel thick in his mouth and stick in his throat and he says them with the same grandeur he says everything with and there is a vague familiarity, here ( dark skin and eyes catching and smiles passing and —— ) Yet it is so starkly unique that it is the UNKNOWN, all the same.

the song of achilles meme( ACCEPTING ) - @zloslwy @calonda

Abel’s eyes snap from the oil lights of the village in the distance to look at the blonde woman. He had been absently thinking, thinking how when he was a child, he and his sister would go out, away from Beauclair and ‘into the wild’. Or so they thought it was wild. It was outside of the city walls and outside of their house, away from most of the colourful skirts, away enough that the music could barely be heard. Émilie had said once how they seemed like stars from where they stood; Abel had never really seen them in that way, he still didn’t, but the image never really left his brain after that, not even until today. On the days that he returned to Beauclair after a mission, even when approaching such a small settlement in the middle of nowhere, he could not stop himself from thinking on those moments when he was nothing, but a boy with the desire to be able to fit into the armour that he had seen other Knight Errants wear.

They both sat over a hill, the wind starting to get quite unpleasant even with the fire in front of them. His red cloak was around her form. He had not recalled what they had been talking about before being lost in thought, or if they had even been talking about something. But her words had come as a surprise. Had they been drinking and had he not an inkling that Sorceresses could not get drunk as easily as he could, Abel might have even tricked himself into believing that she did not mean those words. Yet brown eyes do not look at him; they look at the distant lights with her chin resting against her knees as her whole form was hidden by the soft fabric. Red was not her colour.

   “Better at what?” he hums with a small and soft smile, his head leaning towards her. His armour was put away, for but a second to allow him a moment of respite and rest. The white shirt rested against his skin and despite the gooseflesh beneath, he didn’t shudder, he could barely feel it as icy blue eyes were on her form “Sword fighting and making a fool of myself in front of you?” 

His voice lowers as he leans in further, the edge of his eyes show wrinkles that her skin would likely never know. Wrinkles of skin that spent time in the sun and of a body that doesn’t forgive each passing day over his bones. Still, he did not care. His eyes were on hers, hers as they slowly moved to see his even if her face did not turn. It was incredible that even in that darkness, one that he knew tended to dull colours, Keira’s eyes still held the golden tones, the brown remaining as beautiful as if under the early morning day light “Or perhaps simply better in the ablity to profusely annoy you? Though, the latter doesn’t necessarily need much talent.” 

Head tilts to the side, eyes moving to the village once again. A pause as his hand moves to move curled hair away from his forehead; an absent gesture. Icy blue eyes, duller in the light of the flame, return to her even if his head doesn’t tilt to face her directly. An edge of a smile growing larger on one side of his face than the other.

   “I still feel that I have a special knack for it.” he turns to look at her once again, mirth pouring out of his eyes and the small dimples on the side of his mouth “Would you deny it?”

Maybe she would, or perhaps she would simply continuing staring back at him. Stuck in between wanting to give him a verbal lashing or roll her eyes. Both of which would be familiar and expected. Expected unlike this. Abel would not pretend to understand, or to know her. Know what she had done in her past to assume that he was better than her, better than her at anything. His hands land on the grass next to his body and he shifts himself closer to where she stood.

   “You are doing yourself a great disservice, Keira. To compare yourself to someone like me.” he leans forward, forward enough so that he could be see her eyes fully and she could see his if she so wished. The smile remained on his lips. His words are spoken in a manner that doesn’t hold self pity, but fact. He always had a hard time dealing with people, be them more… explosive like Keira or soft. He had a hard time with it but no problem getting his hands dirty with blood. He had tried protecting his sister, tried to follow what his parents had asked him to do to help her. Abel was still sure that he had lead her to her death, one way or another, without really being able to explain it. If nothing else because of his inaction, for not doing something about it. Abel found it hard to believe that Keira, regardless of what skeletons lingered in her past, held that sort of weight in her chest. Other weights, surely, everyone did. But to compare herself to someone like him? Some so vibrantly intelligent, a force of life, talented, wise even if her wisdom came with teeth? 

There’s something to be said about high spirits and the effect that it has on the many. Hope is POWERFUL and hope buoyed by happiness is the strongest of all : it’s the sort of feeling that can be felt in the air, vibrating and resonating and a crescendo of noise / feeling / reverberation. Even he can fall victim to it ( he is only a man, after all, and he is not heartless in spite of the reigning opinion otherwise ) and he finds himself smiling, a smile more genuine than his standard.

A movement in the beyond captures his attention and he lets his gaze be drawn and it’s difficult to miss him : THE MAN OF HOPE. He happens to be very tall, after all. Not to mention the fact that he is the man of the hour / day / year / century. History will remember him and people will remember him and there will be stories and songs and the whole charade, once this is all over.

