#chestoftheages

Party banter: ♡ — my muse and yours + a special guest

          “So, this is Skyhold. I like what they’ve done with the place. Very... stony.”

Hawke leaned her elbows on the wide stone railing, a goblet filled with raw-tasting Marcher wine clasped loosely in one hand. She watched the Inquisitor’s retreating back far below as it vanished into the moving throngs of people in the courtyard. Scouts and nobles, merchants and soldiers. She saw dwarves, elves, humans, and more than one qunari out there, people wearing the garb of five nations she could pick out easily and a half-dozen more she couldn’t. A more disparate collection would be hard to imagine, and yet they’d all flocked to the banner rising here. 

She cast a glance over at Varric, wondering all over again just what had kept him here, after that Seeker had let him go. He’d never been much of a one for religion, but the way he talked about the Inquisitor.... She shook her head and took a drink.

this thread should be called " communist flirting goes awry due to capitalism "

!!!

VERY IMPORTANT INFORMATION 

POSITIVITY MEME | ALWAYS ACCEPTING

@me, @chestoftheages, @dalishfreckles, @theharellan, @hoboblaidd, @theeternalsun, @warxborn

HELIG, UNFAIR! I’d say nice things about you, too, but this is really about the people you listed here and tbh rightly so.  I’m so honored and delighted to consider all of these people such dear friends.  Although there are many factors that have led to varrying levels of activity in recent months between them all, the impact they’ve had on both me and this community really lingers.  Each one of these people has a wholly distinct style of writing that I admire so much -- if I could, I would integrate some of their voice into my own. I appreciate their perspectives on the world and what they can bring to it. 

Green breaks through the sky like a whiplash. He freezes, watches heaven as it bends underneath the weight of pure chaos, his own power he recognises dragged to such unrefined, terrifying depths–- there is a moment where time stills. There is a moment where he is lucid, outside himself, hanging in the air above his own body thrown back by the shockwave, and he thinks-- and he thinks, with all the desperation, the bitterness, the disappointment he can conjure to coat his thoughts, caught in the surprise of what is happening,

Why can nothing ever go according to plan?

And then the breach opens for good, and his back hits a wall, and for a few moments there is little but sweet silence.

Why can nothing ever go according to plan, indeed?

Solas feels the suspicion of the woman in front of him slice his face in perfect, precise triangles, dissecting this quiet apostate’s eyes and his lips and his cheeks and his throat and his ears, plumbing the mapping of his face for reasons to fuel her own animosity. She is strong-jawed, fierce-eyed, a scar that runs along her cheek like it were following the path left behind by a lover’s kisses, a smaller one beneath her eye, the face of a woman to whom the world has told to move countless times before and who has only ever planted her feet and let it come against her, again, and again, and again. They are so easy to define, these creatures of flesh and blood and little else. 

The redhead woman, the dark-haired one’s... colleague, he assumes, had left them alone with each other. He’s still trying to decide whether she left them alone so that he could make his demands (a chance to study the prisoner he’s heard about, the possibility to investigate a smaller rift) or whether she did so the other woman could properly study him. 

As things stand, he is nursing a mug of tea he will not drink, and he is waiting to be given a chance to speak. He wonders, briefly, about all the countless others who must have been interrogated by her.