They say that about all heroes / when has it not come true?

He looks as buoyed as the rest, oddly light in spite of the fact that he is a nearly six meter tall warrior who swings around a two handed sword on the regular, and Dorian straightens in response to his presence. Not like a soldier, no ( how strange that would be, when he is very nearly the furthest thing from a soldier possible ), a far cry from that, but in recognition nonetheless. He opens his mouth to speak and ——

And he finds himself wrapped in warrior arms and pulled against a chest that is vibrating with laughter and joy and he finds himself piqued with CONFUSION though not unhappiness, just —— well. An utter lack of understanding. He has been hugged before, of course he has : by his father / mother / Alexius / Livia / Felix ; yet not too frequently. And it may as well have been an AGE since. Not to mention that he has never been too familiar with physical displays of affection and he finds himself conflicted with what to do.

Ridiculous !! Everyone knows how to respond to a hug : you hug them back.              ( or kill them. not that dorian would kill halwn. )

Especially when the hug is warm and secure and the laughter may have faded but it’s as if his body still thrums with it Or perhaps that is the transference of feeling, transcendence of thought to the many. To him. It’s not as though he dislikes the Inquisitor, not by half, so a moment of hesitation is hardly WARRANTED, now is it?

Yet before he can manage to move his arms to even awkwardly pat Halwn’s back ( or side, as it were ) he is being released and there is still lines of happiness and laughter on his face and Dorian masters his expression into one of faint exasperation and questioning.

❝ Avoiding your own celebration? ❞ a default to teasing, a default to goading, a default to the DEFAULT as that is what is easiest and what is simple and his mouth curves into a smirk / smile / it is not FALSE but perhaps not completely genuine. ❝ Just what will people think, Inquisitor? ❞

Emeli Sandé ( ACCEPTING )@calonda

   “My… Dearest…” she hums with a small smile on her lips. Red lipstick covering them; is it a smile that easily fabricates into the amusement that she wants to transpire or is the amusement that lingers behind dark eyes truly genuine? The cup is dropped softly against the table, the amber contents circling as her hand moves it, fingers brushing against the soft edges. Green eyes move from it to him, both arms folding over the table as she leans in “Lady Montilyet must truly be a miracle worker if you have never found yourself in a situation that answers your question.”

In reality, it sounded strange that he never had. Either that or he had never understood the amount of trouble that he had thrown his diplomat’s way. Now that was far more likely, though the way that he acted was that of someone that seemed to care deeply for those under his employment. He had not asked for this, had not trained for this, despite all of this, his willingness to say everything that came to his mind with as little filter as possible but soft words never ceased to surprise her. Perhaps that was it, the softness that made many not react if he was anyone else. Or perhaps it was the combination of his softness and his pretty face. How wonderful it must be to be given the benefit of the doubt. Wavy brown hair falls softly in waves against emerald green sleeves.

   “I can think of a few reasons why I, personally, would consider some things better left unsaid, without thinking too much.” the weight of her chest and straightened shoulders hang over her arms, palms brushing softly against the rough wood “Maybe it is because it’s words that when spoken aloud only lead to more pain. Or things when translated into words lose their meaning because I am not talented enough to really bring them to life in the way that I want them to.“ or because speaking them made them real.

There were things that were far too heavy to keep in the forefront of one’s mind at all times. Things that would end up breaking them if they were allowed to stay. Sometimes people broke regardless. He could use that, he could have spoken that same sentence in a way that would indicate to her that he didn’t understand why he should not use his words to hurt who stood in his way, to remind them of their place; but the Inquisitor, for better or worse, didn’t say it with that sentiment in mind. 

   “As the leader of the Inquisition, I’m sure sooner or later you’ll eventually come face to face people that you cannot simply say how much you hate them to their face, regardless of how much you might wish to do so. Because you know that you might need their support in the future, or because they are far too valuable to lose and too dangerous to have as an enemy.“

A pause. Of course, he would have no issues telling her that he didn’t trust her and she would take it like a breeze. Maxima didn’t need him to trust her as long as he let her work, Maxima was not offended that he found her untrustworthy, he was not the first to look at her smiles and red lipstick to think the same. He would not be the first to think that she had far too much fun, that she was someone that wore petals only to hide thorns and laugh as people attempted to pick her. How nice it must be to never have had to lie in order to survive. How nice it must be to never have had to hold a smile for hours simply because that was what was necessary, not because you wanted your pockets lined but because your entertainment value was deeply connected with your smile, with your soft voice and longing glances.

How nice it must be, and how glad (despite of how envious she felt) she was that he never had to feel it in his own skin.

   “Keeping something to yourself isn’t inherently a bad thing, Halwn.” mindlessly speaking your mind without thinking about the people that rely on you for their livelihoods is. Her hand returns to the cup and her back rests against the back of the chair. Legs cross beneath the table, a smile remains as green eyes narrow. That was simply how the world of politics worked, how it always worked and if he thought that simply because he was saving the world the politics would change… Perhaps she would still see soft words and warm eyes turn into cynicism and frozen wastes. Maxima hoped she was wrong, that he would not be swallowed hole by a world that he had not chosen to enter willingly. For a split moment, however, Maxima feels that it’s only fair that he would get a taste of what is the reality for many: the choice is that or to die.

‘ mistletoe ’ for being underneath mistletoe with your muse.   specify whether it’s accidental or on purpose ( ACCEPTING ) // @calonda @adaindhu

The mistletoe plant seems to have been simply allowed to grow there, over the canopy that they both find themselves in. The leaves and red fruit peek between the spaces of light stone that would have protected their heads from the sun was not the morning be a few hours still to come. Maxima considered, for a moment, how someone knew that lovebirds would have been drawn to that spot in specific and how either such an idea had been of pure genius or pure evil. Still, they both stood beneath it now, her eyes having moved from his face to the leaves that seemed to be hanging shyly over their heads. The sorceress shoulders straighten as a small smile, one that grew more on an edge painted itself over red lips.

   “Come closer, my dearest knight.” her voice is but a whisper; a promise of greater things to come as the soft, slightly cold breeze of a late winter night seems to wrap them both. Her cup is held from the mouth, fingers held in a claw as the foot of the chalice hangs closely by the fabric of her dress. Green eyes are not on it but on the blue, (now black, like her own) seeking eyes of the Knight in front of her. Both foreigners in a land filled with fairy tales, a land filled with promises that it forgets as the sun rises in the next morning. A hand that easily gives is also one that c an easily take back. But it was still evening and perhaps the only souls awake after the festivities. Even the music seems to die down around them, replaced by the soft gurgling of the river that crossed the Duchess’ gardens and the rustling of the wind against the fabric of he dress. 

His eyes look back into hers, expectantly; Had she not known who he was, recognised his name and accent as soon as they had spilled from his mouth, she would have then. The sad and expecting eyes of someone that had been attempting to breathe under the heavy boot of Emhyr. They now looked up to her and there is life brimming behind them, and perhaps she is Spring in his eyes, a way of saying that she brings back life to a place that had been desolated by an uncharacteristically long winter. Perhaps the next time that she returned to the City of Golden Towers; the next time she saw Ceallach and his deep sad eyes, she would be able to bring  some relief and remind him that the sun still shines outside of the dark city. 

Maxima’s hands fold over her stomach, the palm of soft hands hiding part of the beautiful pattern of green, white and golden tightly lined fabric.Her smile grows as he follows as he is asked, allowing her to reach for his face with the palm of her right hand, fingers grazing the space where his jaw curves down to his chin; his cheeks, the way that even in the darkness only lit by the dim moon over them he seems to blush under her touch. The sorceress does not wait until he finds his place, doesn’t wait until he wonders how much space he can take before it becomes disrespectful. When he stops the first time, Maxima meets him in the distance that is left, her body resting against his dark armour. 

Nails dive into the sea of dark curls and anchor themselves there, feeling his breath hitch as it brushes against her face. Perhaps that is the only sea that she doesn’t fear to plunge into without the fear of drowning.

The Storyteller || @calonda

There was an old library in Skyhold’s lower levels, tapestried by the handiwork of generations of tireless spiders. It smelled of the vanilla musk of old pages, of dust and of leather gently decaying. Perhaps Berúthiel should have felt at home there; there was a resonance, after all, to the haunted Nevarran corpse-halls where she’d spent so many years of her childhood.

But she had passed it by, left the spiders to their handicraft and the books to breathing out their dusty exhalations. She had passed it by, and found her way instead to the kitchen. There, she had rousted out the inept fool who dared to call themselves head cook – dreadful, cruel to the staff, and, just as bad, never added nearly enough spice to anything – by dint of a few perfectly chosen sharp words and a stint of wielding her staff as though it was a broom. She did so daily now, when the Inquisitor had no need of her on trips outside the keep.

So there she sat, a queen in her demesne, stirring something which bubbled and muttered in a deep pot, above the embers. Her feet were bare, and black cats tumbled around them, and her long hair hung loose down her back in wild waves. And people came to her there, in ones and twos, for advice, or spells, or potions. Some she sent away with the same sharp words which rousted the cook. Some she sent away with what they needed, which might not at all be what they wanted.

And now the Inquisitor himself had come, and he sat upon the floor before the hearth… sat at her feet, as though he was a cat himself. If so, he was a lion; she had heard that there were great striped lions in these mountains, and greatly wanted to meet one. Perhaps he was one of that sort, she mused.